"I rented a 15-passenger van," I told my wife months before our vacation. She jokingly responded, "Think it's big enough?"
On cue, outside my office window, the school's bus motored by. I hesitated.
"Was that your school bus? Don't even think about it."
Planning a vacation for a large family is daunting. And expensive. And an unnecessary luxury. But we're losing another child to college this fall and our home keeps getting smaller, quieter. It's becoming more important that we all gather in one spot where no one has to answer work calls and no one has to meet a deadline.
"I have to work," my son Sam said. "I have a lot of deadlines." A recent college grad, he just got a job with a New York bank. Fortunately, remote work is fine as he's part of their corporate education program.
"We'll set up a desk for you in a quiet space. Please come anyway."
He agreed, as did his five siblings, their significant others and/or friends, and my mother-in-law. For those of you counting, that's 13 bodies. All on a Colorado vacation.
My wife could organize a beach assault, a bitcoin convention, or any other moment that requires a lot of rapidly moving pieces. My primary job was finding a vehicle big enough to take all of us to Colorado for 10 days because flying there and then renting a car would be too expensive.
"I'm flying," my oldest son announced. He lives in Nashville. Makes sense. Sam has to fly because he's in New York. Also makes sense. But when my fourth child said he's scheduled to work until the day we leave and returns to work the day before we get back, guess what? He had to fly. For some reason, their significant others and/or friends and my mother-in-law didn't want to ride in my rented van without them. My oldest daughter lives in Boulder, so no need to save her or her boyfriend a seat. Still counting? We're down to four traveling in the 15-passenger van. But we'd need every seat once we arrived.
"Everyone's coming and bringing a plus-one. Thank God I rented that van so far in advance," I said right before leaving to pick it up.
"We don't have a 15-passenger van," the man behind the counter delivered in a lifeless voice.
"Yes, you do. I reserved it six months ago," I said, waving my phone with the reservation confirmation on the screen.
The man grimaced. His gray shirt seemed to darken with sweat. "Yeah, well, it's the Fourth of July weekend and it's our busiest week ..."
"Which is why I reserved the van six months ago."
"Yeah, and your van got pulled off-line last night because it had too many miles on it. We don't have another."
The Airbnb cabin has a no-refund policy. The rafting service had already charged our credit card. The grocery pickup in Basalt had been scheduled and paid for. I tried to reason with him, using kindness.
"I need a damn van," I said.
He typed, fixated on his computer monitor. "I have a minivan that seats seven. That's it. I can discount it and give you unlimited miles and a free day." He swallowed. "Take it or leave it."
What? Who does this guy think he is? I planned ahead, I did it the right way, and now I'm told take it or leave it? "I'll take it."
My Boulder daughter has our Subaru. It has five seats. Her boyfriend has a car. We can make this work. So the seven-passenger minivan left for Colorado with four bodies in it, driving straight to Boulder in a day.
There are several steps to making a big family trip affordable: Stay outside tourist towns. Never eat breakfast or lunch in a restaurant. Listen in when fishing guides tell their clients what's biting. When rafting, rent the woman of the house a nice paddle board, a couple of kayaks for the kids, then stick yourself with the leftovers in a large raft that pilots like a bathtub.
We fished the Roaring Fork, the Colorado, and the Frying Pan. Flooding had kept the water moving faster than we're used to in Arkansas and we kept striking out. The scenery filled the void of empty nets.
The best nights were those when we cooked in our cabin overlooking the red-dirt Glenwood canyons. Tired from fishing, rafting, and otherwise vacationing, we'd adjourn to the deck where we'd plan the next day while talking and drinking, laughing and grilling. I'd look into those faces illuminated by the orange light of the setting sun and understand the beauty of growing older, of being a father whose children occupy different generations but the same golden opportunities that come with a big family.
Two of my sons had to leave early to get back to work so they vacated our cabin one morning just after 5. Gloom always tickles my soul when one of our gatherings comes to an end because those gatherings are becoming less frequent, less easy to schedule. They waved goodbye and drove off.
As the taillights faded, bouncing along like red fireflies dancing in the morning darkness, I was hit by the realization that eventually all the kids would go. I loaded my fly rod and gear into the minivan and drove into the rising sun to try one of our fishing holes again. Soon, a beautiful brown trout was in my net. Then, a fat rainbow.
In that scene of tumbling water and climbing sun, I decided to start planning our next gathering. And the next one. And more after that. That's the most optimistic thing a man can do when he looks to his children and wants to do something, anything, before they're gone.
No matter what, I swore, I'd always have enough seats.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at [email protected]. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. "The Strenuous Life" appears every other Saturday.