Traveling
The drive to the airport was a cleansing process. Feelings of guilt for abandoning the family fell away one by one as eighties music filled the car and took me back to a time with fewer responsibilities. Breakfast at five o’ clock in the terminal was a nasty apple pastry and a large cup of peppermint hot chocolate which woke me up.
I thought about funerals on the flight. This was the first funeral I’d attended of a relative which might make it more meaningful, but Aunt Hildy had been such a stranger that there was no sense of sadness or loss, just regret for a relationship lost. I hoped tears weren’t expected.
I loved going to funerals when they were traditional church services like in the Eastern Orthodox Church, but a memorial service at a Baptist church wouldn’t be formal. Memorial services seemed to be more for the people left behind than a sacrament for the person who had died. Still I liked some Baptist hymns, and attending funerals is a kindness. No one can attend their own funeral, though Aunt Hildy planned hers. Seeing the closure it brings to the dead one’s family and friends meant a lot to me. I envied them because no one ever found Dad’s body. Mom said she had no doubt of his death after seeing the photos the police took of dad’s car, but she never told me what he was mixed up in. She never talked about it, and I was afraid of setting off her depression if I asked. We weren’t Christian back then. There wasn’t a memorial service, and no gravestone marks the place he was buried since there was no body.
Looks like Aunt Hildy wouldn’t have a body either. I want to be buried whole in a cemetery not given to science. The university’s website said they cremate the remains when their done using a body and put the ashes in a designated place to relatives can visit, but I couldn’t see myself showing up there. It wouldn’t feel real.
I shook off the morose thoughts when we landed. First stop was the bathroom. I primped in the mirror after washing my hands. I didn’t have any black shirts, but the dark purple shirt melted neatly into the long flowing black skirt which fell to the floor. It’s the outfit I wear every year for Good Friday. The usual colorful headscarf was replaced with a black snood with a tight headband around my forehead falling away into a bag which ended around my shoulders. I pulled it higher to show off a widow’s peak. I never wear make-up so I splashed my face with water and patted with a paper towel for a fresh clean feeling.
On the walk to the rental car counter, person after person smiled at me, and this trip there was no pity in their eyes. I was not walking through the terminal tied around the waist with six kids, pushing Mom in the airport wheel chair or pushing a stroller full of car seats and diaper bags with a baby strapped to my chest. I was a free woman!
The lady at the rental car desk asked, “What brings you to Portland?”
“A funeral.”
Her chipper smile diminished into a slight frown, “I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked and now I’ll never get the chance. Life is so short.”
“That’s so true. Would you like to buy our prepaid gas plan?”
When I extracted myself from all their sticky offers and found the car it was still early morning Washington time. The drive from Portland up the Columbia River to the Pacific coast was beautiful. The gray skies and walls of evergreens brought back all the good memories of being home again. It had been four years since I went back to Vancouver, Washington where Mom’s family still lived, but I didn’t regret not having enough time to stop. Trips with the kids were planned down to the minute. I looked forward to going where the spirit moved and loved not knowing how the weekend would go.
My stomach rumbled an hour before Oysterville was close, but I checked into the ocean front inn Jazz had suggested before thinking about lunch. The place was almost empty in this off season, and my arrival didn’t wipe the bored look of the check in girl’s face. She gave me Jasmine’s room number without comment.
I knocked on the door, “Jazz?”
She opened it up, screamed, “Lilly!” and enveloped me in a huge hug. “Oh my God! I cannot believe…it is so good to see you! You are so beautiful, but too skinny. Are you eating enough?”
“It’s good to see you too!” I gave her another squeeze and stepped back, relieved she hadn’t noticed the baby weight not lost since giving birth to Justin. My beautiful artsy sister wore a long black lacy shirt hanging over black leggings and black knee high boots. Some red from her tank top showed from beneath and matched the vibrant scarf which set off her long wavy orange hair.
She motioned me in and asked, “Do you have your room? We can share this if you want.”
“No” I declined, “I’ve got my room.” It was a luxury hard to give up.
“Are you sure?” She looked into my tired green eyes and smiled. “Okay. For a person with so many kids, having time alone is probably going to mean a lot to you. I understand.”
“Thanks, Jazz. Hey, I’m starving.”
“Me too. Do you want to call room service or go out to a nice restaurant?”
“Let’s go to a restaurant. I saw a bunch of them in Long Beach. What’s a good place for a vegetarian? I’m fasting from meat and dairy for Lent, but dairy is kind of okay on a trip.”
“How about Captain Brook’s?” she suggested, “It’s warm and cozy. They sell used books and have fish tacos and vegetarian sandwiches.”
“Sounds good. Do they have oysters?”
“Of course, but aren’t oysters meat?”
“Technically they’re okay because they don’t have any backbone. Shall I drive?”
Jazz grabbed her purse, and we walked out into the gray drizzling day.
