Carnett: Summer was a time to put miles on the family car

Connie Francis defined it like no other.

“V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N, in the summer sun,” she sang. Her message was the antidote to Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues.”

Summer for me, growing up in Newport-Mesa, wasn’t summer without a summer V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. Sure, we lived in the best vacation spot on earth, but staying home and going to the beach wasn’t a real vacation. It was simply a marvelous perk of Orange County living.

For a real vacation, one had to hit the road. My family never once flew to a vacation spot. We drove.

My dad loved road trips, and during many of our summer adventures we pulled a trailer behind our ’59 Chevy.

A typical Carnett family vacation began at 3 in the morning (dad liked early starts), and we’d motor north. Every family vacation remained within the boundaries of the Lower 48, with the exception of a couple of brief incursions into Canada.

Once, when I was 16, we set our eyes eastward. We took Route 66, crossed the Colorado River and drove all the way — via Flagstaff, Ariz, Tucumcari, N.M., Amarillo, Texas, Tulsa, Okla., and St. Louis –- to Chicago. It was a blast, except when we pulled out of Chicago and headed west.

As we drove past O’Hare Airport, I realized we faced another 2,000 road miles.

“Aw, mom,” I groused from the back seat. “Can’t you drop me off at the airport and I’ll fly home?”

Like I said, family vacations stayed almost exclusively within the USA. I didn’t go to Asia until I was 20. I didn’t see Europe until I was 28. I didn’t visit a Pacific island (with the exception of Honshu) until I was 30. I didn’t see Australia and New Zealand until I was 39. And I was 43 when I first visited the Middle East.

Carnett family trips ended at such exotic 1950s and ‘60s destinations as San Francisco, Yosemite, Sequoia, Lake Tahoe, Portland and Seattle.

We camped in coastal state parks from Monterey to Victoria. I fell in love with the California Redwoods. My favorite spot on earth remains the Avenue of the Giants, a breathtaking 31-mile stretch of old Highway 101 through Humboldt Redwoods State Park. I’ve returned many times.

During my teen years, I fell for Big Sur on the California coast; the Russian River in Northern California; the Mendocino coast; Richardson Grove State Park on the Eel River; Lake Shasta; Oregon Dunes National Recreation Center; the Oregon Sea Lion Caves; Crater Lake; Mt. Hood; the Columbia River Basin; Olympic National Forest in Washington; and Vancouver Island, B.C.

When driving the 101 in Sonoma County, we’d always stop at the Italian Swiss Colony Winery in Asti — at the time California’s No. 2 tourist destination, behind Disneyland. We’d time it so we could eat our picnic lunch there.

I remember one particular stifling August evening. We were headed south from Bremerton, Wash., to O.C. We pulled our trailer off the road in the little berg of Red Bluff, 130 miles north of Sacramento. My dad had driven for hours and needed rest. It was so hot that the asphalt on the roadway was melting.

I was 15, and throughout the remainder of my life, whenever I’ve paused to reflect on uncomfortable places I’ve visited, Red Bluff has topped the list.

Dad tried to get us to go to sleep. We were drenched in our own perspiration. My sister’s hair resembled a haystack, and my brother’s nose and mine were peeled to the cartilage.

Finally Mom said to Dad, “Honey, it’s too hot. None of us can sleep. Let’s just go.”

So we did.

That was mom. She was always the first in our family to want to turn the car toward home.

Mom drove all night — her first time pulling a trailer — and I sat next to her to keep her awake. My dad, brother and sister snored in the back seat. We pulled into our Costa Mesa driveway the next day and were greeted by a glorious ocean breeze.

It’s a memory I’ll never forget.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.