Three Generations on Vacation: Grandma, Mom, and Me

Trip to San Francisco, Ca, 1980

Three Generations on Vacation: Grandma, Mom, and Me 

Trip to San Francisco, CA, October, 1980

By Susan Fusco-Fazio

It was early October when I embarked on a bus trip from Lake Tahoe to San Francisco to meet up with my Mother and Grandmother. As odd as it seemed, I would be spending almost the same amount of time traveling the shorter distance from Tahoe to San Francisco by bus as it would take my Mom and Grandmother to travel by plane, all the way from the East Coast to the West Coast. 

When I moved to Lake Tahoe in June, I flew to San Francisco International Airport alone, with a backpack, one suitcase, paint box, French Easel, art portfolio and my bicycle, the anticipated form of transportation.  From there I boarded a small charter plane to Lake Tahoe which turned out to be a harrowing ride above and in between the mountains.  I told myself never again!  Even though the air trip was only an hour, and the bus trip almost five hours, I vowed to only travel to San Francisco by road to avoid reliving the nausea and fear of crashing into a mountain. I moved to Lake Tahoe after I graduated from Massachusetts college of Art. The plan was to find a job, paint the beautiful mountains, and to live there with my  boyfriend Paul who would be traveling across the country by car in a rideshare, with Lake Tahoe as his final destination. I secured a job as a “change girl” to make change and pay off jackpots in the slot machine section of Harvey’s Casino in Stateline, Nevada, on the California border.

While I was packing for my trip to San Francisco, my Mom and Grandmother would be starting their journey; traveling by limousine from my hometown of Branford to board a plane at John F. Kennedy (JFK) International Airport in New York, the customary airport for those living in Connecticut.  My Grandmother lived in Waterbury her whole life and only traveled outside of her home state once or twice to visit her brothers who lived in Florida. Her lifelong dream was to go to California and Las Vegas. An avid traveler, my mom seized this opportunity to take her mother on the trip of a lifetime, while getting to visit with me, the daughter who moved away. Since neither were fans of rural mountain towns, Lake Tahoe was not on the itinerary. We would stick to San Francisco and take day trips to Sausalito, Monterey, and Carmel, followed by a weekend in Vegas. 

Wearing faded blue jeans and carrying a backpack for a suitcase, I boarded the bus from Tahoe to San Francisco in Stateline, CA, the nearest town and closest to a metropolis in South Lake Tahoe. Equipped with a canteen of water and a biography of Georgia O’Keeffe, by Laurie Lisle, I found a seat by a window. I settled in for the anticipated five hour ride with only one stop in Sacramento. As the bus pulled out of the station, I peered at our descending view from my window and noticed the sun splattered crystal blue Lake and Mount Tallac of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range; the scenes I repeatedly painted over the summer. I gazed at the small post office that I visited regularly to mail letters back home and to college friends who dispersed after graduation to hometowns or new locations. My family and friends became responsive letter writers. Phone calls were expensive and mostly prohibited, used mainly for birthdays and emergencies. I glanced in the opposite direction at the towering casinos which permeated the sky, thinking about when I worked at Harvey’s casino at night and painted during the day. The bus depot was on the California side of Stateline, a stone’s throw from the Nevada side where all the Casinos were located.  

As the hours passed, we entered new terrain. I snapped photos of the valley landscapes through the window, thinking I might paint these scenes later.  I turned to read my book which contained passages from letters Georgia O’Keeffe wrote to her friends, stating the wonderment of nature and her excitement over painting the Texas plains. I had written similar letters to my friends detailing my painting and hiking adventures in Tahoe. The letters to my mother and grandmother were tailored to their interests, more about my well being, not about my love affair with nature.  They were both town and city types. My thoughts went to them while I listened to the hum of the road. I tabulated my travel time. My bus trip almost rivaled the six hour flight of my mom and grandmother as we simultaneously traveled over disproportionate distances.  I wondered who would get to the hotel first. 

Jolted by the bus-driver’s announcement that we had reached our final destination, I put my book into my backpack and pulled the small piece of paper from my pants pocket with the name of the hotel, The Mark Hopkins Hotel. When I got off the bus, I was told to take the trolley car or to walk uphill to the top of a steep hill, called Nob Hill. I decided to walk. I entered the hotel through one of three revolving doors that were decorated with gold lettering and gold trim. Pretty fancy! My Mom certainly booked us in a luxurious looking place, I thought as I walked across the lobby and saw formal chairs, couches, ornate glass coffee tables, and everything gold and shiny.  It took me a while to spot the check in area, the highly polished wood bar like counter that blended in with the rest of the decor; the only give away was the formally dressed individual standing behind, answering ringing telephones. 

