My mother, Doris, grew up in the Tacoma area of Washington. My dad met her there while he was stationed nearby toward the end of World War II. After they married and he was discharged from the service, he brought her to Medford, Oregon, where he had grown up. I was born very soon after.
They kept having children until there were five of us. I came first, followed by Allen about a year and a half later. After a gap, Doug was born in 1952, Curt in 1953, and Karen in 1954.
Mom’s family still lived in the Seattle area, and I remember only a time or two when we made what felt then like a long drive to visit Grandma and Art, our step-grandfather, along with our aunts and uncles. One of my clearest memories from those trips was the emotion that came when it was time to say goodbye. Tears flowed, and Mom cried for the first few miles of the trip back to Medford. I’m quite sure that her sisters were doing the same for a while after watching us leave. The distance may not seem great by today’s standards, but I’m sure Mom and her sisters wondered whether they would ever see each other again.
We experienced a similar kind of goodbye earlier in June, as we came home from Oregon after visiting most of Allen’s kids. As we made our way toward our rented car and began saying goodbye, there were emotional hugs and kisses, accompanied by tears.
Then, as we started the drive back to Portland for our flight home to Southern California, we headed down the hill from Cindy’s house and heard a loud chorus of “I love you” from Allen’s kids. Of course, we returned the gesture, calling, “We love you,” right back as we slowed but had to continue down the hill.
It reminded me so much of our childhood departures from Washington after visits with Grandma, Aunt Muggsy, and Aunt May.
While I grew up in Westminster, my mom’s mom lived in Portland. We went for one major holiday a year + I flew (starting at 4 years old alone) during summers to stay with grandma. Mom did the whole– tears for several miles down the highway. I was sad, but with her upset I didn’t usually let it show. But on flights back to LA, I would cry much of the 2 hour trip home.
Goodbyes are hard! I was sitting in Arizona visiting with my son Vincent, his family and Grace, who recently moved to Arizona, anticipating my goodbye to them. Goodbyes are hard because you reminisce of what it was like when you were a part of their everyday life and dream of the sweetness of what it could be like to be a part of that everyday life now.
Grace just moved in June. That goodbye was one of the hardest things that my body and mind went through. Now when I say hardest things, I’m not comparing it to an accident or death…well maybe I am in a way. I describe it as my heart wailing. It was a kind of separation like I’ve never felt before, even though I have two other kids that left the house. Those were both different situations, different times, like children having the same parent but the parent was different…you know what I mean. The separation was so strong it felt like someone was pulling my heart out, so intense not like anything I had ever felt, but I leaned in and let my body wail, it had to be. There was only one way through it and that was to live it with my eyes wide open, and my heart fully exposed. I let my body go through those emotions, the cutting of the umbilical cord, so to speak. I didn’t try to trap them down, medicate the unbelievable torment, I lived it, sang through it, cried with it. So when I said my goodbyes for this trip, I was a totally different person than in June. I had grown and so had she. For as much as I needed to travel through that experience so did she.
I remember trips with Mom to Wapato to see Grandma and Grandpa (Art) with my age difference Art was the only Grandpa I knew….so he was Grandpa to me. I remember the Giggles that Mom would get with Aunt Muggsy and Grandma, I remember the seller with all their canning, I remember walking their gravel driveway and hearing the rocks crunch beneath my feet. This is why I have gravel in areas of my yard. I love the sound and the feel on my bare feet. Remembering those summer days on vacation in Wapato.
Oh, and there were always the tears when it was time to leave.