The real summer of love

By Derek and Zack Littlefield

Zack and big brother Derek Littlefield are shown in this ’70s-era photo on a camping trip in the family’s VW bus, and later, above, as teenagers with their father Ron Littlefield, now Chattanooga’s mayor. Zack is a public relations account executive and videographer living in Denver. Derek is an automotive advertising writer and producer in Birmingham, Ala.

It was an exciting time back in 1970-something. Dad had something very important to share with us. We flipped through a large, full-color brochure at the kitchen table, gazing at pictures of families roasting marshmallows around a campfire. Throwing Frisbees. Having picnics. Fishing (and actually catching fish). These happy people were unloading all kinds of colorful gear and equipment, and it all looked like tons of fun. Our eyebrows were raised.

The star of each of these vignettes-of-family-fun was a shiny, brand-new, orange Volkswagen camper…bus. Not a van. A bus. Back in the ’70s, a “van” was a vehicle airbrushed with some sort of sunset scene on the back and sides, a monolithic monstrosity that was completely shag-carpeted on the inside—even on the ceiling. (And if you owned a ’70s van in Chattanooga, you took it to The Customized Van Show at Eastgate Mall and became a local celebrity.) No, a bus is not a van. A bus has a skilled driver who takes you places where you’ve never been. Soon we too, would be on our way to new places. No, we weren’t about to follow the Grateful Dead. Thanks to Dad, we were about to experience something far greater: The United States.

The new, orange bus certainly destined for our driveway (in the empty space next to mom’s yellow Beetle) had louvered, screened windows you could crank open, a stove, plaid interior, and all sorts of other “all-the-conveniences-of-home-on-the-road” gadgetry. But the crown jewel amenity was a giant canvas tent that popped out of the roof at a 45-degree angle. It looked like a ramp that Evel Knievel might attempt to jump. And just what, exactly, was inside this triangular camping shrine? We were about to find out, because soon it would be ours.

The next day, after “The Official Littlefield Family VW Bus Brochure Presentation,” Dad went back to the Don Woods Volkswagen dealership, ready to deal. Ready to finally make the Littlefields a two-car family. Ready to drive us all the way to Pennsylvania to show us the mythical place where Hershey bars are made. Perhaps we’d even get the rare treat of eating some pre-sweetened cereal along the way?
When Dad arrived at the dealership the next day, our bus was gone. Snatched up by someone else. Someone who probably needed something large and orangey to take to Vols games.

Rats.

But Dad hadn’t shown us the “VW Guide to Family Camper Happiness” in vain. Rather than let his family down, he did the next best thing: He came home with a gently used, low-mileage, non-camper bus. A red one. Very red, with a white top and a huge sunroof that cranked open. It was a giant, convertible hot dog on wheels, a miniature Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. And, best of all, it was all ours.
The red bus didn’t have a sink, or the coveted pop-up camper thing. But Dad knew we really didn’t need it. We already had tents, Coleman stoves, collapsible chairs, dining canopies, air mattresses, egg holders, coolers, pumps, lanterns, and most everything the other bus could have offered. Plus, Dad had a few tricks up his sleeve.

He took the bus to the “custom conversion shop”—aka “our carport.”

First he removed the middle seat, so we would have plenty of room to play GI Joes, sleep, or pick on each other. (Yes, seatbelts were optional then. We turned out fine.) Then he put down red carpet—not shag, but a large, red remnant left over from our grandparents’ house. Next, he installed an extremely sturdy bike rack for the front—yes, the front. You could climb on it, or do chin-ups if you were under 65 pounds. For all our extra gear, he modified a luggage rack for the roof; there was no such thing as a Yakima or a Thule.

Then, Mom got to work making the curtains. Orange, flowery, ’70s-looking ones, complete with matching tiebacks that she and Dad hung using an intricate network of trusty parachute cord. It was genius.

But the bus wasn’t complete without some sort of “hippie sticker.” Even though our parents weren’t hippies, a VW bus in the ’70s just needed to display some sort of earth-friendly message. So Dad added a decal he probably got at a business meeting about the former downtown pollution problem, a serious meeting where everyone had on three-piece suits and brown ties. It was an official-looking sticker from the EPA—round like a peace symbol, with a geometric flower. It basically indicated that we didn’t pollute, and we felt strongly that others shouldn’t, either.

There. Done. We didn’t need no stinking orange bus. We were ready to embark on thousands of miles of adventures in our red one, boldly going where no kids in the neighborhood had ever gone. Thanks to Dad, we went on what seemed like an everlasting tour of every KOA campground in America. In our red VW bus, we experienced all the marshmallows you could roast. All the picnics you could swat gnats at. And all the GORP (granola, oats, raisins and peanuts) we could eat along the way. We even got to eat some pre-sweetened cereal, just like the happy folks in the brochure.

From Florida to Maine we trekked, camping our heads off at a whopping $3-a-night park fee in our Ritz-Carlton on wheels. Having the time of our lives, with fresh lobster (on paper plates) in Connecticut and real maple syrup in Vermont. Driving the highways and parkways with the top cranked open and AM radio probably playing something by John Denver or Chuck Mangione. We didn’t need GPS, Turn-by-Turn Navigation or a DVD in the headrest playing a 10-disc travel series from the Discovery Channel. Dad was at the wheel, showing us America, first-hand. Setting the example of what it’s like to live, love and explore God’s creation—as a family.

Thanks, Dad.