If I got there first, the plan was for me to sit in the lobby and wait for my family to arrive. If my Mother and Grandmother beat me there, they were to check in and wait for me in the hotel room.  Since I was the early bird, I decided to settle into the plush cushions on the velvet upholstered couch. Finally able to unload the heavy backpack after the long walk, my tired body was grateful for such comfort. I felt myself sink into the softness of regal luxury.  Ready to relax, I closed my eyes, slid my head onto a cushion and began to day dream of the fun the three of us would have together.  

I dozed off and I heard a man’s voice, “Miss! Excuse me, Miss.”  I paid no attention to it. I felt a tap on my shoulder and the voice became louder, “Please Miss. Wake up!”

I opened my eyes while my body jolted forward. “Are you talking to me?”  

“Yes, Miss,” he was standing over me.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just closing my eyes and resting a bit while I am sitting here waiting,” I said in a drowsy voice. 

“Miss, you can’t just sit here and wait. This lobby is for hotel guests only!” the man spoke assuredly.

“Actually, I’m going to be staying at this hotel. I am waiting for my Mother and Grandmother to get here so that we can check in,” I explained. 

“You have a reservation?” He asked.

“Yes,  I do. I mean we do.  But I am not the one who made the reservation. It’s either under the name of Midge Fusco or Anne Evitts. I’m not sure who booked the room.”

“Okay Miss. I will check on your reservation. Why don’t you come with me?”

I gathered up my backpack and followed him through the expansive lobby. He went behind the counter and waited for me to repeat the names of the people the reservation might be under. 

“Ok,” he said, “I see that there is a reservation here for three nights under the name of Antoinette Evitts.” 

“Yes, Antoinette.  That’s my Grandmother.  She and my mother are flying in from the East Coast and should be here soon,” I explained.

“I can’t give you a key to the room because they are not here yet. I wish I could,” he said.

“It’s not a problem. I don’t mind waiting for them in the lobby,” I said.

“Miss, I can’t let you do that. We have a dress code and jeans are not allowed in our hotel,” he said with formality. 

I looked down at my jeans and noticed that they were not only faded, but had holes and fringe near the knees. I felt a bit embarrassed. 

“Oh sorry,” I said. “I have been living in Lake Tahoe where I basically live in my blue jeans. I can change into a pair of new black jeans that I have in my backpack, in the women’s lounge if you like. Would that work?” 

“I’m sorry Miss, but those are still considered jeans. I am going to have to ask you to wait outside of the hotel. Maybe you could find a coffee shop down the street to wait in.” 

“Really?” I asked. 

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience Miss. Hopefully they will be here soon.” 

I took my backpack and walked through the lobby, past the bellhop and outside onto the sidewalk. I stood by the hotel’s entrance feeling self-conscious while observing the well-dressed hotel patrons coming and going from the revolving glass doors of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. It was getting cooler now, so I unzipped my backpack and fished through it to find my cardigan sweater. Folding my arms and leaning against the side of the building, I was feeling strangely conspicuous. I was now a loiterer instead of a hotel guest.  

As the passengers emptied from the airport shuttle, I hoped my mother and grandmother would be on this one. Finally, I spotted my well-dressed family members stepping out of the bus as the doorman retrieved their luggage. My Grandmother was wearing a black and white dress and a black coat and my Mom was wearing a beige wool skirt and blazer. Both had on stockings and heels. Who travels like this on a plane?  They did of course. Mom and Grandma were well-dressed for every occasion, and sometimes overdressed with the exception of sleeping attire. My Grandmother dressed up for doctor appointments and my Mom dressed up for grocery shopping. We would joke about it at home. Dad would say Mom always looked like she was going to a cotillion. There was no doubt that they would blend in beautifully at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. I, on the other hand, lived in a mountain town where I hiked, painted, and wore a uniform at work. Fashion was not part of things for me in Tahoe. 

I darted over to greet them, giving them hugs and kisses. “How was your trip?” I asked.

“Long!” They seemed to say this in unison. We chuckled.
“Same for me,” I said.

