When I was maybe twelve or thirteen my dad worked for a company that had offices in both California and West Texas. Every summer my dad would inevitably need to take a trip to the West Texas branch and every summer he’d insist that I (or sometimes both my brother, Ryan and I) come along. He’d also insist that we drive.
Even though I was only twelve and even though I had never even seen an airport let alone been on a plane, I thought it was weird that this seemingly successful company couldn’t fly him where he was going. But it’s not like I had any say in the matter. So we’d set out in his truck and drive for days and days– at least a million miles of mostly desert by my pre-teen calculations. I dreaded those road trips with my dad like the plague.
I dreaded them because my Daddy is religious about “making good time.” Every single part of the day was focused on whether or not we were efficiently traveling through each state with the speed and determination of a locomotive. Daddy also got our meals from Chevron when we stopped for gas. A: Because that was time efficient and B: Because he saw nothing wrong with a week’s worth of those slightly moist triangle sandwiches that gas stations keep in the lowest rack of their juice refrigerator. The truck radio was forever set on one of three things: Yanni, Live at the Acropolis, Prarie Home Companion (which felt like torture to my pre-pubescent brain) and the Green River album from Creedence Clearwater Revival. The only breakup to these atrocities, and truly the only time he would stop the truck, was if he saw a historical landmark on the side of the road.
We’d be barreling along some desolate highway and see a brown plaque on the side of the road and he’d pull off into the gravel like the Duke’s of Hazzard. And every single time he’d make us get out of the truck into the hundred and whatever-degree summer weather. Then, he’d make me stand in front of the plaque that explained how once upon a time General Custer had signed the Declaration of Independence right here in this very spot in Southern Arizona. Okay, so my memory of the plaques is a bit foggy (so is my U.S. history for that matter). But, the point is, that there is a collection of my chubby thirteen-year-old-self awkwardly posing in front of every bit of historic memorabilia from here to the Lone Star State.
For years I looked back on those trips as tortuous, another bit of evidence that my father and I are so very different in so many ways. I never was a daddy’s girl, and while I knew I was loved, my father wasn’t affectionate or especially interested in my girly sensibilities. As I’ve grown into an adult I recognize him as a source of wisdom, and honestly, sometimes frustration, but more than anything he’s become a friend. It was Daddy who taught me to write at an early age. It was Daddy who encouraged me to be an author. It was Daddy who taught me to cook spaghetti, spot a deer in the woods and the difference between a phillips and a flat head screwdriver. He’s also responsible, after all those road trips, for my life long love of CCR.
When I heard that John Fogerty was coming to town to perform at the Hollywood Bowl I thought it would make the perfect Father’s Day Gift. So we went together to dinner and then walked up the hill to the Bowl. We talked about his tomato garden and how to boil cabbage properly. We talked about my work and his work and Jackson, Sawyer and Ford. We talked about the weather and The Eagles and my grandparents. What we never talked about, not even once, were those road trips. We never talked about them because we both recognized that we were missing a member of our trio. Unspoken, was the fact that the other person who would have loved to have seen John Fogerty was my brother, but that’s not possible anymore. It didn’t make me sad. We’ve had eighteen years to come to terms with the fact Ryan isn’t here and I’ve chosen to dwell on the blessing of his life rather than the tragedy of his death. So I sat with Daddy, and we listened to Down on the Corner and Bad Moon Rising and Who Will Stop the Rain and it was one of those moments in life where you think, pay attention, this moment is special, this is something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. And I had a sudden clarity that night that I hadn’t before.
That’s what those road trips were for. My father with his gruff exterior and his work boots and his insistance that gas station sandwiches were gourmet: He was making memories the only way he knew how. As an adult I’m sure he recognized it even though my child’s mind could not. My brother’s battle with depression was getting worse and I was getting older and inside that old truck he was trying to say, pay attention, this moment is special, this is something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.
This may yet be the greatest thing my Daddy has ever taught me. Sometimes, actually, most times the simple things or the hard things or the everyday life things are the bittersweet memories we’ll hold onto forever. I can’t remember every birthday party my boys have had, but I remember with total clarity those difficult months when they were newborns. The late night feedings, the lack of sleep, even the physical pain of going through labor. They all seem like such precious memories now in my mind. I don’t recall every time my husband has said, “I love you,” or each gift he’s ever given me. But, I absolutely remember our first real fight, how we battled each other on parenting style and how hard we have worked to have a solid and happy marriage. I look back on our early years of marriage with a smile. Look at us, I think, he was barking about the laundry and I was yelling about his shaving foam and we fought for a whole hour before we made up and ordered pizza. I’ll remember it fondly for the rest of my life.
Though it seems impossible at the time, some of the things you dislike the most right now will be the most precious memories you have tomorrow. Thanks for that lesson daddy. xo, Rachel
