LIFE LESSONS

I Vacationed with Vanna White — More Than Once

And she had more “wheels” than the TV celeb

I spent several sun-baked summers on the road with Vanna White. And while she was not a TV celebrity, she certainly was a star in my husband’s family.

Known in the fam as an aging Ford Econoline van, she had comfy captain’s chairs and a bench across the back that the kids favored for some strange reason — I’m thinking not because it was the least bit comfy, but lent a certain amount of distance between the parentals up-front and shenanigans that most certainly ensued in the “way back”, as we called it.

And our extended family adventures were of the legendary variety. They often centered around the Summer Solstice, and pretty regularly involved a week or so on North Carolina’s Outer banks.

“Vanna”, though, as my brother-in-law christened her, witnessed a lot in the hijinks department over the years. BIL loved to drive everywhere, no matter the distance, and Vanna always went along for the ride. In fact, she was the ride.

What about the time we’d gone for an evening dip at our neighborhood pool and my brother-in-law ended up circling D.C.’s RFK Stadium in the wake of a Guns ’N’ Roses concert — with five kids in tow?

Can’t blame Vanna for that one. But the cousins all liked to ride with Vanna, so when my SIL and I scooted down D.C.’s streets in my also-commodious Taurus wagon, her hubby got confused and probably a little terrified when the whole bunch of them ended up outside the concert venue, just as GNR was laying down the last licks on “Sweet Child O’ Mine”.

Fans — not all of them stone-cold sober by a long shot — had already begun a massive exit, and those of our group who were relying on Vanna’s steadfast guidance ended up in the backwash. BIL circled a few times before pulling over and turning to my then 4-year-old.

“How do we get home from here?” he asked my D.C.-savvy child. She moved up front and directed him down East Capitol Street and home.

The cousins — all boys from the small-town reaches of Northeastern Wisconsin — were much more impressed with D.C.’s futuristic Metrorail system, and took any opportunity available to snag a ride while they were visiting.

So the next year, BIL and I dropped the gang — five kids and my sister-in-law— at Metro Center, which is a major intersection in the subway system located smack dab in the middle of downtown D.C.

BIL and I planned to meet the gang at the end of the line — which is about an hour away, three miles or so from my house. We let everyone off on 13th Street, then settled back in Vanna’s air-conditioned luxury to “race” the train — well, that’s what one of the boys said, anyway — to our destination. What with traffic and all, we reckoned we’d all arrive at the same time.

Of course, my SIL had other plans, none of which she had initially envisioned.

She’d ridden the Metro many times — always in the company of her brother, Moker, or me, or both. Never a solo shot with five little kids in tow.

She was iffy on the way to purchase tickets at the automatic kiosk.

She was concerned about which escalator to take, and where.

She was agitated that we’d just so cavalierly dropped them off and sped down the street with Vanna to the safety of the suburbs.

The boys were anxious to get this show on the road — and that probably contributed to their mom’s anxiety.

So of course, she turned to my 5-year-old, who’d saved them the previous year on the Guns ’N’ Roses tour.

And, by golly, my little munchkin pulled through again. She guided her aunt, her lil’ sis, and her cousins down the escalator; showed them how to figure out the cost of a ticket to their destination at the kiosk; explained the thrill of sliding dollar bills into the machine and punching the appropriate button for a ticket; demonstrated how to then out said ticket into the turnstile slot, then yank it out again on the other end, and directed them to the proper platform to wait for the Orange Line train to come.

Meanwhile, BIL, Vanna, and I were tooling down I-66, oblivious to the miracles transpiring back at Metro Center in D.C.

Of course, the kids had been talking about “popsicles for breakfast” at the beach for years. And when that finally happened, Vanna — well, especially her bumpy back bench — had a role in the adventure, too.

We had six cousins together by then, who with their parents enjoyed boogie-boarding and other beach traditions. And the older kids started in with the “can’t we have popsicles for breakfast? Please, just one time?”

I think my children were all of 7 and 4. And the 7-year-old — she of great presence of mind when negotiating concert traffic and Metro masses — was also the kid with the “rumbly in my tumbly”, as Winnie the Pooh would say.

Nagging will only get one so far — but far enough if your folks just give in. And that’s exactly what happened one gorgeous summer day down at the Outer Banks.

We’d packed up the beach house, and were turning our sights toward home. We had a box of those “firecracker” pops — you know, the frozen, three-color popsicles often favored over the 4th of July weekend.

“Popsicles for breakfast”? Sure thing. These frozen delights would never last in the cooler during a five-hour drive. Go for it, kiddos!

Welp, we made it about 10 miles up the road, to the parking lot of a local Mickey D’s. I, of course, was in the Taurus wagon, with my SIL. Her hubby, of course, was in Vanna with the six kids.

“Houston, we have a problem.” His voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, which was a thing that summer with the fam. You know — all those boys.

“Pulling into Mickey D’s.” Frankly, I’d thought they’d all come to their senses and decided to get a few Egg McMuffins to go.

What came next clued me into what was really going down.

My gal — she of the rumbly tumbly — had lost her cookies, or maybe I should say colorful frozen dessert, all over Vanna’s bumpy backbench. While trying to consume a popsicle, and watch a movie on a tiny screen suspended from the ceiling. Inhaling, of course, more than a few fumes from Vanna’s exhaust.

There’s a reason she only rides in the front seat, often when the window’s down, these days.

The kids are now grown, and everyone’s gone their separate ways. My BIL still insists on driving everywhere, but Vanna White’s long been out of the picture.

We see one another every couple of years or so — sometimes in Wisconsin, sometimes at the beach — although not everyone’s always together, like back in the day.

But I love the stories — whether involving the old Econoline van or not — that we tell during those reunions. Our Vanna White wasn’t a beauty pageant contestant-turned-actress-turned-game-show-hostess, but that didn’t matter.

Vanna always showed up. And didn’t mind too much when her back bench seat was covered in popsicle goo.