It's Not Too Cold If You Just Jump In

Nothing could match the sheer excitement of walking into a hotel at the beginning of a family vacation. There was so much to do; pools a few degrees too cold in which to swim, sibling races in the long hallways to be won, little sticker-sealed toiletries in the bathroom basket to be stolen, and dangerous caverns to jump across in between beds--fun and new experiences were everywhere. All this enjoyment was overshadowed only by the promise of going out to a new city, a new town, a new place. The Six Flags Lodge I arrived at is the on-site accommodation for the Six Flags theme park, yet the hotel seemed just as "themed." Stone walls with mounted game clash with tile floors and bare full log rafters and supports stand out a bit too much, but not as much as the gaudy plastic moose antler chandelier in the center of the room. The faux-rustic atmosphere felt cold despite the floor-to-ceiling fireplace in the center of the room. I was not excited.

I would have come with my family two days earlier, but I had to work to make extra money. The elevator door closed with a swift but satisfying "whoosh," and made its way to the third floor. After languidly meandering down the hallway, I entered the room that in which I reluctantly had to pay to stay. On top of that I too had to purchase my entrance into the park, all with money I would had rather spent on my mounting credit card debt.

My father immediately greeted me both with a "howdy" and his trademark nod, one I tried so hard to mimic as a child. Before I could respond I was already on defense against a bum-rush hug from my five year old brother, Max, who was screaming my name and whose shower capped head was headed directly for my groin. After squeezing me with all of his little might, he showed me how strong he was by lifting me up to the tips of my toes and gave me a few well-aimed high fives. He had been practicing.

Politely declining an invitation to leap across the divide in between beds, I turned my attention to the homemade chicken fingers my step mother was famous for. They were one of the few things I liked about her. She always made me feel guilty for not visiting enough, for not being a bigger part of my brother's life, yet she never contacted me unless she needed babysitting. When, a few days prior, she called to ask if I wanted to go on a family vacation to Six Flags, I gladly accepted. Roller coasters and hanging out with my family sounded like a good time, the thought of which was later dampened by the notification from my step mother I would "only have to pay seventy dollars." Her invitation seemed to have little of the "family" in family vacation. To her, it was more a "you entertain my son while I sit on a park bench and eat "Dippin' Dots, the Ice Cream of the Future" vacation.

At the park the following day my brother and I set out to conquer Six Flags. We laughed in victory at the man who could not correctly guess Max's weight to within three pounds and collected our bounty; we argued our way onto roller coasters for which Max was just a little too short; we threw undersized rings hoping to land them on oversized bottle necks; we rode the rotating swings enough time to grace every single seat; we milked the fun out of every second.

Later that night we all went

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