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. Told from the perspective of a son reflecting on his father’s passing, the lyrics express regret over unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. Although I don’t hear it often, the melody lingers in my mind, igniting a deep yearning to hug my parents, who live several states away.
Each year, my son and I spend a month visiting them in Indiana. My sister also brings her family, and together we enjoy swimming, visiting Lake Michigan, and sharing meals on the screened-in porch of the house that has been home since I was three. Every time I step inside, a wave of love, acceptance, and nostalgia washes over me, as the soundtrack of my childhood plays in my head.
This summer was different – uncertainty loomed, and flying felt risky, especially now that my parents are in their 70s. I asked if they still wanted us to come, and they enthusiastically affirmed. We had discussed safety measures, and they knew we had been cautious for months, avoiding indoor restaurants, flights, and gatherings. The only remaining question was whether I could handle a 19-hour drive from Texas to Indiana with my son in just two days; we were eager to give it a go.
My grandfather, born in 1898, witnessed immense historical events, from the Spanish Flu to the Civil Rights Movement. He grew up on a farm as the child of Dutch immigrants who settled in New Jersey. I remember my grandparents fondly, though I only saw them once or twice a year. Grandpa’s laughter and his signature outfit of slacks, a button-down shirt, and dress shoes are etched in my memory. We played cards, but I often regret not asking him more questions while I had the chance. I didn’t want my son to experience that same regret.
So, we folded down the minivan seats and packed everything we might need, including a portable potty. I was determined to avoid gas stations and truck stops, even during the early days of quarantine. You wouldn’t believe how many stuffed animals filled the car! When we fly, we have to be strategic about packing; in the van, it felt like a toy store on wheels. My 10-year-old entertained himself with games on his Nintendo and iPad, while I kept an eye on the time, calling for reading breaks or simply moments to gaze out the window at America.
A few years ago, I realized that the journey itself is a crucial part of any vacation. It’s not just about reaching your destination quickly; it’s about the experiences along the way. We discussed everything from gaming to politics, movies, and amusing road signs. We even made a spontaneous stop at Dinosaur World off an exit in Kentucky on the return trip.
As the signs for Elkhart appeared, we cheered—not just because our drive was nearly over, but because we were moments away from family hugs. Adhering to safety protocols, we still managed to visit some of our favorite spots. While there was no 4-H fair, we picked blueberries, and we couldn’t dine inside our favorite Lake Michigan burger joint, Redamak’s, so my sister and I set up a picnic in the minivan. We adapted and had a fantastic time.
We were fortunate to have the resources and time to make this happen. We are grateful for our health. All the planning and caution paid off. Nothing compares to a hug from Mom and Dad.
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In summary, the journey to visit my parents was not just a drive; it was an experience filled with memories and lessons. It reinforced the importance of family and the lengths one will go to cherish those bonds.