A Journey of Words

Daddy’s Boy-1

Daddy’s BoyMarlon S. Hayes

For years, my dad had daydreamed aloud about taking a cross country trip. A trip with no time constraints, no rush, just leisurely meandering across the country. A trip where he could see all of the places he’d read about or seen on TV. Of course, working as much as he had over the years, he’d never had the money or the time. Well, now he had plenty of time, and I had the money.

I’d cleared a month from my job in order to take my dad on this trip. I used a month as sort of a timetable, but I didn’t know whether I’d adhere strictly to it. This was my dad’s dream trip, and it has sort of become mine as well. For as long as I can remember, he’d spoken about seeing the American West, or visiting the Crossroads. I’d mapped our trip out and technically, it shouldn’t take a whole month. However, I wasn’t going to rush through any of it, because it had never been envisioned as a rush job.

I’m in my mid-forties, and recently divorced from my wife of fifteen years. We just stopped talking to each other at some point, and when we did talk, we argued. It got to the point where our angry silences became the norm.

Eventually, we both agreed life is too short to remain miserable. It’s funny, but we’re much more amicable now we’re divorced. There were no bitter disputes over property or money, because anything we had, we built together. Half of everything was just and fair in the settlement. Our two boys are thirteen and eleven, and they’ve adjusted pretty well to the divorce. Or at least it seems like it to me. I’d hate for our divorce to be the tipping point in their lives. I didn’t want my kids telling a therapist in the future about how the divorce ruined their lives.

Whenever I prepare for a road trip, I follow my checklist. I pack my clothes, at least three pairs of shoes, a Rand-McNally road map, a cooler, caffeinated drinks, and plenty of sunflower seeds. After I ran down my checklist, I mapped out our entire trip. We were leaving Chicago going west, and my circular route would have me back in Chicago when the trip was done.

At 3 A.M. on a Saturday morning, I pulled out of my driveway. Ten minutes later, I was pulling into my parents’ driveway. My mom had packed some snacks for the road, and she had made sure my dad was ready to go. She knew how momentous this trip was for us, and she appreciated my effort. I helped Dad into the car, then I went back and hugged my mom tightly and fiercely. She had tears in her eyes as we drove away.

Leaving the city at this time of the morning makes you appreciate the beauty of the city. Not very much traffic at all, and driving towards and through downtown is an experience in itself. The Chicago skyline is probably the prettiest skyline in the world. At least as far as I was concerned. I soaked in the city lights because I knew I wouldn’t see anything comparable for quite a while. The locales we would be driving to didn’t have skyscrapers or lights. I drove towards the big airport, a comfortable silence in the car. The radio station was playing smooth R&B, and we’d listen to this mood music until we were out of range of Chicago’s airwaves.

Interstate 90 West becomes somewhat rural about twenty miles west of O’Hare Airport. The bright lights disappear, replaced by corn fields and trees. I started a conversation with my dad, just to engage in conversation.

“Dad, I’m a little bit envious of you and Mom’s marriage. Forty-six years. I recognize how unique you all are. Especially when you consider I couldn’t even make it to twenty. I know there’s a lot of things I could have done better, but it goes both ways. I probably should have focused on her more, and concentrated on my job less. It seems like we stopped having special moments, and just existed together. Fun times seemed to have dissipated, whereas rough times seemed to expand. We focused on the kids and our careers and forgot about each other,” I said. “I guess Mom is one of a kind, and maybe I’ll try again one day.”

My dad just listened as I vented. No comforting words, no sage advice. I think he gave me exactly what I needed, someone to listen to me objectively. I went on in this vein, talking about the dissolution of my marriage. I told my dad how my ex-wife and I were better friends now than we’d ever been before. Somehow, coparenting had eased any lingering bitterness that we had. I’d even called her to tell her about my dad and I finally making this trip. Time and distance helps to heal all wounds.

With the sun coming up, I stopped for breakfast at a truck stop at the Wisconsin border. I refueled the car, and grabbed a couple of sandwiches to go. I calculated how many hours I had to drive today, then tomorrow we’d go scratch an item off of my dad’s bucket list. It was thirteen hours to our first destination, so I’d shut it down around six. I’d already booked us a hotel room for two nights, so we’d be relaxed for the next leg of the trip.

Once we had lost the Chicago stations, I put on a musical playlist featuring Motown and other hits from the 1960s. It was my dad’s favorite music, and I let the sounds of Motown move us on down the road. Wisconsin greeted us, and I decided to just let my dad relax. He wasn’t on this trip to help me drive, but just to motivate me. I glanced over at him a few times, just to make sure he was relaxing comfortably.

I know there are people who shake their heads dismissively at my Suburban, but it holds a lot of gasoline. I’d pulled out of my driveway with a quarter of a tank, and I’d filled it up at Rockford. I wouldn’t have to fill it up again until we left the first destination. Keep those economic, fuel sipping clown cars, and I’ll keep this beast of a truck I love.

