WAS IT A HOLIDAY?

Evening Star, Issue 20996, 9 January 1932, Page 2

WAS IT A HOLIDAY?

[Written by “W.G.N.” for the ‘ Evening Star.’] Honestly now, was it a holiday? The inquiry is a reasonable one. After all, Columbus and Luther, Shaw and Einstein, were judged mad because they had inquiring minds that pried past the blank wall of conventional assumption. And so, defying convention with a rashness that amounts to heresy, I repeat, “Was it a holiday?” Tho holidays, such as they were, are over, and men have returned almost thankfully to their offices and ledgers, their adding machines and typewriters. They looked forward to the vacations, but ever returning to their hot baths, in which they are allowed to sing, to their old carpet slippers, to the piles of really crisp toast, and to sensiblyfilled porridge plates, they ask themselves, “Was it a holiday?” And do you blame them? There is the case of Jones, a wonderfully steady man whose large family bears testimony to his splendid, if ruthless sense of duty. His conscience demands that he annually rent a crib at tho seaside for the children’s vacations. His first sense of the glorious relaxation of holidays comes with the feverish haunting of estate agents’ offices. At last, .after heated family discussions and anxious consultations of father’s bankbook, a diminutive house is rented for four weeks. For weeks ahead Mrs Jones worries about tho stores. How many pots of marmalade? Can they get fresh meat out there, or must they arrange to have it sent out from town ? And bread? But that is just the commencement. Are there blankets in tho house? Do the Jones have to supply cutlery or not? The packing up is a triumph of modern executive skill? Absolutely nothing is forgotten except tho toothbrushes, soap, and father's shaving gear. Even here the troubles do not end. Jones has to argue at great length wtih an obstinate railway official about family concessions, and, later, with an equally obstinate guard about excess luggage. On tho crowded station Baby John is lost, and found only when someone accidentally stands on his toes.

The arrival, the hectic struggle to claim luggage from the guard’s van, tho heavy portage down to the crib, the unpacking, the lighting of a smoky fire only after a starling’s nest has been removed from the chimney, the settling of quarrels between /he now tired children; all these things make Jones and his wife wonder “ Is it a holiday?” Theirs is a comparatively happy ft, however. These crib dwellers, once they have grown used to carting water from a distant creek because the house tanks refuse to hold their share of the copious rainfall, once they can tolerato a draughty washhouse and bathroom combined; once they enjoy a smoky kitchen range; once they can put up with a shortage in cutlery and an abundance of sandflies and mosquitoes; then, providing the meat doesn’t go bad for want-of a proper safe, and as long as father doesn’t see the exorbitant prices demanded at tbe country store, these crib dwellers can, perhaps, call it a holiday—at least until they come to pack up again and settle bills and rent.

But there is another class of holidaymaker—the boarding house butterfly. I refer to the Smiths, who spend a small fortune in wiring away for accommodation. Mrs Smith detests these crowded hoarding, houses, but she thinks that Smith and the children like them. Smith hates ’em but is convinced that Mrs Smith loves them._ And the children revolt against skimpy meals, cramped quarters, and hurried bath hours. Smith rebels at the idea of dressing for dinner every night. He could do that at home without paying three guineas a week for the privilege. But Mrs Smith insists on doing the proper thing. The family go for sedate strolls on the promenade in fine weather and sit in cold and crowded sitting rooms in wet. And Smith, lookjng ruefully at his thin wallet at the end of a month’s huddled living, demands of his wife, “Is it a holiday? ”

But even they, if they can possibly accommodate themselves to watery tea, cold meals, flies in the milk jug, and silence in the bathroom, may, if blessed with the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe, call it a nolidny. The most fanatical species of the genus holidaymaker is undoubtedly that, commonly known as “ campers.” You may have heard of them. A camper is usually a man who has a motor, a tent, an enduring wife, and a relapse which he likes to call, “that back-to-Nature urge.” With these four qualifications he annually sets out into the back of nowhere to enjoy a really carefree holiday. He affirms that there is no worry in trying to load a ton of impedimenta on to a half-ton car. He would tell us that there is a pleasure in seeing his motor springs quite flat and his balloon tvrcs little better. After the first half-dozen times, the romance of pitching a tent has oozed out of his constitution with his perspiration. He protests at the mere suggestion of discomfort in wet weather when none too miniature oascades play cheerily from the tent roof, and dainty lakes form with magic speed in the blankets. It’s all in the fun, evidently. He would have us believe that no enjoys being masticated alive by a thousand mosquitoes that invade, his tent at sundown. Those open fires that smoke everything and everyone are infinitely preferable to mundane electrical stoves. Icy lake water is a pleasant change from the boiling water of his town house. This wretch, who rises with the sun because the sandflies rise at that time; this man who smokes the morning porridge, burns the toast, and singes the coffee; this fellow who pays exorbitant prices for potatoes, bread, eggs, and even firewood; does he dare insist that he has enjoyed a carefree holiday. What with his carting of water, pitching of tents, building of fireplaces, diverting of unexpected streams that threaten to swamp the camp, nightly adjusting of tent flies, chopping of wood, and packing and unpacking the car, our camper defies the Oxford Dictionary, which defines a holiday as a period of cessation from work, or of recreation. The holidays are over, and yesterday I met Jones looking tired and haggard. “ Good Lord, Jones, what have you been doing ” I asked in surprise. “ Having a holiday,” he answered grimly, and dived into a restaurant. I was shocked, and ambled on. That lunch hour I found myself standing next to Smith in the Roslyn car. He, too, looked worn and worried. “Have you been on a holiday, too?” I asked facetiously. “ I have,” he groaned. Strange to say, in the theatre last night 1 recognised a camper. He fairly beamed at me. “ Isn’t it great to bo back,” ho chortled. “Been having a holiday?” I inquired. “ Being having hell,” he grunted. And so I lift mine eyes, not to the lonely stars of the wilderness, but to the sociable electric signs of George street, and I ask, “ was it a holiday?” and the enigmatic answer comes back, “ The year’s work was as a holiday and the holiday as a year’s work.’-