There’s nothing quite like a family vacation.
Rushing to the airport just in the nick of time Home Alone style.
Packing more toys than clothes… then having to sit on your bag to zip it shut.
Arguing who got the middle bucket seats in the minivan, which was a must for Willsey vacations.
Because we always drove. And we always drove to Branson. I kid you not, we went to Branson every summer for like 10 years in a row.
That’s what a family of six gets. I’ll have one kid to satisfy the grandparents but still be able to take good vacays. Priorities.
But really, nothing beats Branson. Rolling into town after a 4-hour drive and seeing the lights. Oh so many lights on that damn strip – actually, are we sure our parents didn’t take us to Vegas, Dana? Wade? Evan? It would explain so much.
That’s just the first 5 minutes of getting to our destination. It’s only a matter of time till the smell of gas and burning pavement from the go kart tracks burns your nostrils. Followed by the sight of neon golf balls at the million mini-golf courses. Then the ungodly amount of fast-food restaurants in a one-block radius.
Come to think of it, those were the best white trash vacations I’ve ever been on.
Every trip to Branson started the same way:
We’d put my parent’s 13-inch TV between the driver and passenger seats of our van, and my dad would rig up a way to make it work. The kids bring 10 VCR movies to rotate through. My favorite was always The Lion King minus the scene where (spoiler alert!) Mufasa dies.
We’d strap the white Excargo, full of our duffle bags (note, I do not call it luggage), on the roof of our gorgeous purple van, and leave the humble abode.
Our neighbors in Walden probably hated how we classed up our hood so nicely. We were constantly making them look bad with our luxurious vacationing. How annoying to have your kids begging to join the Willseys on vacation.
It wasn’t the go karts, or the mini-golf or even the Dixie Stampede that had us returning to the mecca year after year. It was the happiest place on earth: Silver Dollar City.
The Disney World of the midwest.
Ah, Silver Dollar City – the place where your dreams take on a weirdly rustic haze, your waistline goes up a few inches, and most importantly it becomes perfectly acceptable to yell, “Fire in the hole!” whenever you deem necessary.
Moral of the story is that you should book a trip to Branson stat. Or just show up. Yeah, just show up - I think they prefer that.