Eventually (reflections on travel, family, food, and anniversaries).

At approximately 6.30 pm on a late September evening, we embark on a six-hour trek with a half dozen people in a vehicle that perpetually feels too small. Perhaps because it is because it is bursting with joy and big personalities…and coincidentally filled to capacity with the accompanying accessories for each.

It is night and the sunset is beautiful and although we are in a hurry, we are also People of the Road, which means we stop when we want. In this case, at one of our favorite rest stops overlooking the Columbia River. Also, I make everyone listen to Social Distortion’s 1996 anti-ignorance anthem Don’t Drag Me Down, especially verse 3:

Reach out to the promised land
Your history books are full of lies,
Media blitz gonna dry your eyes
You're eighteen wanna be a man

Your granddaddy's in the Ku Klux Klan
Taking two steps forward
And four steps back
Gonna go to the White House
And paint it black
Turn around, they'll try to keep you down

We are a driving duo. Becca and I both drive; trading off turns behind the wheel. The other snoozes awkwardly or helps children out with a variety of needs that require long arms and body contortions to pass back a water thermos or pretzel or just hold a hand. We listen to Roald Dahl’s The BFG. About an hour out, I hit the wall and Becca takes over. We get in shortly after 1am.

Their grandparents - my parents-in-law - greet us with blurry smiles and hugs. Their grandpa pulls out a Costco-size container of peanut butter pretzels. We munch away as the clock pushes toward 2am.

Eventually we head to bed; a single room shared with a small bed, a larger bed, and floor space for sleeping bags. I had a conversation recently with an old friend and something came up about cheap hotels. Wait…he said…your whole family stays in one room?! I looked at him with a grin. Yeah, we make it work. Eventually everyone nods off…

The first day

…and too soon, it’s morning. Too soon, but fortunately we face it together. Literally, physically, I crank my neck around. I can’t move the rest of my body, as most of myself is being slept or kneeled on by various bodies between the ages of three and fifteen. I look for Becca across the sea of bed and somehow find her hand amidst smelly squirming bodies and sweaty sheets. I squeeze it and we smile a normal smile, because we are pretty much the exact pinpoint encyclopedia definition of normal. Finally, after some nifty gymnastics moves and bodies creaking, everyone disembarks and we head downstairs, quietly-ish, and our five-year old begins playing the game Pick Up Sticks, and others starts singing and dancing to Annie songs. Quietly-ish.

My father-in-law requests some assistance from grandchildren carrying something in from their vehicle, and that something turns out to be a photo album. And then another photo album. And then another, and eventually I would estimate there were several dozen of these stacked up in the cabin. Last month marked fifty years of marriage for them, and we are gathering together to honor, celebrate, and observe this mark with them. Their other children will be arriving later.

We head over to my sister-in-law’s restaurant. There is a problem. The problem is this: they are super-busy, which is a good problem to have. But I have to wait just to squeeze in a hug. She is the co-founder, co-owner-, and co-busy bee co-handling all manner of happenings involving food and customers and the variables surrounding. She is in an apron and looks adorable, which is consistent with what I expected. Amidst the bustle, she gets us a couple cups of coffee and sends us off with that and some pastries.

It is difficult to articulate what I have with my niece. This particular niece is twelve years old. She is saucy and strong and hilarious and a maddening wit. I see her rarely anymore, but every time I do see her I dry up the tears that come from not seeing her and throw myself into making the time I do have with her count. What that usually means is a lot of Shakespearean-level insults and verbal posturing and battling over things like who is better at being extremely humble. However, in this case, we are going to see her play in a volleyball match. A secret about me is that I really like volleyball. I am not very skilled at it, although I later lie skillfully to her and tell her I am. We watch as she warms up with her teammates, does the rah-rah thing, and channels an inner Serena Williams intensity to help propel her team to victory. Our youngest boys are disinterested and do various acrobatics on the bleachers before launching themselves, separately, into my lap and Becca’s lap and falling asleep for quick power naps.

