Seven In A Six Pack
I’ve always had a soft spot for the Bon Marché. Maybe it’s because of the bargain basement at the Tacoma Mall store, but if I’m honest, it’s probably because it was the first credit card I ever got to use. Not my own, mind you. And, spoiler alert, I didn’t use it in the store either.
One year, my family decided to take a Christmas trip to Disneyland. Naturally, we couldn’t just go straight there. Oh no, the plan was to stop in Fallon, Nevada, to visit my Grandma Mary’s brothers, Tom and Carry. And because we’re the type of family that believes the journey is the adventure, we all piled into my grandparents’ 25-foot, 1970s-era RV.
This RV, mind you, slept six people uncomfortably. To accommodate a seventh, we got creative. A makeshift bed was constructed by turning the driver and passenger chairs to face each other, placing a piece of plywood across them, and throwing a foam pad on top for what we generously called “added comfort.”
The pièce de résistance, though, was the cupboard bunk. Hinged on the front, it folded down over the dining table, transforming into a “bed” that required Olympic-level gymnastics to access. The move went something like this: springboard off the table-bed, aim for the stove but not the burner, grab the edge of the cupboard, and vault up. If you missed, Grandma was there to lend a helping hand—or more accurately, a good-natured goose to the rear for “momentum.” Once in position, you lay perfectly still because rolling over risked a concussion.
With this dubious setup, we hit the road. As we headed south, the weather took a turn. Snow started falling after Springfield, Oregon, and it didn’t stop. Soon, the RV’s “defrost” system—an insult to the word—proved no match for the blizzard. The previous owner had clearly known this, which is why they’d installed two small desk fans on either side of the windshield. These fans worked their hardest to push tepid air around, accomplishing little more than fogging up the windows.
My dad and grandpa took turns driving while the passenger tackled two critical jobs: wiping the windshield with a rag to maintain visibility and squinting out the side window to keep the RV from veering off the road.
Meanwhile, the rest of us huddled under blankets in the back, teeth chattering as we hollered over the roar of the engine, the desk fans, and the howling wind. Grandma, always the problem-solver, handed out credit cards to us kids and declared, “These are for scraping the ice off the inside of the windows. Don’t lose them!” I got the Bon Marché card, which immediately elevated my scraping status.
Let me tell you, scraping ice off the inside of a vehicle window is an art form. Timing is everything—you wait until just enough frost has built up, then lunge from your blanket cocoon, card in hand. A warm card is key (front pocket storage recommended), and your scraping technique must ensure the ice curls don’t land in your gloves. By the time we reached Fallon, we were all experts.
The RV, however, had morphed into a rolling icebox. Grandma stood over the frozen RV toilet, broom handle in hand, jabbing at the icy contents like she was stirring some cursed witches’ brew. Meanwhile, the oranges we’d brought along as snacks were being “kept warm” under our feet, a bizarre subplot that deserves its own story someday.
And Disneyland? Honestly, I barely remember it. What stands out is the adventure: the swaying, freezing RV; the camaraderie of scraping windows together; and Grandma’s endless ingenuity.
The best family memories aren’t always about the destination. They’re about the hilarity, chaos, and togetherness along the way. These are the stories we tell for years: “Remember the time when the RV turned into a popsicle?” And those stories? They’re priceless.
Originally posted in 2017. Updated in 2024.