Williamsburg or Bust

Today I find myself preparing for what seems an arduous task, although in certain circles it would be referred to as a family vacation. Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy time spent with my lovely wife and children. It’s the thought of spending sixteen hours in the small confines of our car before we arrive that has me praying overtime for patience. Without a doubt, my imagination-challenged son, Jacob, will be my nemesis. It seems that a half-hour of idle time at home pushes him closer to the edge of lunacy than I’m comfortable with. In planning our drive I’m tempted to locate and schedule a couple of stops with local Catholic priests who are well-versed in exorcisms. (Even today’s effective cleaning solutions can’t touch the green-projectile vomit on the back of a car’s head-rest?)

This year my wife, Beth, had the privilege of selecting our destination. Since she’s a huge history-nut (I hope the term comes across in the loving manner intended), our vehicle will be pointed in the direction of Williamsburg, Virginia. Although I don’t believe in reincarnation, you could certainly make a case that Beth was some type of activity planner in a former life. In her meticulous eye there is no vacation detail that can’t be allotted, assigned, or otherwise sorted. (Perhaps I’m just miffed that my time in the restroom is always slated last and is never ample to finish my business and complete the prescribed reading).

Last evening, with the production and pomp befitting a royal gala, she proudly read our itinerary (I suppose we saved a bundle on a travel agent). My son was less than impressed and I can’t swear to his entire response, due to the trailing off of his voice as he was banished to his room, “Geez….I thought this was summer vacation, sounds like another boring history lesson!” I had to excuse myself as my volley of snickers grew to a perceptible volume. The piercing glare directed at me let me know there was sufficient space in my son’s room for two.

Fortunately Beth is also a peacemaker and painstakingly modified our journey to include a detour to the Louisville bat factory and museum, which instantly made Jacob’s ears resemble those of a jackrabbit on high alert. As a bonus she also threw in a few hours of shopping at the outlet malls that sent my daughter, Allie, into a state of euphoria that only the hardcore connoisseur of all things on sale can appreciate. So it would seem that if I’ve mentally hardened my cerebral cortex to withstand the onslaught of the drive we should be in fine shape.

Actually I’m looking forward to returning to that area of the country. Beth and I spent the first three years of our wedded bliss in Norfolk/Virginia Beach as I finished my time aboard the John F Kennedy. More accurately, including Desert Storm and a normal Mediterranean six month tour, I spent fourteen months floating in the Mediterranean and Red Sea while she steadfastly waited for her sailor to return to port (at least that’s all I hope she did).

I intend to visit one of our favorite restaurants, Momma Lina’s. (this ain’t no Olive Garden). Momma Lina’s is a truly authentic Italian restaurant, the food, the décor, and the hospitality. Back then, Momma Lina herself would make her way from table to table to ensure her customers satisfaction.

I suppose I’d better dust off my fife and drum and attempt to make room in the trunk for such necessities.