After, we head to the track outside. I explain the difficult of the 400-meter race to them. Our five-year old takes off and I doggedly race after him, finally catching him. We come into the finish together. I am wiped out. In high school, I believe the fastest I ran was a high-50 second lap. The world record is in the 43-second range. I estimate now I’m doing about a three-minute version. After I’m rested up, I challenge my niece and all other comers to a 100-meter race. I let them entertain dreams of victory for the first 50 meters, but then accelerate to the finish. I gotta grab my blue ribbons when I can. There won’t be too many more. I casually acknowledge that Usain Bolt is definitely faster than me. It’s a great way to sound modest: state the obvious, but act as if you’re thinking about it before announcing the conclusion. Honestly, Usain Bolt is faster than me, and truthfully, at least eight times out of ten, he would beat me in a sprint. At least eight.

Tense shift

We headed to the cabin to await the others. The waiting included watching the new Pinocchio for some. I was not overly impressed with what I saw, though I count myself a Tom Hanks fan. There was also peanut butter sandwiches and leftover frittata, and I played Chutes and Ladders with the 400-meter opponent I had faced earlier in the day.

I took our two youngest to the lake. We have three boys, but there is a good-sized gap between our two older children and two younger ones, so we’ve gotten in the habit of referring to the Youngers as ‘The Boys.’ It’s also the name of a very funny and very violent anti-superhero series on Amazon. I took The Boys to the lake and we built rock sculptures and threw rocks and picked up old coffee cups to gather treasures in. We had it to ourselves, except for a ranger who came over to chat and tell me how it was his last day of the season before heading back to Silverton, Oregon for the winter. He told me how he loves being here and doesn’t mind picking up garbage, except for on July 5. That’s when people leave all their fireworks spewed out and broken up for others to pick up. He told us to enjoy the quiet and I thanked him for looking after the lake and we said goodbye, and I vowed to be a more aggressive anti-litterer.

The advantage of having a sister-in-law who owns a restaurant is that you get to feel super-cool and be the people eating inside after it’s closed up to everyone else. She and her fellow-owner made a giant anniversary celebration meal, and we waited for the last of the siblings to roll in. I grabbed several kids and we went outside to the curb so we could greet them when they drove in. It’s a little thing. But I think it’s nice to feel waited on and welcomed. As the sun drooped, my brother-in-law pulled in sporting a new white truck; his wife and two girls in the back. I don’t know what kind of truck, I’m not much up on those things. But it was white and looked cool.

Finally we ate, and the wait was worth. They had made a giant bowl of creamy, chunky guacamole, and chips, and salad, and enchiladas…a massive pan of them. We ate heartily, and talked, and ate more, and my sister-in-law laughed and laughed when she saw me squinting to read something and let me borrow some reading glasses, and later I engaged in a good argument with her boyfriend, and we are in severe disagreement on some matters, but it was a respectful discussion and it is not inconsequential to have someone listen and be willing to acknowledge some points here and there, and it covered ground from semi-truck brakes to seat belts, from summary executions for certain heinous crimes to appropriate guidelines for social justice activism. It is a good thing to be able to talk and listen well, and smile and get a selfie when you’re done, and that is what it was, so that was good. Then I ate some more chips.

Later that night, there were no early bedtimes. Our daughter conned her grandmother into massaging her, and eventually people of all ages drifted or clumped off to bed.

The next day

As expected and suspected, all our children were up early. My seven-year old niece was also up and ready to roll, so we hopped her in with us and drove, in the shadow of the mountains, around the lake, and through town to the restaurant. Rachel invested us with coffee and cinnamon buns and a pan of frittata to take back. We took a detour, upon return, to the lake, where Becca and I enjoyed our beverages and played with the kids. No creatures were found, to the disappointment of some, but the beauty of the outdoors is that disappointment can be a short-lived emotion in the right place. We tossed rocks, climbed boulders, and managed not to fall in.

