Life & Family
By Jamie Thompson
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 losing his father, it reflects on unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. Though I don’t hear it often, its lyrics resonate in my mind long after the music fades, igniting a deep yearning to hold my parents, who are several states away.
Each year, my child and I spend a month in Indiana with them. My sister brings her family, and we swim, visit Lake Michigan, and share meals on the screened-in porch. This porch and the house have been unchanged since I was three, and stepping inside fills me with love and acceptance. The soundtrack of my childhood plays in my head during our stay.
This summer was different – filled with uncertainty, and flying was off the table, especially with my parents now in their 70s. I asked them if they still wanted us to visit. Their enthusiastic response was a resounding yes. We discussed safety measures and assured them we had been cautious for months. The only question remaining was whether I could manage a 19-hour drive from Texas to Indiana with my son in just two days; we were determined to make it work.
My grandfather was born in 1898, a fact that seems unbelievable even to me. He was 45 when my dad was born and 72 when I entered the world. Throughout his lifetime, he witnessed the Spanish Flu, the Great Depression, both World Wars, the Civil Rights Movement, and the Cold War. He grew up on a farm, the son of Dutch immigrants who sought a new beginning in New Jersey.
I saw my grandparents only once or twice a year, and I fondly remember Grandpa’s warm laughter, his usual attire, and the roll of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers he always had in his pocket. We played cards, rarely asking him questions because, as kids, we were often self-absorbed. Mortality wasn’t on our minds until my grandparents passed when I was 16. After their departure, I regretted not asking more questions and wished for more time with them. I didn’t want my child to face the same regrets.
So, we folded down the seats and packed the minivan with everything we needed, including a portable potty. I was determined to minimize exposure, especially during those early quarantine days. You wouldn’t believe the number of stuffed animals we took! When flying, we had to pack lightly; in the van, it felt like a toy store exploded inside. My 10-year-old kept busy with his Nintendo Classic and iPad, while I frequently called for breaks to read, play with toys, or just look at the scenery.
I realized a few years back that the journey is a significant part of any vacation. It’s not about reaching the destination quickly but savoring the experiences along the way – discovering new sights and learning geography. We chatted about gaming, politics, movies, and even stopped at Dinosaur World in Kentucky on our way home.
As the signs for Elkhart appeared, we cheered, not only because we were almost done driving but because we were nearing the warm embrace of family.
Despite restrictions, we managed to visit our favorite spots. There was no 4-H fair this year, but we enjoyed blueberry picking. Unable to dine inside at Redamak’s, our cherished Lake Michigan burger joint, my sister and I set up a picnic in the back of the van. We adapted and had a blast.
We are lucky to have the resources and time to make this summer trip possible and grateful for our health. All the planning and precautions paid off. Nothing compares to a hug from Mom and Dad.
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In summary, the 19-hour journey to reunite with my parents was about more than just the destination; it was about cherishing time with family and creating lasting memories together.
Keyphrase: 19-hour drive to hug parents
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