Humorous Memories of Labor Day Weekend at Lake Wallenpaupack

By Labor Day weekend, 1974, construction was finished on my parents A-frame chalet in the woods at Lake Wallenpaupack. Dad fed us homemade soup from a giant, restaurant-sized pot all that year, and we were about to reap the rewards of our sacrifice with a house-warming family weekend, to include our significant others and best friends. Sixteen people were expected, the gang consisting of my mom and dad, aged 42 and 44, nine young adults age 18 to 22, one 30 year old, two 11-year olds and two 4-year-olds. And, oh, yeah, two dogs.

On Friday night, my future husband Ron and I set out. Dad had drawn up a map that made perfect sense to him, got us to the main highways okay, but when we hit the Wallenpaupack area, we were totally lost. It was dark, there were no signs on the roads leading into the forest, and we found ourselves looking for landmarks, like "the big rock with yellow paint on it," the "third dirt road past the first dirt road," and the "first house on the right on the left." After cruising up and down Rte. 507 for 45 minutes, we found our turn, and my 4-year-old daughter, who had just learned about time zones, asked if it was the same time at the mountains as it was back home.

We finally found the right dirt road, and pulled into the driveway at 2 a.m. after a six-hour drive that should have taken three. Most everyone was still up, and before he went to bed, Dad announced, "the boys sleep upstairs, the girls downstairs." Everyone just looked at him in disbelief, bursting into guffaws when I said, "surely you jest." Mom and Dad had claimed the main bedroom, and the four children were already in the back bedroom. When the remaining accommodations consisted of the floor of an open loft and a sofa bed in the living room, I don't know what he thought was going to go on.

The weatherman assured us we could look forward to mostly blue skies that weekend, so when it started raining on Saturday morning we weren't too concerned. When it continued throughout the day, we said "Oh, crap," but figured tomorrow was another day. We took shopping excursions to nearby Hawley, the local gift shops and State Store, played UNO and 500 Rummy, and drank Strawberry Hill and Mateus. Later that night, it cleared up enough that five of us decided to catch the last couple hours of the local county fair.

On the way, we took a little detour down a dirt road to, uh, practice our Rasta religion. (C'mon, it was 1974, I was 22.) I don't remember too much about that Fair, but a couple events do stand out. First there was the Fun House, entered through a giant spinning barrel. Four of us stumbled through the entrance, turning to see my brother spread-eagled and spinning around with the barrel, change and keys falling out of his pockets, and drawing a crowd. Although we were consumed with mirth, Fair security was not amused. Two burly men in flannel shirts signaled for Bill to stop what he was doing immediately, pointing to the sign specifically banning this behavior.

My next memory is standing in line for the roller coaster, which our friend Doug did NOT want to get on. Naturally, we dragged him into line, bumping into and almost knocking down an unsecured light pole as he struggled. Seemingly from nowhere, the two flannel-shirted men appeared and told us we were no longer welcome, not swayed by my argument that the unsecured pole was a safety hazard.

Traffic was horrendous trying to get out of the parking lot, so when Bill saw the slightest opening, he screeched out onto the highway. Still giggling and laughing, Denise and I broke into the bottle of vodka in the back seat. We hadn't travelled five minutes when a state police cruiser indicated that we should pull over. (I think those flannel-shirted guys turned us in.) Mr. State Trooper sauntered up to the driver's window. "Uh, you pulled out of that lot a little fast back there, son." "Sorry, officer, sir," Bill answered. "The traffic was really bad trying to get out of the carnival." The trooper stiffened. "It's a FAIR son, it's a FAIR." "Yes, sir, officer" Bill answered, "I meant the Fair, officer." In the meantime, Denise and I were doing a valiant job of not losing it, hiding the open bottle of vodka on the floor while Ron kept muttering "Stai zitto" (Italian for "shut up"), which only made us almost bust a vein. "Where are you going?" the officer asked. When Bill explained we only had a ten-minute drive back to our parents' house, he let him off with a warning to drive there carefully (as cops were wont to do in those days) -- and stay there.

As soon as the trooper left, we heard a car behind us, honking furiously. It was my brother George and his partner, who had gone out on "reconnaissance" to round everyone up. He got out of his car and, clad in a lovely Indian caftan, stood in the middle of 507 and started screaming. "You (bleeping bleep)! I saw you pull out of that lot and that cop stop you! What are you, (bleeping) nuts?" Sticking his head in the back window, he saw the vodka. "And, oooh, if it isn't the wenches hiding a bottle of booze. Isn't this special. Are you (bleeps) having fun out here with these (bleeps)?" The sight of Georgie in a caftan in the middle of 507, channeling the church lady a decade before her time, was just too much. We laughed until we hurt ourselves. And then it started to rain.

Sunday morning didn't exactly "dawn," because the sun was still obscured by persistent storm clouds. By the afternoon, it was so torrential, no one even ventured out to the deck. With no TV, we tried to entertain the antsy kids, and ourselves, as best possible with board and card games. The animals had to be let out to do their business, and the smell of damp dog began to permeate the house. Someone got the scathingly brilliant idea of putting a tarp on the porch, letting the kids don their bathing suits and go "slip-sliding" in the rain. It gave us a break and them an energy outlet. Until one of them slid off the deck. (Don't worry, she was fine. The mud cushioned her fall.)

Although we all pitched in with meal preparation and cleanup, tidying up after 15 people with nothing to do but eat, drink and play UNO (and occasionally wander off into the woods to "practice our religion") had begun to wear on my mother. We were out of paper cups, and Sunday afternoon Mom was "done running the dishwasher every four hours," and told us to do our own glasses. We said "Okay, Mom, we'll take care of it," -- and started drinking directly from the bottles, even the kids, of whom I have pictures with two-liter sodas to their mouths. That's when Dad confiscated everyone's car keys. That's when the sleeping arrangements became "wherever you fall."

Monday morning we started looking for Noah's Ark through the downpour. The house looked like Patton's army had marched through. With hangovers that would kill a herd of mustangs, we cleaned and packed up. It was a dreary ride as we caravanned back to Philly late that afternoon -- but we told everyone we had a great time.

Labor Day weekend up the mountains became a tradition, and never again did we have such bad weather. But I never played another game of UNO. Or drank another bottle of Strawberry Hill.