One of my favorite things to do is hang out with Becca, and also I like coffee and cinnamon buns and scenic lakes and mountain ranges and morning fog and the sounds of children in the wild, so the fact that these things converged made my heart happy.

Back at the cabin, all eventually made their way to the communal room, where there was coffee and restaurant food, and I had a meandering discussion on fundamentalism and Jon Krakauer books with my brother-in-law and his wife, my sister-in-law-in-law (SILIL, as I say).

At some point, our 12-year old decided to reinvigorate the ancient sport of arm wrestling, and chose his grandmother as a first opponent. This was a poor choice, as she quickly annihilated him; a surprising-to-him happening that left him respectful, flabbergasted, and looking for an easier opponent. I, along with many, found his definition of ‘easier opponent’ interesting, as he quickly forced his grandfather into battle. He has some arthritis in his arm, our son reasoned. He’ll be a lot easier I think. Events did not transpire as he expected, and our son quickly found his record zero-for-two, despite facing an opponent with an arthritic arm.

The photo albums were slowly perused and commented on, people getting up or passing different ones around to laugh at, admire, and reminisce about hairstyles and happenings. There is something about the physical and visceral that the digital and virtual can never replace. Some children built forts in the loft above that occasionally left detritus falling through the bannister and to the living room below. There were no significant injuries.

What would help make your day extra enjoyable next? Becca and I asked my father-in-law. Well, he said, there’s a hike to a waterfall that people might enjoy.

Would you enjoy? I asked. After a period of time in which no definitive answer was given, I took that as an affirmative, and we began galvanizing a cabin full of ages for a trek into the mountains. A short while later, we maneuvered three of the four vehicles out of the awkward parking area and caravaned a short distance to the trailhead of The Little Alps, the moniker given to the Wallowa Mountains. An appropriate one. The parking was filled with cars trying to catch end-of-summer sun, but we saw relatively few others on the 1.5 mile trail in.

Along the way and back, there were dangerous drop offs, resting deer, peeing in the wild and cool forts and some grumbling here and there, and eventually, the waterfall. And of course, with waterfalls come cameras and posing and selfies and such. And such it was, and on the way back our three-year old conked out sleepy and Becca and I traded off carrying him down the mountain.

Hiking with kids is similar to road-tripping with kids: you plan to stop frequently not because you have to, but because it’s those stops and pauses that make it fun and doable and enjoyable, and Becca and I have spent a decade-and-a-half regularly guiding various groups of ages and personalities and sizes into the wild, and that is the constant: you choose to let the experience guide you, not the final destination.

Most headed back to the cabin for naps and relaxing and such. We left our Youngers with the Olders at my niece’s house (yes, the volleyballer one), and Becca and I headed two minutes away to wash dishes.

Yep, to wash dishes. At the restaurant. They were down some staff and slammed, so we hopped in and spent a marvelous afternoon scrubbing and washing on our…date! Yes, it was a date, and yes it was one of the most relaxing weekend afternoons we’ve had together in years, and yes, my sister-in-law made us iced coffee to sip on as we hustled our way through getting plates, forks, glasses, and eggy-cheesy- pans ready for re-use.

Think they’re okay? We’d ask each other every little bit. I kept checking in, and finally we were done and headed over, and we found them…looking for crickets and playing with a cat outside. I hopped out and demanded that my niece teach me how to play volleyball. I also sneaked a peek at their bookshelves, filled with books old and new, lovingly organized and used, waiting for the next reader to pull them out. Ruth Reichl to L.M. Montgomery, Lemony Snicket to David James Duncan, Dante to a thousand cookbooks and baking books and food books. She is a person of books; my longtime affectionate connection with her does not possess this small fact as coincidence.

