There’s a poignant song from 1988 titled “The Living Years” by Mike + The Mechanics that tugs at my heartstrings every time I hear it. Written from a son’s perspective after the death of his father, it reflects on the things left unsaid and unresolved conflicts. Though I don’t hear it often anymore, the lyrics echo in my mind long after the music fades, igniting a deep desire to hug my parents, who live several states away.
Every summer, my son and I spend a month in Indiana with them, joined by my sister and her family. We swim, visit Lake Michigan, and share meals on the screened-in porch—a place filled with memories, as it has been my family’s gathering spot since I was three. Walking through that door, I’m enveloped by love and understanding, and the soundtrack of my childhood plays in my mind throughout our stay.
This summer was different, however—uncertainty loomed, and flying was out of the question, especially with my parents now in their 70s. I asked if they still wanted us to visit, and they eagerly affirmed. After discussing safety measures, and knowing we had been cautious for months—no indoor dining, flights, or gatherings—the only question left was whether I could manage to drive a Chrysler Pacifica 19 hours from Texas to Indiana with my son in just two days. We were determined to make it work.
My grandfather was born in 1898, which feels surreal even to me. He was 45 when my dad came into the world and 72 when I was born. Throughout his life, he witnessed the Spanish Flu, the Great Depression, two World Wars, the Civil Rights Movement, and the Cold War. He grew up on a farm, the son of Dutch immigrants who journeyed to New Jersey for a new beginning.
I saw my grandparents only once or twice a year, and I remember my grandpa’s warm laughter, his typical attire of button-down shirts and dress shoes, and the Pep-O-Mint Life Savers he always carried. We played cards, seldom probing him with questions, as most kids do at that age. It wasn’t until their passing, when I was 16, that I realized how much I wished I had asked them. I wanted to avoid that regret for my son.
So, we folded down the minivan seats and packed everything we needed, including a portable potty. I didn’t want to risk stopping at gas stations or truck stops—those were still the early days of quarantine. The vehicle looked like a toy store exploded inside. When we fly, we have to be economical, but in the van, it was a plush paradise for my 10-year-old, who entertained himself with games on his Nintendo classic and iPad. I kept an eye on the clock and called for breaks—time to read, play with toys, or just gaze out the window at America.
A few years ago, I learned that the journey itself is an essential part of a vacation. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the experiences along the way. We marveled at new sights, discussed geography, and shared thoughts on gaming, politics, movies, and music. We even stopped at Dinosaur World in Kentucky on our way home.
As we neared Elkhart, cheers erupted in the car—not just because the drive was almost over, but because we were close to family.
Adhering to safety guidelines, we still enjoyed some of our favorite local activities. Though there was no 4-H fair, we picked blueberries. Unable to dine inside our favorite burger joint, Redamak’s, my sister and I improvised a delightful picnic in the van. We adapted to the circumstances and had a wonderful time.
We feel fortunate to have the resources and time for this summer trip, and we are grateful for our health. Every bit of planning and caution paid off—there’s nothing quite like a hug from Mom and Dad.
This article was originally published on November 6, 2020.
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Summary:
In an era of uncertainty, a mother embarks on a 19-hour road trip with her son to visit her aging parents. Reflecting on her childhood and the importance of family, she shares the joys and challenges of adapting to new safety protocols while creating cherished memories. The journey reinforces the value of connection and love, culminating in the much-anticipated embrace of her parents.