On the plane ride to Florida, I got a super laugh from USA Today. They claimed our most recent census was the first to let citizens choose and graze among seven racial slots: “White,” “Black,” “Asian or Pacific Islander,” “American Indian or Alaska Native,” “Multiracial,” “Hispanic,” “Other.” Which’ll it be?

It said, “By permitting people to pick from an array of racial identities—the new census presents a matrix of 63 ethnic categories, up from 5 a decade ago. Accordingly, nearly 9,000 Americans indicated belonging to 5 races. And 823 checked all 7 racial boxes.”

I found this last both hilarious and wise. So why, with a fairly good mind, was I still hoping for such a simple answer? Either/or. I needed finally to know.

Want a successful family visit? It should not involve sleepovers. Arrive in your own car (assured mobility). You’d better park quite near the house. That way you can scram at the first accusation.

So ran my thoughts. And ran, and ran.

In advance, I forced my wife and girls to promise certain things. Driving from Orlando to Pelican Manor, we worked out ear-tugging signals, exit strategies that’d spring us the second Mom’s hurtful topics started to emerge. If need be, we were all prepared to bolt from dockside, before setting one deck shoe aboard More Trouble Than It’s Worth II.

The overheard AM radio bigotry, the bits of fishing lore—along with Mom’s not unslatternly history—had made me expect her marina home would be so many planks laid over some sulfurous-smelling bog. Maybe a peeling houseboat the size of some backyard storage shed—two cinder blocks tied to a yellow nylon rope, its only anchor.

“Does Granny Delman live right on their ship?,” our younger daughter asked. Even Sara’s phrase “Granny Delman” caused me to wince. I said nothing. But, really, what rights did Grace have to these two appealing girls of mine, of ours? My wife guessed aloud that Mom and Buck must also own a little house somewhere. But we’d been invited to visit their boat first, okay? And “ship” refers to ocean liners; “boats” are what mere mortals own, umkay?

I’d leased a Jaguar, a red one. To show Grace how well I’d done in the world. I know. Pathetic.

I told myself that our daughters would get a kick out of having a sports car; but all the girls noticed was: the trunk sure did seem small, didn’t it? (They’d each packed nearly everything they owned. We had an oboe and one music stand. I needed a container ship to get three such well-dressed women to Disney World.) Why should I feel so jumpy today? Why should I half-care about a person who’d sent me off alone on some train, me wearing a monkey uniform and still aged eight?