Postcards From The Past

01-Measles

Hello Readers,

This is a rare short post from me, and one that just comes off the top of my head with very little research just some rambling memories of times past. It is the first in this mini series of Postcards from the Past.

I hope you enjoy these little anecdotes. I know they are not for everyone.

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A good nights sleep does not always make things better (Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash)

You might be wondering what’s so captivating about a measles story and why I’d choose to spin a tale around it. Well, buckle up, because it’s part of a much longer adventure.

Let me take you back to the late seventies, when our family vacation was like a ritualistic pilgrimage to warmer climes every March break. My dad, being a teacher, had to stick to the most coveted vacation window of the year. So, every spring, we’d face the monumental decision: would we brave the whole drive to Florida or cut it short and settle for the closer wonders of South Carolina? The goal was always the same: escape the snowy winter of Canada for some sunshine, green grass, and, if we were feeling particularly brave, a dip in water that was about as inviting as an ice bath. Still, we Canadians, fueled by stubbornness and optimism, would plunge in, shivering and chattering, like we were testing our endurance.

One year, as we prepared for our annual trek south, my teenage brother—who was about fifteen at the time—decided that a family vacation was the epitome of uncool. After a lot of heated debates (and a few slammed doors), my mom conceded to stay home with him, while my dad, my youngest brother (around eleven), and I set off for our southern adventure.

We left at the crack of dawn—well, 4 a.m. to be precise—headed toward Dayton, Ohio. The drive was a bit of a white-knuckle experience since snowflakes started to swirl around us like we were in a snow globe. Despite this, we made it to Dayton, nine hours later, and found what was probably a Motel 6 or equivalent budget motel.

At the motel, Dad confessed he wasn’t feeling too hot. He chalked it up to the stress of the drive, while my younger brother, in a case of unfortunate symmetry, also started to look a bit green around the gills. We all agreed to go to bed early, hoping that a good night’s sleep would fix us up.

Morning came with mixed results. Dad felt a smidge better, but my brother had morphed into a sickly soul—hot, feverish, and sporting a rash that made him look like he’d been slapped with a polka-dotted blanket. Diagnosis? Measles. I, on the other hand, felt fine.

Cue the sound of our vacation dreams shattering. We decided it was best to cut our trip short and head home. For the drive back, my sick brother made himself a cozy bed in the folded-down third seat of the station wagon. It was a bit like creating a makeshift cot in a cramped space, but at least he was horizontal.

When we hit the Canadian border, Dad explained the measles saga, and the customs officer, possibly in awe of our misadventure or just eager to avoid dealing with a rash-covered kid, waved us through faster than you could say "contagious."

As we drove on, Dad began to show signs of a fever and headache, making it clear he needed a pit stop. At sixteen, I was itching to take the wheel, but Dad decided against it—probably because my driving experience consisted mostly of parallel parking in our driveway. I had no experience of navigating the high-speeds of Toronto or its multi-lane chaos. So, we pulled over on the side of the highway.

It felt like an eternity. I remember sitting in the passenger seat while my brother moaned in the back and Dad snoozed in the front, trying to recover from his fever. The rumble of trucks and cars made the car feel like a vibrating massage chair, but without any of the benefits.

With family squabbles and sickness making our vacation a comedy of errors, it felt like the universe was playing a prank on us. But, fast forward to the next year, and we all went to Myrtle Beach together. The trip was a roaring success—no measles, no fevers, just sun, sand, and the kind of memories that make you laugh about the chaos that came before.

Have you ever had a challenging experience that ultimately resulted in a positive outcome?