Driving through Wisconsin and then Minnesota, I reminisced with my dad about all of the wonderful road trips we had taken when I was a kid. We’d went to Disney World when I was about eleven years old. At eleven, you feel as if you’re too old for kiddie-themed places, but I admitted to my dad I’d been mesmerized. Mickey and the castle were all I could talk about for weeks afterwards. I confessed to my dad I felt a little guilty about not taking my own sons. Disney World would be my next road trip I decided. I’d take my sons over the hills, and through the mountains to get to Orlando. I needed to start building happier moments with them before it got too late.

My dad and I talked of all the roadside restaurants which used to dot the highway when I was a youth. They seemed to have all disappeared, replaced by the golden arches, and similar fast food joints. The closest you could come to one of those restaurants was a truck stop. So, we decided to have a late lunch at a truck stop in western Minnesota.

I got us settled at a table and I looked around at the truckers milling about. I listened intently to their conversations about their loads, the highways, different mountains they’d had to drive, and it was interesting and intriguing to hear them talking. I had a realization then, which was a real eye opener. I told my dad I’d just realized that everything in the world comes off of a truck. From the food we eat, the clothes we wear, our beverages, our electronics, cars, everything. I developed a new respect for these captains of the highway.

After our lunch, we got back in the car. I was feeling a little sleepy, so I put on classic rock music, in order to rejuvenate myself. My dad was comfortable, and I grooved to the clashing of drums and the guitar riffs. Nothing like rock ‘n’ roll to keep the wheels rolling. Just a couple of more hours driving, and we’d stop for the night. I was tired, but I was the only driver on this trip. My dad’s driving days were over.

Mount Rushmore is probably on the bucket list of most Americans. I think it’s a must to see the beauty and creativity it represents. My dad had never been on a road trip to the American West, and this was my gift to him, as well as to myself. He’d waited his whole life for this trip, and I was grateful I could do this with him.

I’d made the hotel reservations for our accommodations for this whole trip, which was one less thing I’d have to worry about. Once we checked into our room, I was so worn out I went to sleep as soon as I lay down on the bed. My dad was settled comfortably in front of the television, and a fishing show was airing, which was right up his alley.

I woke up a couple of hours later, the television still droning on. Since I could see Dad was resting comfortably, I decided to head to the bar next to the hotel for a couple of beers and some snacks. I wouldn’t drink too many beers, I was mostly looking for a break from reality for a little while. Drinking to pass time as opposed to imbibing to get drunk. There’s a subtle difference.

Country music, cowboy boots, and happiness. So, I might not be a fan of country music, but I’m a true believer in a good story. Country music talks about whiskey, breakups, and hound dogs, stories which have meaning for everyone. I settled at the bar with a beer and a whiskey, thinking deeply about my relationship with Dad.

When I was a little boy, Dad was my hero and my buddy. But by the time I started playing Little League, our relationship had changed. I didn’t find out until I was older what had happened to change our relationship. Dad had always been a smart, hardworking man, sometimes working two or more jobs.

Then, like so many of his generation, he got caught up in the cocaine explosion of the ’80s. I remember him being in and out of our lives for about seven years. Our quality of life suffered, forcing us into an unwanted reality. We went from having a home of our own, to renting a two-bedroom apartment for my mother and my younger brother. Dad wasn’t allowed in the house when my mother wasn’t there, because he’d stolen from our house before. I’d walk past my father in the streets and pretend not to see him. I wondered then if he’d even recognized my shame. Those were sad times for my family.

By the time my father got himself cleaned up completely, I was a sophomore in college. My mother had never divorced him or dated another man, and he managed to convince her of his sincerity in being clean and sober. He’d dipped in and out of our lives for years, sober for a while, then he’d relapse. When he’d relapse, he’d usually take some of our items with him. My mother gave him the chance to get himself together, and he finally did. We lost all of those years, and never really got them back.

Sitting in this bar, I’m thinking how we never really talked about the time of his drug addiction. At least not in depth. He’d only ever broken down about it in front of me once. The one time he’d cried about his addiction was more than enough for me. Some things are better left buried.

I swallowed the last dregs of my beer, which was basically warm backwash. I knew taking my father to Mount Rushmore the next day would be hectic, with all of the climbing and walking. I knew I needed to get a good night’s rest.

I slept a good eight hours of almost dreamless sleep. I said almost, because there was one dream which had been quite vivid. In the dream, my dad was attempting to tell me something important. He’d been so far away from me in the dream, I couldn’t hear what he was shouting. He’d been on one side of a deep chasm, and I on the other side. It was weird, but I guess I’ll figure out the meaning eventually. The meaning was probably something quite simple.

I showered, dressed, got my dad ready to go, and off we went. Breakfast to go from a fast food joint, and then I drove to Mount Rushmore National Memorial. It was even more awe inspiring than I could have dreamed. This is not an advertisement, by the way, so I’m not going into too many details. All I will say is that you should try to see it in all of its magnificence one day.