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Driftwood Lodge was highly amused by the annual arrival of the Alabama cowboy who never failed to wrangle early check-in for his family.

Rebecca Bearden, Correspondent

June 8, 2022

4 Min Read
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Rebecca Bearden with her father, Gary, on Panama City Beach, Fla.Rebecca Bearden

I think I now understand a little more fully why it was never more than a two-night stay. The Bearden family vacation to Panama City Beach, Fla., was the ultimate reward for all of us to make it through winter ranch chores and celebrate the end of the school year.

Mama began prepping Sis and I after Christmas with Beach Boys cassette tapes, promptly followed by the receipt of beach towels, flip-flops, and matching short sets from the Easter Bunny. By May, we were more than ready to hit the Gulf. Well, at least after a generous slathering of SPF 70 or so.

Packing the single-cab, white flatbed Ford involved a case of black garbage bags and duct tape to rainproof what we never referred to as luggage. I still remember the distinctly musty smell of Mama’s blue vintage suitcase, one that took home more than its fair share of motel toiletries.

Rain or shine, we always made it to the coast on time, thanks to Daddy’s driving skills. That included a pit stop at the state line for orange juice. No doubt the staff of the Driftwood Lodge was highly amused by the annual arrival of the Alabama cowboy who never failed to wrangle early check-in for his family and watched like a hawk for that parking spot directly in front of his motel room to open up.

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There were no cows at the beach so I thought Daddy would relax but the novelty of having the Weather Channel on demand usually placed him in hay season planning mode. Still, he made plenty of time to blow up all of our floats himself and accompany us to the Gulf as often and as fully clothed as he could get away with.

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Gary, Rebecca and Rachel Bearden in Panama City Beach, Fla. Credit: Rebecca Bearden

Never one to risk soaking a good straw hat in salt water, Daddy would break down and wear a “ball cap” while swimming. At least that’s what he called his I-taught-myself-to-swim-in-Granddaddy’s-pond freestyle. Whatever he lacked in form, he made up for with function. Given that Mama refused to swim, he didn’t have much choice but gladly allowed her the luxury of tanning poolside. Somehow she was the only one who didn’t burn, while the rest of us tried vainly to void the salt water and sand from our ears after getting “bucked off” our cheap floats.

The obligatory sand castle construction was often included in the afternoon lineup though judging by the competition from adjacent engineers, our building skills were on par with our wave riding abilities.

All of that activity never failed to generate a healthy appetite. Once the Danish wedding cookies, powdered doughnuts, peanut butter crackers, and complimentary motel watermelon wore off, we showered sand and what sunblock was left from every crevice and gingerly dressed for dinner. Turns out there’s no way to avoid having your new beach outfit stick to a full body coating of aloe vera.

Even given the wide variety of dining options available at the beach, we typically ended up at our old standby, Shoney’s. It was consistent, had something everyone could eat (Mama is not a fan of seafood), and was within budget. My only critique was that the dining room was a solid 30 degrees colder than the air temperature we were dressed for so that necessitated doubling back to the pickup for every Wrangler denim jacket we could dig out.

We just focused on getting back to the motel where we could enjoy the hot tub, make awkward small talk with whatever “Yankees” were already in it, and then excuse ourselves when they became too chatty for Daddy’s taste. The evening beach walk to and from the pier dodging sand crabs and pelicans made for the ultimate night cap. Rachel and I prayed we’d fall asleep before Mama and Daddy did to avoid the one room snore-fest, a task that became increasingly more tedious as we aged.

After waking up for the second morning to the sound of waves crashing and the feel of cold sunblock on warm skin, we knew our time was complete. We packed, gave the pool and beach one last swim, and waved goodbye to the Gulf excitedly en route to one last family-friendly venue before hitting the Alabama state line.

I have no idea if the Western Sizzlin’ in Crestview, Fla., is still in operation, but I remain grateful for its generous buffet and for the gallons of soft serve ice cream that four beach-weary, sun-kissed Beardens gladly enjoyed every summer for almost 20 years.

Two nights away from our livestock, ponies, dogs, and cats was sufficient. Being on vacation was just a great reminder of how blessed we were to be back home.

Bearden is a biologist with the Geological Survey of Alabama. She writes for Farm Press about the exploits on the family's ranch in Alabama.

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