I also took a couple shots of my oldest son and my niece. They sneered and frowned and postured and held an old volleyball. Both 12, though she’s got half a year on him. I’ve been taking pictures of them since they were born. I love to see the ways they’ve stayed connected, and I just love the personalities they have built for themselves. Personalities filled with verve and life and intelligence and curiosity and pizzaz and love. So I took a picture of them, and even when they’re trying to look silly, they still look cool. And adorable.

On our way through town, the gas light came on, so we stopped for $30 at the station. An old station, the kind with no digital readouts, the kind where the attendant comes out munching candy bar or sandwich and has to take your credit card back inside to run it.

We headed to the park, a park where we eventually ended up with eight children in our possession. I pleaded with my niece (the volleyballer one) to teach me how to serve; she cheerfully assented, and I cheerfully practiced, until abandoning her and my daughter to join my son playing basketball by himself. I made the mistake of offering up a bit of advice on shooting, and he reminded me that:

“Basketball isn’t really one of my top sports. When it comes to sports, I’ll probably primarily stick with chess and guitar.”

But we had a great time, and he made some nifty shots. Eventually I left him to hop on a merry-go-round with some wild childs, and do some swinging with some acrobats, and slide some slides with my two-year old niece.

Honestly, one of my favorite portions was watching my oldest son walk around with his 2-year old cousin, alternately holding her in his arms, and holding her hand as they walked from one swing to the next and tested them out. Once, her shoe fell off, and he bent down and carefully helped get it back on; her hand steadying himself on his shoulder, her little blonde pigtails poking out.

Eventually we migrated to the restaurant, where more food awaited. Rachel served up drinks in her engineer overalls, and sneaked her five-year old nephew some baked delicacy back in the kitchen. Salad, a casserole, buttered crisp French bread provided the sensory gifts for the night. I yelled at some children to let their grandparents go through line first.

One of the things that’s a bigger and bigger deal to me is giving respect and deference to the meaning of something. In other words, if you’re together to honor someone or something happening, try to at least keep circling back around to what that reason is and provide it a center spot of attention, at least to return to. We hear some stories about first dates and first meals and asking out other guys’ girlfriends who eventually become your wife.

Our youngest son ate and disappeared into the night outside to ride a tricycle. Shortly thereafter, he put on an impromptu performance of It’s the Hard Knock Life on a retro table outside, complete with washing and scrubbing with a pail and sponge.

Tense and location shift

At the cabin, Becca and I play board and card games with eight children. Their grandmother joins in, and their grandfather provides an audience of one. Others remain at the restaurant. A 2-year old clambers all over me, and I tease her, and she takes turns snuggling with me and her grandma, accompanied by her stuffed Sleepy Dog animal.

The other adults return around 10pm and the remainder of the night begins. Beverages, candy, and races rounds of Apples to Apples. Rachel, clad in blue flannel, plays Chutes and Ladders with our 5-year old on the floor. My father-in-law cracks a political joke. I mumble something about reading the room. I banter with my volleyballer niece.

Amazingly, most kids are in bed by midnight.

The children are up early. My 7-yo niece shares one of her favorite cartoons, something on Netflix about a mermaid..I think? Then we watch some Pixar shorts, including the classic Lava. Becca slices up fresh pears and peaches. My oldest son arm wrestles his grandmother again. The song remains the same.

I riffle through a copy of Carl Sagan’s The Demon Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark that my brother-in-law is reading. We previously spoke of our interest in The Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe. I haven’t listened to their podcast, but have read their book and have used it as a guide for instructing our Older children in logic and debate over the last year. It’s interesting, because I am also a person of faith, albeit a skeptic, and these works are not intended to solidify a belief in the supernatural. Yet I find them important, relevant, and instrumental in assisting with my understanding of the world and the lenses through which I try to understand the meaning of life and existence. Then I instruct two children on how to properly fold a large blanket as we clean up the cabin before departure.

