Coming from a large family with modest financial means, most holidays growing up seemed to resemble the Griswold’s — chaotic with five young children crammed into the back of the “uncool” family station wagon, luggage perilously strapped to the roof. Down the interstate we drove from New Jersey to South Carolina, an excruciatingly long journey only to be made even longer as a slightly distracted Mike Mantell drank in the bucolic landscape. “Dad, watch the road!” We screamed as his eyes lingered on another corn field.

My father was an aimless wanderer by nature and an avid history reader. Little did us girls know that our beach/pool holiday was actually a historical sightseeing trip in disguise. My father was in his glory in Charleston. He slowly ambled through the cobblestone streets of the city, admiring the pastel-colored, pre-Civil War houses, stopping to read every historical inscription he fell upon. He didn’t seem to heed much attention to the whines of his impatient daughters who were itching to get back to the pool. “Dad, move … hurry up. We are bored” we fruitlessly shouted from far ahead.

Instead my father happily dragged us on tours of Fort Sumter and the sugar plantations in the sweltering southern heat. Of course there was a bit of tactful bribery on his part to get us to behave so he could actually enjoy it. An ice cream for one, a Confederate hat and toy rifle for another and a promise for unlimited pool time the next day.

When his part of the holiday ended, my father readily embraced family beach time; ocean kayaking over a shark infested pit to simply relaxing on a sun lounger with his latest book. Nothing could possibly dampen the genuine merriment of the holiday even if it did end with an encounter with a sting ray. As my father stepped on the unassuming sea creature near the ocean’s edge, he let out a loud, unmanly yelp. Unfortunately, his cries for help were met by uncontrollable giggles from his unsympathetic daughters.

Now looking back, I have come to realize that my father possessed an uncanny gift. He had an innate stillness that allowed him to disentangle himself from the madness of society. My father didn’t need a phone or camera to capture what he did on holiday like most rushed tourists who are afraid of missing out. Instead, he carefully wandered, gazing at the mundane to magnificent. As I pass through rolling hills in the English countryside or simply a field of corn, I find myself looking through the lens of my father’s eyes and smile for in that brief moment I can see the beauty in the ordinary just as he taught me so many years ago.