Like a John Deere in the headlights.

Now, it is fair to say, that my husband is notorious for his innocent, but nearly fatal vacationing decisions. He has led us into scorpion-ridden campsites. We have been naked on the other end of a machine gun in the middle of a Mexican desert. Word to the wise: “Campo” has many, many adjectives not the least of which is “military.”

This sixth-sense of death-on-holiday has had it’s highlights, like going to an exclusive private wedding in Greece and meeting an Olympic Gold Medalist. (If you are wondering how this could be part of the same How-the-hell-did-we-survive-concept—at the time, we were about to fall off a balcony taking a picture of ourselves when the couple spotted us.) Anyway, I believed our days of toying with the reaper, while wildly entertaining, were behind us—apparently, not so.

This weekend was proof positive, that we are genetically drawn to the least desirable, most questionable places on earth to squander all of our valuable free time. I thought it would be limited to us, those who would suffer from this disorder, but clearly our children will be subjected. It will be a miracle if they don’t emancipate themselves after only 12 years of family vacations. I have been doing this about that amount and it is probably time to file the papers. But honestly, I am as much to blame as Dave, I always agree, I always think it sounds “interesting”, I always say, “I’m game!” And afterwards, I always wonder what makes us so willing and so naive and so impossibly dense.

Welcome to The Tractor Museum-Harvest Festival in Vista, California!

I don’t know where in God’s name Vista is, but it is dangerously close to a volcano or something hot, because it must have been 110 degrees outside. When we got out of the car, it was so bloody hot that the air was sucked from my lungs. The blurred landscape, distorted from the heat searing the ground should have been a warning. But not for us, hell no, we coated the kids with sunscreen, strapped them in the stroller, and headed toward the sound of steam engine whistles.

Oh look, a parade! Hmmm…a parade from another era...perhaps the Dust Bowl during the 30’s? All the fanfare was about a rickety, rusty, line of tractors chugging along to elaborate histories and descriptions from the announcer. Flanking the machinery, the saddest display of creaky, old metal risers filled with folks, real folks in straw hats, summer bonnets and even a bowler!

Seriously, you had to check your watch and your driver’s license to be sure you didn’t step back in time. They were undoubtedly the oldest, most unusual, bizarre tractors ambling through the dusty crowd. They were a spectacle and oddly, exciting to watch. And I would bet you a dollar that the announcer was Garrison Keillor’s great, great, grandfather exhumed for just this occasion. He was sincere, humorous and so-down-home that mid-tractor-description, he actually corrected a heckler who insulted one of the racy tractor-vixens. “She’s not a hussy, she’s one helluva dance-hall gal.” This is where I would like to thank my husband, it was a once-in-a-lifetime treat.

The parade promptly ended and at that moment, all went south.

The children were literally puddles of hungry, hot, misery. (I believe they were having their souls sucked out of them by the ancients. This is why they don’t have preschools at old folk’s homes, there is something suspiciously sapping about those places.) We were trying to pump them full of liquids and food, but Gabriel was only interested in riding a tractor! Riding a tractor! Riding a tractor! Phoebe was inclined to teethe and kick her brother, which infuriated him.

Try as we might, we could not get one of those leathery, dry, old, throwbacks to let Gabriel on their tractors. Which killed me! Because clearly these people were capable of raising the dead, bringing machines to life that had no business in the modern world, and carving out a society, which only needed water to fuel steam engines—one would think they could repair ANY damage a 3-year-old kid could inflict!

You all know what comes next. Gabriel had a tantrum which I would rate a 6 on the Richter-scale. It wasn’t the worst one, that one I am still anticipating. But it was of ear-bleeding magnitude, and with all the fluids he was losing, I thought he might just pass out trying to express his disappointment about the damn tractor ride. And we would have been mad, if we weren’t so concerned for his health. (And the fact that he conveyed my sentiments exactly.)

Dave finally had enough, he was hotter, sweater, and remarkably more feed-up than me. That may be a first. So, after only an hour and within minutes of organs shutting down we left. And in the car Gabriel innocently said, “Thanks, that was fun.”

At this moment, I realized, we had passed on the gene. That poor boy had the curse. He would never be able to answer the question, "How was your trip?" without hearing "You're kidding" in response. I blame Alaska, but that's a story for my husband to tell.

Additional bizarre observation: there were a lot of golf carts driving around the farm, which must be the evolutionary equivalent of dinosaurs to chickens or something.