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“A glacier is a big hunk of snow,” Valencia told me.
We lived in Wisconsin where there was snow all the time. I couldn’t understand why we would want to see more snow in June when it was finally all gone, but I wasn’t about to argue as long as everyone seemed to be
having a good time.
My dad kept his word and took roll after roll of film. Stupid pictures that made my mother angry. “Stop taking pictures of the car, Roger. It costs money to develop those.” Everyone was concerned about money in the 80’s. But for once he ignored her nagging and the camera kept snapping away, freezing my brother in a goofy cowboy hat and my sister in her favorite tangerine sundress. There were pictures of my mother taken by the fire after we kids had gone to sleep, her face less tight than usual, dark, barely visible against the lapping orange flames.
“Say cheeseburger!” was his catchphrase on that trip. We all said cheeseburger a thousand times it seemed.
“Van inherited your dorkiness,” Valencia told him when Van put on a filthy pirate style eye patch he’d had the good fortune to find on the floor of a truck stop bathroom in Bismarck. My dad beamed when he heard this and my mom bristled silently in her seat.
We pulled over again and again. Every hill of wild flowers and every mountain was a notable backdrop. Any memory was worth saving.
“Let’s get one by this historical marker. You too, Patricia. Take your ponytail out. You look real nice. Van, ask those Japs to take a picture of all of us. No, no, keep your eye patch on. It’s funny.”
I inherited just his desperation. He was trying to capture my mother but did not know we were all slipping away.
When he got home he took the film to a store downtown that only developed pictures and sold film. I don’t know if they even make stores like that anymore. He got twenty-five of the photos turned into big, matted eyesores in rustic wood frames. These frames were so rustic that they could not be dusted without the duster getting a sliver. He hung them throughout the living room, dining room, hallways, even one in the first floor powder room. Unlike the other ladies I knew, Mom was never much on decorating and our house really showed it.
Their house is still caught in 1986 because of all those pictures. Despite my mother’s penchant for removing the past, those photos remain.
Then one vacation wasn’t enough and we had to take two more. My dad said he wanted to get our money’s worth out of the air mattress he had bought. We went to Chicago and to Phoenix, Arizona, that summer too, but the mood had already shifted. He did not play the Patricia tape, and when I try to remember those trips, it seems we all just silently read books or listened to headphones while he drove. I cannot remember those trips nearly as well because there are not endless photos to remind me.
Chapter 11
“Happy Saint Patty’s Day,” said Adrian, setting a glass of Guinness in the middle of the magazine I was looking at.
I took a sip. “Thanks. Are we going out tonight?”
“Sure,” he said, sitting down beside me at Alexa’s kitchen table. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“I can’t think of any reason not to, but let’s not stay out too late.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think I need to go to Hudson tomorrow.”
It had been a few years since I last saw Valencia and Van’s graves, and I figured since I was in Madison it would be a good time to make the drive. They are buried in Hudson, a mile from my parents’ house. So of course I would also have to visit my parents while I was there, which was an even bigger pill to swallow.
I didn’t want Adrian to come with me, but I knew he would insist on driving me. He is always husbandy like that, giving me what he thinks I need.
“Sure, we can go to Hudson tomorrow,” he said.
“Let’s go out on the back porch,” I said, picking up my Guinness and fleece pull-over and leading the way.
“Wasn’t Alexa’s kitchen yellow the last time we were here?” asked Adrian.
I looked around. Now it was a pale shade of grayish violet. Much swankier. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“Sehr Modisch,” he said.
“Yep, sure is.”
“She never stops improving, does she,” he said.
“She never stops improving,” I repeated.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
