Okay Donna, Not so quick with the wonderful memories.
It must have been sometime in the early 60's. I was in grade school, and my brother was about 3 maybe 4.
We were lucky to be able to go on vacations, but it was ALWAYS to Florida. There were no Disney stuff, and as far as my dad was concerned, no hotels, or motels either. We always rented one of those cottages near the beach.
The car didn't have air conditioning, so we would always leave before sun up.
Now you have to understand that both of my parents communicated by yelling at each other. In fact for years I thought they were both hard of hearing, because they were always telling each other that the other never listened.
This year was of course another long trip to Florida, but there was a problem. There was a hurricane coming. My dad watched the weather, and declared that we would be just fine. It was in the gulf, and we would be in Jacksonville.
Okay, we leave Atlanta at o'dark thirty, and head south. There were no interstates back then so it was hwys and very small southern towns.
We get almost half way and my dad realizes that my mom is not talking, and it worries him. He made the huge mistake of asking what was wrong.
She does not want to go to Florida. She wants to go to the mountains. They start to yell.
He pulls to the side of the road, and they DISCUSS IT. He says okay fine, and he turns us around. We get back to south Atlanta, and she says "No I don't want to go if you will be upset" so we turn around, again.
We do this turn around 4 more times, going the same way each time. By now it is getting lunch time, and my dear brother pops up and points out the BBQ place we have passed for the last 3 hours, and wants to stop.
We have lunch and then it is decided that the cottage has already been rented, so we will in fact go on to Florida. Yea!!!
Fast forward to the morning after we get there. We awake to the knowledge that the beaches are closed, and there is no pool, and it is raining. Not just a little rain, but buckets of rain, because yes the cottage leaks. It was actually a good thing, because I don't think they had ever yelled about buckets all over the place.
If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. "I'll bet it isn't raining in the mountains."
The next morning I woke to my mother telling us to get under the bed. It seems the hurricane might be on the gulf side, but it had sent a tornado to our side.
Of course this was also my dad's fault, according to my mom, and yes they could yell above the noise of what sounded like train going over our heads.
So you have two kids under the bed. A grown man under the table, and my mom under the other table, and they are yelling, and my brother is saying toot toot at the top of his lungs.
For the rest of the time I lived at home, we continued to go to Florida, but after I moved out, they did make the trip to the mountains, and guess what?