August 11, 2025 
by M. Regina Cram
Family Vacation – n., The opportunity to cook on someone else’s stove.
I knew it was a bad idea when we couldn’t find the place. My husband Peter and I wandered up and down the rutted dirt road for an hour before stumbling upon a dilapidated shack. My friend had described it as ‘quaint.’ It wasn’t quaint. It looked like an outhouse.
Stepping inside, my fears were confirmed. The place was minuscule. Picture a pup tent with plumbing.
Did I mention there were 23 people staying there?
This was my introduction to Cape Cod vacations. Still, we were young and foolish, so the weekend was fun, if crowded.
The problem was that Peter fell in love with the place. It sat atop a dune overlooking the Brewster flats of Cape Cod. At low tide, you could walk out a mile among minnows and hermit crabs. It was spectacular.
My concern was that we hoped to have children. I could picture a small child slipping out the rotted screen door and toddling to the beach in the dead of night. In diapers.
The cabin itself had no amenities; no tub or shower, no wallboards or curtains or rugs to absorb sound. The only appliance was an occasionally working 1940s Frigidaire. There was no TV, no radio, no telephone. Two ancient mattresses sloped steeply toward huge craters in the center.
The place was owned by a tough Yank who was paranoid about trespassers. To keep people out, she’d planted poison ivy all around the cabin and up and down the access lane. Not only was the place impossible to find, but if you did find it, you couldn’t get near it. If you were inside, you couldn’t escape.
And no, I’m not making this up.
Years later, we began the tradition of Cape Cod vacation, returning to the disaster I refer to as Outhouse Cottage. One summer with three preschoolers, it rained for six of the seven days. The following year, Hurricane Bob hit, so our week lacked electricity and running water. Meanwhile, Peter was training for Olympic distance triathlons. He enjoyed 50-mile training rides and long ocean swims while I romped in poison ivy with small, unsuspecting children. It might have been funny if it weren’t so awful.
I finally pleaded for a change of venue. All I wanted were a few amenities – you know, things like wall boards. (And people think women are so high maintenance.) I was willing to return to the rustic charm of Outhouse Cottage once everyone was out of diapers, but even June Cleaver needed a break sometime.
Thus, we found ourselves in a plain but civilized environment the following summer. The irony is that Peter became so enamored of creature comforts that we never returned to the waterfront outhouse.
Now that our kids are grown, Cape Cod vacations are finally relaxing, but I miss the noise. Still, I’ve officially decreed that we shall never return to Outhouse Cottage. A girl has to have her standards.
M. Regina Cram is a published author and parishioner of SS. Isidore and Maria Parish.
