Some friends of ours recently went to Disneyland. They told us the park was limiting the number of daily guests due to virus concerns, and that the wait lines were surprisingly short. It seemed a good time for us to go before we might have to show a passport or special ID to cross the state line, rent a room, or enter a theme park.
So, my wife and I packed some things into the Yukon, made our way to Interstate 5 south, and drove to Disneyland.
Along the way, we spent a night in a treehouse, and a night in a motel down the street from Knotts Berry Farm where my wife worked as a cleaning maid when she was just starting her life of independence after graduating from high school.
One motel we stayed in had the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on, and another had the best pillow ever. I copied info from both, but so far – I can’t find them.
In Anaheim, we drove slowly along Colchester Drive, the street where my wife grew up. She pointed and told the names of the families that lived in each house. We stopped for a moment in front of her childhood home. Her eyes were drinking in the changes and she voiced memories that were coming one after another. She enjoyed some good reminiscing there.
We spent a day at Knotts Berry Farm, Disneyland, California Adventure, Laguna Beach, and Huntington Beach. We also had a delightful, four-hour visit with some long-time friends.
We ended one Disney day exploring the grounds of the Disneyland Hotel. Much has changed since the last time I was there. I found myself fighting back tears when we walked past the location of the worst moment of the worst day of my life so many years ago. I quickly began rehearsing the words in my mind, “No, I don’t think I want to tell you what’s wrong,” in case my wife noticed and asked. I didn’t want her to know what an emotional pussy I am, still reacting to a heartbreak some 50 years ago.
I had been thinking it might be interesting to drive a few more blocks and walk around the swimming pool at the apartment complex on Lemon street where I once loved and lived with a girl, the one that got away, but I realize now that would be a mistake. I can’t do it. This hurts too much.
With time, my mind has come to understand and accept why things happened the way they did, but my heart still hasn’t caught up with that. Understanding doesn’t erase the pain or make the moment any less traumatic. My lovely heart-breaker told no lies and broke no promises. She was just a girl making what she felt was the best decision for her life at that time. As it turned out, it was probably the best for both of us, but it didn’t feel like it. Love can be pure ecstasy, but it can turn around and make you feel like you want to die. All reminiscing is not joy.
When it was time for us to go home and end our vacation, we found our way back to I-5 and headed north. I should have bought stock in Interstate Five long ago, I’ve driven it so many countless times between Salem and Anaheim.
I was eighteen years old when I first drove that thousand miles from Newberg to Anaheim, alone in my blue, fat-tire, 1965 Chevelle. I was off to begin an exciting new life with a beautiful young lady attending college in southern California. How could I be so lucky? I was young and in love, filled with eager anticipation that was increasing more and more through each of the 16 driving hours it took to reach her. I was motoring my way down I-5 to a new life, on my way to experience what would be remembered without question as my best year ever.
Another I-5 trip was with my wife in her red, 1972 MG Midget. It was in the heat of the summer. The MG was blowing hot air on my feet and I couldn’t turn it off. An MG Midget has a valve on the motor much resembling a miniature garden hose connection like the one on the side of your house. There, you can shut off the hot water going from the motor to the cabin heater. I stopped in the shade of an overpass, popped the little red hood, and began closing the burning hot water valve. As it closed, hot coolant began shooting out in several directions. I re-opened the valve and the liquid remained in the system. We continued our trip with the MG deep roasting my feet.
I was shocked the first time I passed the “Panocha Road” sign on I-5, and then, “Little Panocha Road.” I realized my Mexican co-workers at the mobile home factory in Santa Ana must have been kidding when they taught me the meaning of that word. They began by telling me it was a kind of bread.
One marathon I-5 trip was from San Diego to Seattle with my good friend and now ex-brother-in-law, John. We stopped only for food and gas. When we hit a stretch of elevated highway just north of the Sacramento river, my hot-rod Chevelle felt and sounded like a galloping horse. It was a combination of my driving speed, the distance between the big seams in the concrete bridging, and the pressure in the air shocks on the rear of the Chevelle. It was kind of like a grandpa bouncing a kid on his knee a little too vigorously because it’s been a long time since he did that. The car’s rhythmic bouncing was so exaggerated, John and I stopped talking, looked at each other and laughed out loud.
I drove that route again south to north, returning to Oregon in time to report for duty when my lottery number (#4) was summoned and I was drafted into the Army. My life was changing then, sliding quickly from the best to the worst.
I later drove I-5 again, alone, north to south – apprehensive, hopeful, curious, no longer trusting freely. With a heart on the mend, I was anticipating true love, at the same time watching for signs that maybe the relationship wasn’t meant to be.
Now it’s hard to believe how many years have passed since I first drove that thousand miles. Interstate 5 has mapped itself into my life’s chapters, entwining with my life’s journey, and claims some of my personal milestones as its property.
Here I am, sixty-nine years old, traveling that same stretch of pavement again, enjoying another road trip with my wife of 48 years.
Life is good, love is precious, God is eternal and his blessings abound.