They looked perplexed until I explained that I opted to take the longer bus ride. I told them I needed to tell them something before we went to the check-in desk. “This is a really nice hotel that you booked. So fancy, that they don’t allow jeans in the lobby. There’s a dress code. They told me to wait for you outside.” 

Both were scanning my outfit, as if they were seeing me for the first time. My mom shook her head from side to side with disapproval. “I’m not surprised. You know how I dislike jeans. They think like me here at the hotel. I hope you brought other pants. You can change in the room once we check in.”

“Actually, I only have black jeans, and they are not allowed either according to the man behind the counter.” I whispered hoping the other hotel guests wouldn’t hear me.

My grandmother laughed. “Well, we’ll just have to make your wardrobe the first order of business. I’ll buy you some new clothes. They must have some shops here in the hotel.”

After we checked in, we took the elevator to our deluxe suite. I was in awe of the decor and the view from the window.

“Wow, Grandma, Look at this amazing view?”

“Wait till we see the view at the top of the hotel. There’s a restaurant and lounge up top with a complete view of San Francisco,” she said.

“Why such a fancy hotel Grandma?”

“I’ve been saving up for this trip for years. I want to do it up and make it very special. I’m so happy to be here with both of you!” 

Mom looked at her watch, “We need to hurry to get you something to wear. The lobby shops will probably be closing for the day soon. Grandma and I were talking on the airplane, and we decided that we should stay at the hotel tonight. We can go to the rooftop cocktail lounge, the one with the view, then eat in the hotel restaurant, since it’s been a long day. We’ll relax here tonight and explore the city tomorrow.” 

“Sounds like a good plan. Okay let's shop!” I said. 

Grandma and Mom sifted through the racks in the upscale clothing store. I told them this store was way too fancy for me. The sales lady directed us to a more casual shop in the hotel. I combed through what I called pants.

Grandma quickly corrected me. “Pants are what men wear and slacks are what women wear.” 

“What are trousers then?” 

“Don’t be facetious Susan,” my grandmother scolded me playfully, “and yes, men wear trousers.”

“How about these slacks Grandma?” I exaggerated the word slacks with an affect. Grandma waved me off and gave me a look. 

I had found a pair of navy-blue pants that almost looked like jeans but were not jeans. 

“Mom, what do you think of these blue ones?”

“Those look like you,” My Mom said approvingly. “But these are nice too.” She held up a pair of burgundy slacks with a side zipper in a very nice material. 

“Oh, those I like a lot,” Grandma factored in. “I’m paying by the way. It’s my treat. It will be worth it to see you in something other than jeans!  Go ahead and pick out two pairs of slacks and a few tops too.” 

I was having a blast; grabbing a few sweaters, a few shirts, and more pants to try on. 

“What do you call this type of shirt Grandma?” I was holding up a white cotton shirt with a lacy collar.  

“A blouse! Men wear shirts and women wear blouses. We not only need to dress you up, but we also need to give you an education too!” Grandma was laughing. I was laughing now. 

My Mom was laughing too. “You can’t take them anywhere.” She joked, as if referring to any one of her kids.

I went into the dressing room and tried on one outfit after another. Both women were hunting for better combinations so that I could get a week's worth of outfits out of the two pairs of pants with different tops. I paraded each combination in and out of the dressing room and modeled each outfit in front of the store’s three-way mirror. I posed and twirled and lapped up all the attention from my mother, my grandmother and the saleswomen.  

“Okay then. I think we are done.  You can keep that outfit on. Wear it out of the store and go to dinner in it.” Grandma was gathering up the rest of the clothes to bring to the purchasing counter. She turned toward us to say one more thing. “I’m ready for a drink, how about both of you?” 

“Absolutely,” My mom said. “I was ready an hour ago.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “I think we earned it.”

We left the store and headed up the elevator to bring the packages to our room. While my mom and Grandmother freshened up and changed their outfits, I stayed by the hotel room mirror and kept looking at myself. I felt special, more sophisticated, and part of things as a well-dressed woman like the other women in my family. I brushed my long hair and asked to use my mom’s makeup so I could put on some eyeshadow. I kept looking at myself in the mirror as if seeing myself for the first time, seeing myself differently. My Grandmother came by to see what I was up to. 

“You’ve been looking in that mirror an awfully long time,” she said. “What do you think is going to happen if you keep on looking at yourself ? Do you think you’ll see something different? Your’e still going to look the same no matter how many times you look at yourself in the mirror.”

