I spent a year in Nebraska, one week in my life (No offense intended to the Huskers or their state.). We had packed all we owned in a bright yellow behemoth, a jagged scar that cut through the Ryder emblem on the side. My parents Plymouth Satellite like an anchor on the trailer behind, its burnt sienna paint shining among the rust. The cat, its only passenger, finding inventive ways to use his new litter box. It was the first trip of many across that state and others, but that one took years off my parent’s lives. We got our housing straightened out and never had to make another trip quite like that again, but we still did it, my mother insisted.
A 1971 Ford LTD that rocked on unseen waves when the bumps or brakes caught it right replaced the Ryder truck. I’m convinced it could have held as much as the truck when you packed driftwood and a suitcase on the roof (which we did) like the Clampett family. That, to us, anyway, was vacation.
Anyone else subjected to the backseat of some boat-like gas guzzler with no A/C, driving across the country to see family? Some of which you have no idea who they are, let alone how you’re related? I thought so. I knew I wasn’t alone. I may sound cynical about it. I have some of my most fond memories from those trips. I’m sure I’ve blocked out all the “He’s touching me.” Or “Do you want me to pull this car over?” moments that had to be a part of it.
It’s these glorious moments I want my kids to have as well, and I know they do, or they will. Maybe I just want to torture them the same way. Either way, the memories and photos we have bring a smile to their face just as it does mine.
To see my parents and family, to keep in touch physically, more than a phone call or computer screen. To be there is more important than most of us realize. In the line of work, I retired from and in my personal life I experienced it first-hand.
Each time we visit, I’m a little older and I hate to admit it, but maybe a grey hair and I’ve watched the color retreat from my parents. When I was young, they were giants. They could accomplish anything. Yes, of course they had their fights and their issues, but even as a child I was shocked to see.
I help as much as I can, or they want me to. It’s a fine line. Watching aging happen in someone else it’s easier to see, harder to see in myself (Sometimes, but that’s another post. Maybe two, who am I kidding). I’m privileged and grateful to have seen my parents get older as well as myself, along with them. There’s gratitude in that for me, not a lot get the privilege.
A massive medical problem found my dad in an extended medical surgery last year. He was lucky to survive it, and the extended stay in the hospital, first in a coma, then the recovery time.
The family came together to do anything we could to help. Compounding issues was the fact my parents had sold a house, and were supposed to sign on the new one the day following my dad going down and my mom’s display of wicked driving skills to get him from the lake where an ambulance would could not get to them (she’s proud she only got the finger once), to a hospital where a traveling surgeon just happened to still be there who just happened to specialize in the extensive aortic dissection my dad was suffering.
This was the same man who had hands carved from stone, the same who played guitar and bass in bands I watched from below the stage, my toe-head bobbing off beat, I’m sure. He had never been a pillar of health, but I never expected one of my parents (now close to seventy) to be knocking on death’s door. No one ever does. I’ve seen it. I’ve been that person not expecting that knock and getting it anyway myself.
My daughter passed away in 2011. It was a tragedy that took almost two years to get to a point I could function again, to see what I was doing and what I wasn’t. My kids suffered the most during that time, my son more than the others, the much older kids. He was there. He lost a sister and a dad for almost two years, and I’m sure his mom struggled just as much. We will talk about that more when and if the subject comes, all that bears mentioning, but enough for now. Hug your kids, if you have them, for me tonight.
This year, my dad was up and walking around being just as inappropriate as his sense of humor ever was, had an opportunity. They were “getting the band back together. “
It was a sesquicentennial celebration for a local town The High Street Band used to play. They were well known in their time, but as many songs tell the tale, members moved away, life happened. They were asked to play, and most members would be local for the date planned, apart from one original member who had unfortunately passed away. With tufts of white hair, gray in their beards and maybe a little less spring in their step, they would take the stage again, so into the car we went and once again I faced Nebraska. This time, I’ll be damned sure, I have air conditioning.
