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Driving East

I will wake up tomorrow morning, on Father’s Day, alone in Cheyenne without my family. I say this matter-of-factly. Designated days have only a light hold on me. An unexpected business trip that means being gone on Father’s Day? No problem. I'm not much for ceremony. More than once we have marked Father’s Day by splurging for a hotdog at Costco while filling up the minivan on a road trip. (Surely, Cheyenne has a Costco.)

If I wake up emotional tomorrow morning, it's not because I'm alone on Father’s Day. It will be because of the cocktail of emotions I drank today.

——



Driving across Wyoming was beautiful. Everything below the horizon looked groomed and green. The grass, the hills. the forests. A sea of green dusted with flecks of distant snowfields and antelope. (So many antelope.) Above the horizon, wild white and stormy black scratched across brilliant blue.

The kind of sea and sky that softens your heart and tricks your mind. 

I pulled off the highway at Little America for a break from driving. The warm air and sunshine were perfect. The thought came suddenly. "I should text a picture of this to my dad." Then the tears came. I have longed to talk with my father nearly every day since he passed thirteen years ago. For a brief moment it felt possible. It pierced me with joy and sadness.

The two of us had been there before, long ago. It was late at night. Dark. Windy. Cold. He was driving the moving truck. I was driving my car. We were already behind schedule on our very first day moving from Provo to New Haven. It wasn't our fault. Thelma (who would fly to our new home days later with Braeden) had rented both a truck and car trailer. Only the trailer wasn't available when we went to pick it up. It set us back hours working with the rental company to track down a trailer in those days before the internet and online reservation systems. They eventually found one we could use... in Nebraska. So, we set out and made it as far as Little America where we succumbed to exhaustion. 

That began a cycle of driving late into the night, looking for a hotel with a vacancy, sleeping until late morning, then starting it all over again. That week of long days and late nights is one of the best experiences of my life.

For that brief moment, I thought I could just text a picture to my dad as if to say, "I wish you were here. It's not dark. Life is great." 

And I do wish that. And I do believe that.

——

When I called Thelma this evening I could tell that she had been good crying. She's been going through a box of pictures and other keepsakes that belonged to her Grandma Dahl. She shared how emotional it has made her feel as she thinks about the legacy she has inherited. How even now when all four of her grandparents have passed she can hear the advice they would give in her present trials. She says she feels undeserving, but I have to think she's earned her inheritance, at least in part, by trying to honor her grandparents and share their values. 

Some of the pictures show the devastation left behind when Thelma's grandparents' house burned to the ground. You can see forlorn family members standing in the rubble of bricks and broken artifacts. Other pictures show smiling faces gathered outside the new home or in the new kitchen. It humbles me to think we are now the stewards of that spot. They chose to build again. Now we get to build upon.

And so, here I go every day trying to build upon what my parents, and Thelma, and others have given me. My mom, an active example of caring for those around her. Visiting those in need. Connecting with and bringing love to people who are carrying great sorrows. Being involved in the lives of her grandchildren and great-grandchild no matter the distance. Helping them feel part of a legacy.

My dad, still in my thoughts. Still the measuring stick and motivation for so many things I do. Still in my future.

Thelma, the love of my life. There is no one I know who works harder. Who creates more beauty in the world around her. Who is more loyal to her family. Who belongs among the wildflowers.

——

The quality of light is different when you drive east. The night doesn't sneak up on you. You point yourself toward the sunrise and you drive through it.
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Comments

Mark Dahl said…
I love this, Adam. You write so beautifully. I sure know how you feel missing your dad. I have missed mine for a long time also. I know it is hard.
June 19, 2023 at 8:05 AM
Olivia Cobian said…
I love this post, Adam.
June 28, 2023 at 9:14 AM
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