My Mom just listened. Then she looked at me. I knew what she was thinking. Grandma had been making comments like that to her, for her whole life. Maybe she was glad to have a comrade.

“Susan likes to look in the mirror.  Her sister Lisa does too.”  Mom said.

Grandma chimed in, “They are both mirror lookers, that's what I call it. I just look quickly and do what I need to. Okay, let’s get going!”

Grandma grabbed her purse, then stopped and turned to look at my feet for a moment.  “Tomorrow we will find a shoe store in San Francisco and get you a decent pair of shoes.”

Postscript: 

I become deeply attached to those I love, to my memories, and to tangible things that remind me of my loved ones; both the living and those who have passed. I am a celebrator, a griever, a pre-griever, a sentimentalist, and a family documentarian. I am someone who loves deeply and has trouble letting go. I celebrate everything. I grieve everything.

 I came into the world grieving. That’s my interpretation. My mom said I was always crying as an infant, an inconsolable baby. Was it the formula I asked?  My mom said no one determined the source, that it wasn't looked into back then. Colic was the catch all answer. I was considered a fussy baby at best and a miserable one at worst. Eventually I settled into life outside of the womb and became a happy enough child. 

I save everything. I have original recipes in my Grandmother’s and Mother’s handwriting. I have my Dad’s photographs of my childhood and my parents’ lives before I was born. My Dad took pictures of everything and everyone. I don’t recall my Mom, Grandparents, Aunts or Uncles ever taking a single photograph at the holidays. That's because they didn’t. My Dad took all of the pictures and did all of the documenting, and everyone benefited from it. He handed out photos regularly to all of our friends and relatives. He was a visual recorder, the keeper of our life and their lives too. My Dad gave me his photographs and home movies in the last years of his life; knowing I would treasure them and that they would not end up in a dumpster. He saw himself in me. He knew I got that gene. I have been gifted with the act of preserving the tangible and intangible histories of my born into family and my created family with Paul and Laura.  

Lately, I have been pre-grieving my mother. Midge will be turning 91 in less than two weeks. Every day is both a blessing and a painful reminder that she will die at some point. Ever since Laura passed, losses have been significantly harder for me to process. Mortality has been center stage. I am guilty of pre-grieving everyone I love at one time or another. But I am also guilty of wanting to celebrate those that I love and seize the moments with them.

This past week I have been writing this story about the time my Mom, my Grandmother, and I went to San Francisco on vacation in 1980. I have been pouring over my photos from the trip, but only found a few. Evidently, I did not take too many photos when I was 23 years old. For research, I hunted through my Dad’s photos for pictures of my Mom and Grandmother. My Mom was my Dad’s favorite subject with her stunning beauty and stylish dressing. The photos show that my Mom always wore dresses and skirts. She told me that she added dressy pants to her wardrobe when she got older, but that she never wore blue jeans or casual pants with a zipper and a snap. Those were meant for men. My Grandmother was also a snappy dresser. She only wore dresses and never ever wore pants.

By the looks of my Dad’s photos, I was a fashionable dresser when I was a child and a teenager. My sisters and I grew up wearing dresses and skirts, ones my Mom bought for us, or ones we picked out with her. We couldn’t wear pants to school. There was a dress code for girls, no pants at school until 1970.  After this liberation, I made stylish pants for myself on the sewing machine tailored to my tastes and to what was acceptable for school. Blue jeans were not allowed at school. When I went to college, I was able to wear jeans to classes. Traditional fashion went out the window and blue jeans flew in to stay. I lived in my jeans as did my friends. I accessorized them nicely with shirts, ponchos, long sweaters and capes. Dresses and skirts were only worn for special occasions from that point on. Jeans were here to stay!

While I was writing this story, my Mom and I relived the memories of the vacation we took to San Francisco with her Mother, my Grandmother. We talked about our fashion choices. We chuckled over the telephone at me being thrown out of the hotel for wearing jeans and how we needed to buy me clothes. My Mom’s perspectives of the same events were interesting to hear. My Grandmother passed away over three decades ago, when she was in her late 70’s. My Mom is outliving both of her parents and almost all of her relatives. She is sharp of mind. Reliving these memories together has been delightful; a blessing for me and entertaining for both of us. I hope you enjoyed this story that is derived from memory and from the fruits of our conversations. It's a sweet tale from our vacation, of one moment in time, of three generations of women; Grandma, Mom and Me.