My Dad was a big Willie Nelson fan, and every time I hear one of his songs it makes me smile – or tear up, depending on the moment and the tune.
Even writing the above words make me take pause; Willie’s signature song was one of the medleys on the 8-track that my parents inserted into the dashboard player as we pulled out of the driveway of our house in York, Nebraska on our way to various destinations: Grandma Thomas’ house in Clay Center, Grandma Reins’ farm in Platte Center, the tiny lakeside family cabin that would later be dubbed the “White Trash Bed & Breakfast” by my college friends near Duncan, Nebraska.
Sometimes it was beyond the one-hour destination and we would push past the flat cornfields and rolling green hills of Nebraska. One summer we drove to Disneyland in California; we stayed at a cheap motel across the street from the theme park called “The Jolly Rancher.” I forgot my swimsuit there when we left and when my Mom called later, it was gone. I can still remember the small boxy room that we slept in overnight and how exciting it was to be there – Whitney, Paige and I in the extra double next to my parents’ bed, Christopher in the cot with wheels on the bottom that we borrowed from the front desk. As I lay in bed next to my sisters, I could hear each person slowly drop off to sleep in the darkness until it was just me, awake. I was the sole conscious person in my family, staring at the ceiling, all of us together yet separated by darkness and dreams.
As white rectangle after white rectangle painted on the highway disappeared below our big, barreling blue van and became lost behind us to the openness of the great American West, Christopher, Whitney, Paige and I fought over the back seat (prime real estate because the seat came down and folded into a bed) and also the one hand-held video game that we owned that played Donkey Kong over and over again. I remember that the song of the summer was “Puttin’ On The Ritz;” we heard it over and over again on the radio as I fantasized about being one of the “Well to do…up and down Park Avenue.”
These road trips—no matter how short or long – became magical, exciting times when it was just our family in the big, glorious world. All rules were off and the lure of new and exciting adventures called us. At home, my father’s schedule as a doctor in our small town required much of his time; my memories of him in the confines of our house are limited and oftentimes unhappy. But on the road, my Dad became looser, happier. He told jokes, played his 8-tracks, laughed and became a different person that we almost didn’t recognize. Perhaps the weight of his responsibilities in our hometown overwhelmed him and the best way to escape them was to hit the road – with four kids and a wife in tow.
It was when we were in San Francisco on a trip one year – perhaps I was twelve – that I looked at my Dad, his hair blowing in the wind as we stood on a pier at Fisherman’s Wharf, that I saw flecks of gray in his cobalt black hair. At home I never really studied my father, he was always at a distance, exhausted by the days’ work and then again by the oftentimes tumultuous state of affairs at home with four rambunctious and complex children at various stages of rebellion, anger, antipathy and rage. We were like weeds that had sprung up overnight, choking the seemingly beautiful portrait of our family my parents wished to paint. But standing next to my Dad that day and noticing that the tips of his hair were turning gray, my first thought was, “My Dad is going to die one day.” It wasn’t so much as a prediction of when and where and how as it was a startling fact of life that I had to accept. The slight change in the color of his hair was a startling discovery that my dad was human and mortal and honestly, up until that point, I’m not sure that I was even aware of that fact. He was the man who saved lives, delivered babies, earned reverence and appeared unpredictably in and out of our lives.
But my adolescent prediction proved true too soon, my father died 8 years ago at the age of 55 of a seemingly random and senseless disease: acute myologenous leukemia. He died eight years ago today, leaving complex and cumbersome emotions in his wake. He also, obviously, left quite a strong genetic link between he and I: a shared wanderlust, a desire to go out, connect, move, be.
My father passed this genetic gift onto me and I like to take credit for passing it along to Rusel. Our around-the-world trip last year brought us closer together and made us a team. I’ve also spent the last two weeks traveling – first to Colorado to see my sister and Meyung and then up to Hudson with Rusel. I relish the feeling of movement, the idea that tomorrow could be completely different than today. It’s a blessing; it’s a curse. I often wonder if I can manage it the way that my father did, in so many ways he did such a better job than I am doing at it. A pillar of our small community, his funeral was overflowing and enough good words about him couldn’t be said. He connected with people and in turn he earned their respect. In the vastness and anonymity of New York City it is difficult to make connections and harder still to take the time to make a difference in anyone’s lives.
But to understand the man, you had to look beyond Nebraska – to the person on a road trip in Mexico with his best friend, Larry; to the man in the Yankees cap watching his favorite team compete in the Bronx; to the man who held my little sister, Whitney, on his shoulders in London so she could get a better glimpse of the Pope passing by in the Pope-mobile. He worked hard and played hard and I oftentimes wonder if he didn’t somehow know that he had to fit everything in as quickly as possible; that his bone marrow would one day start pumping out the wrong message; that his days on earth were numbered so he’d better see as much of it as possible while he could.
Heartbreakingly, I remember the look in his eyes at the hospital one day as we all rallied around him. It wasn’t fear. It was sadness. He knew; we couldn’t accept. Perhaps he saw the road in front of him, a different road than the one we had traveled so often that criss-crossed here and there to various points of the world. A new path that we ultimately had to accept was his and hopefully one just as exciting as our shared travels as a family.
Thanks, Dad. I’m thinking of you today.
So I've stumbled across your blog through some weird MySpace/google connection somehow. It's nice to see how full your life has become since YHS.
And this post was especially beautiful and bittersweet. I'm sorry at the passing of your father; 8 years must seem like a lifetime ago and just yesterday. Your tribute to him is a beautiful and honest one. Thank you for sharing it.
Wishing you well - Myla
Posted by: Myla | June 04, 2008 at 06:39 PM