Time jump to restaurant

It’s Sunday and it’s hopping. The sun’s out, people eat eggs and drink coffee, and our two older kids, plus Volleyballer Niece start walking into town to check out the shops. Their exit is not discrete or swift enough to evade the interest of younger cousins; others race to join, and within minutes Becca and I find ourselves leading a brigade of children, ages three to nine, down the sidewalks; sidewalks adorned with flowers and statues and thrift shop finds. My 9-year old nephew finishes his soda and somehow rips open the can; I gently make a mandatory suggestion that the can, in its now eviscerated state, is no longer recycling-ready, or in a state for tender young hands to avoid being ripped open by, so we sadly say goodbye to it.

Becca holds hands with two boys in the crosswalk. This site never gets old for me.

We stop on a small footbridge overlooking a small creek; a meandering snake of water that slices around from adjacent fields, covered by drooping trees and tall grasses on each side. My nephew sticks his legs through the fence and balances carefully, watching the current carry leaves and pinecones downstream.

This is so peaceful and quiet, he murmurs.

I join him, and several others do, but then they’re ready to move on. I stay with my nephew, just us, for another twenty minutes, and we talk about water, occasionally tossing gold leaves in to see which path they choose, or is chosen for them by the fates of physics. It is a quiet time, a peaceful time, a time I will remember and treasure with him.

My father-in-law is at the restaurant doing dishes. He is wearing an apron. I take a picture of him while his back is turned. I’ll share it with him someday.

I take a picture of my daughter and my sister-in-law; two entrepreneurs.

Then I take some more combinations of pictures. My wife and sister-in-law. My mother-in-law and her daughter and granddaughter. A selfie of me and my sil. I hug her and we say goodbye.

We’re in the car, and I look over at Becca. She has tears coming down. I look up, from the driver’s seat, at my sister-in-law, who also has tears coming down. I hop out and go give her a second and enormous farewell embrace. Then I do something momentous and sacrificial…

…I let Becca get in the last goodbye and the last hug. They squeeze each other again, two sisters with great love and affection across the mountains and across the states and across time, and I am sad that they, that we are parting. But I am happy to have people who love you so much that they’re sad when you’re gone.

And vice versa.

We drive through wheat fields and by rivers, we split across small towns with Trump signs and cute shops. The kids all fall asleep quickly. Becca and I share a hot coffee and an iced, courtesy of our favorite restauranteur.

We stop in a small-ish medium town for Taco Bell and cold drinks from Grocery Outlet. We eat them in our favorite eating spot here: the parking lot. The boys keep dumping ever-hotter sauce on their burritos and fiesta-style soft potato tacos.

We’re back in the car. Our daughter reads The War of Art and leans against a Johnny Depp pillowcase that Becca’s had for a couple decades. Our son next to her looks out the window and dreams, watches, observes, and quietly drifts in and out of light napping. The boys in the far back sleep for a bit. Eventually we come to a splash pad, a favorite summer stop. We are in a hurry, but we are People of the Road, which means we stop when we want. So we do. We run through water, and two boys entangle themselves in an old soccer goalpost’s netting.

We stop for gas at 6.01. I look at the hundreds of windmills in the distance, lining the fields like sentinels.

We make one more pause. Our favorite rest stop. The light is dropping. I sit with a full-diapered young boy on my lap, overlooking the Columbia, as he explains to me how he would like to go swimming, and how we could make our car waterproof, or maybe even make it fly if it had wings. He goes into detail describing how he’ll design some wings with cardboard and scissors and tape when we get home. I wonder how much his recent viewing experience of the classic Dean Jones/Don Knotts film Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo had to do with this brain burst of an idea.

I change the diaper, we bid adieu to the grandparents, who had caught up with us, and we hit the road again for the final hour-and-change push.

At 8.39pm, we pull in, and there are cats happy to see us. We are happy to see them, we are happy to be home, and we are happy for good memories with good people.

And happy for good times ahead. Much love.