The drive to the airport was a cleansing process. Feelings of guilt for abandoning the family fell away one by one as eighties music filled the car and took me back to a time with fewer responsibilities. Breakfast at five o’ clock in the terminal was a nasty apple pastry and a large cup of peppermint hot chocolate which woke me up.
I thought about funerals on the flight. This was the first funeral I’d attended of a relative which might make it more meaningful, but Aunt Hildy had been such a stranger that there was no sense of sadness or loss, just regret for a relationship lost. I hoped tears weren’t expected.
I loved going to funerals when they were traditional church services like in the Eastern Orthodox Church, but a memorial service at a Baptist church wouldn’t be formal. Memorial services seemed to be more for the people left behind than a sacrament for the person who had died. Still I liked some Baptist hymns, and attending funerals is a kindness. No one can attend their own funeral, though Aunt Hildy planned hers. Seeing the closure it brings to the dead one’s family and friends meant a lot to me. I envied them because no one ever found Dad’s body. Mom said she had no doubt of his death after seeing the photos the police took of dad’s car, but she never told me what he was mixed up in. She never talked about it, and I was afraid of setting off her depression if I asked. We weren’t Christian back then. There wasn’t a memorial service, and no gravestone marks the place he was buried since there was no body.
Looks like Aunt Hildy wouldn’t have a body either. I want to be buried whole in a cemetery not given to science. The university’s website said they cremate the remains when their done using a body and put the ashes in a designated place to relatives can visit, but I couldn’t see myself showing up there. It wouldn’t feel real.
I shook off the morose thoughts when we landed. First stop was the bathroom. I primped in the mirror after washing my hands. I didn’t have any black shirts, but the dark purple shirt melted neatly into the long flowing black skirt which fell to the floor. It’s the outfit I wear every year for Good Friday. The usual colorful headscarf was replaced with a black snood with a tight headband around my forehead falling away into a bag which ended around my shoulders. I pulled it higher to show off a widow’s peak. I never wear make-up so I splashed my face with water and patted with a paper towel for a fresh clean feeling.
On the walk to the rental car counter, person after person smiled at me, and this trip there was no pity in their eyes. I was not walking through the terminal tied around the waist with six kids, pushing Mom in the airport wheel chair or pushing a stroller full of car seats and diaper bags with a baby strapped to my chest. I was a free woman!
The lady at the rental car desk asked, “What brings you to Portland?”
“A funeral.”
Her chipper smile diminished into a slight frown, “I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked and now I’ll never get the chance. Life is so short.”
“That’s so true. Would you like to buy our prepaid gas plan?”
When I extracted myself from all their sticky offers and found the car it was still early morning Washington time. The drive from Portland up the Columbia River to the Pacific coast was beautiful. The gray skies and walls of evergreens brought back all the good memories of being home again. It had been four years since I went back to Vancouver, Washington where Mom’s family still lived, but I didn’t regret not having enough time to stop. Trips with the kids were planned down to the minute. I looked forward to going where the spirit moved and loved not knowing how the weekend would go.
My stomach rumbled an hour before Oysterville was close, but I checked into the ocean front inn Jazz had suggested before thinking about lunch. The place was almost empty in this off season, and my arrival didn’t wipe the bored look of the check in girl’s face. She gave me Jasmine’s room number without comment.
I knocked on the door, “Jazz?”
She opened it up, screamed, “Lilly!” and enveloped me in a huge hug. “Oh my God! I cannot believe…it is so good to see you! You are so beautiful, but too skinny. Are you eating enough?”
“It’s good to see you too!” I gave her another squeeze and stepped back, relieved she hadn’t noticed the baby weight not lost since giving birth to Justin. My beautiful artsy sister wore a long black lacy shirt hanging over black leggings and black knee high boots. Some red from her tank top showed from beneath and matched the vibrant scarf which set off her long wavy orange hair.
She motioned me in and asked, “Do you have your room? We can share this if you want.”
“No” I declined, “I’ve got my room.” It was a luxury hard to give up.
“Are you sure?” She looked into my tired green eyes and smiled. “Okay. For a person with so many kids, having time alone is probably going to mean a lot to you. I understand.”
“Thanks, Jazz. Hey, I’m starving.”
“Me too. Do you want to call room service or go out to a nice restaurant?”
“Let’s go to a restaurant. I saw a bunch of them in Long Beach. What’s a good place for a vegetarian? I’m fasting from meat and dairy for Lent, but dairy is kind of okay on a trip.”
“How about Captain Brook’s?” she suggested, “It’s warm and cozy. They sell used books and have fish tacos and vegetarian sandwiches.”
“Sounds good. Do they have oysters?”
“Of course, but aren’t oysters meat?”
“Technically they’re okay because they don’t have any backbone. Shall I drive?”
Jazz grabbed her purse, and we walked out into the gray drizzling day.