The third week in July

The science of our family vacations

Vacation time. Use it or lose it.

In a small-town newsroom, taking a summer vacation is a high-stakes gamble. There’s one, two reporters. A sports guy. Maybe a photographer. But the paper still has to come out every single week — and god forbid you miss a major local story while you’re out of the county.

The process of determining when to take a vacation came with many considerations. It was like opening an appointment book and studying a date, going on Orbitz and entering the criteria.

When Sam was younger, we’d visit the Atlantic City boardwalk and pilgrimage to White House sub for a “true Jersey sub.” One summer we managed to tie in a promotion for Eve’s book “View From the Porch” with a visit to Disney World in Orlando.

Sam didn’t much love the beach, but he liked the tourist attractions, snacks and cheap knickknacks. Rhode Island was near enough and beckoning, and we could stay in a cheesy Misquamicut hotel and watch the Miss World contest, laughing ourselves silly because Miss Thailand’s name was “Porntip.” (A fairly common name, we later learned.)

Once or twice we flew west to visit Grandma Marge. Maybe Eve and I could slink off while Sam played cards with my mother, who loved nothing more than to sit in a Holiday Inn hotel room with a deck of cards and a glass of ice while six‑year‑old Sam learned the game. She also taught him to whistle.

Subsequent itineraries were chosen with a journalist’s efficiency, though Eve always held out hope for a bit more unexpected adventure. For her, the ultimate dream vacation would have involved sunning on a Caribbean shore for hours, or a week at a dude ranch. Her favorite times were when we lounged on beach towels along Lake Michigan and occasionally dipped our feet in the water on a hot summer day. She would have loved a horseback ride on the wet sand.

As Sam got older, we worked out a clever itinerary. Close up the house. Kennel the dogs (a questionable and fraught experience at best). Pack his black canvas trunk with undies, T-shirts, sunscreen and enough Off to stave off a plague of locusts, then drive him the 120 miles to Hancock, New York — French Woods performing arts camp — where he learned circus tricks and played in a hard‑rock band.

After tearfully depositing him into this uncertain playground, we headed west to visit my dad and his wife Ruth, who’d retired in a comfortable ranch house on a blissful corner on the northeast side of Saugatuck, Michigan.

Once we arrived, the days were memorable: deep conversations, family and friends, chess, barbecue, a Chicago dog or a walk down the pretty main street for a cup of coffee at Uncommon Coffee Roasters, where they sold both the New York Times and Chicago Tribune. Eve loved the calm, warm waters of Lake Michigan and the slow quiet streets of neighboring Douglas.

The real world rarely penetrated this road trip bubble. A few headlines bled through: Gianni Versace shot outside his Miami mansion, JFK Jr.’s plane went down off Martha’s Vineyard. Years later, it brought the horrible movie theater shooting in Aurora, Colorado. The news from that specific week across the years always seemed to carry that kind of heavy, mid‑summer suddenness.

The return east was more leisurely, as we sometimes veered off the main highways and explored Michigan, Ohio or Pennsylvania, listening to Rush Limbaugh and scanning billboards promising salvation and offering help for pregnant women.

We generally tried to avoid golf resorts, but they always seemed to have the prettiest rooms and the best restaurants. It was at one of those stops in western Pennsylvania, at the age of 55, that a kindly waitress offered me the senior‑citizen menu.

Even “retired,” I take my vacation the third week of July. My horoscope says it’s a fine time to take a break. This time we’re doing a sort of working trip. I’m going to McMinnville, destination the Yamhill Historical Society, where I’ll give a talk on my book about the Seaside riots. We’ll stay at a nice hotel and eat a nice dinner, even if it’s just for one night. That counts as a vacation, doesn’t it?