My worst fear has come true. No, not crashing in a plane or being robbed. Days after I said bye to my sisters at the San Francisco airport, I got the dreaded email that said, "call home when you can". I knew the moment I saw it that my Opa had passed away.
I sat on a picnic table in the arid desert heat, crying and thinking back to the last conversation with my Opa. I had called him and he said he missed me. Words I never thought I'd actually hear him verbalize but he did.
I remember the first time I told him about our trip. He was shocked, and a bit angry and hurt. "A lot of people die in a year, you know", he responded through a choked voice. But if you know my Opa, you know he's got a tough exterior, necessary for protecting his soft, warm heart. I understood that I had hurt his feelings by leaving. It was my number one concern to leave my Opa who I had become especially close with in the past few years. We were best friends. And I loved him. And he loved me. His support for me was unfaltering, and he put his own worries and emotions aside for me. The night before we left, I went to say goodbye to him and he told me he was happy I was going to see the world and have an adventure. I don't think he knows how much his words and support meant to me.
I was so close. Only 27 sleeps away from crossing the border and driving to his house, just like I'd be thinking about the past 11 months. Only 27 days until I could see him again and give him a hug and tell him how much I loved him and that I missed him, instead of leaving messages on his phone or sending postcards. Only 27 days until I could share my adventures and pictures of the places we'd been. Just like he did during our afternoons together, going through slides of his travels with Oma and Mom through Europe and America. We'd flip through them one by one and he'd have a great story for each image. I think it's safe to say we shared a passion for travel. And I loved these moments together.
The day after I got the news, we had a long drive from our stop in Rachel, Nevada, a tiny town with only about 55 people, known for the highest number of sitings of UFOs, given its close proximity to the infamous, Area 51. The trip involved a whole lot of nothing. It was a beautiful nothing though. Red coloured cliffs surrounded us, and on either side of the open road ahead, lay barren land, covered with shrubs and cacti. I didn't sleep well the night before, my mind unsettled, despite the uplifting Skype chat with my parents where we shared memories of Opa and grief at his passing. So Aran drove, and I stared out the window, thinking about Opa.
My childhood memories of trips to the Ariss "mall", as he jokingly called it, where he'd treat us to loads of candy, that Oma would scold him for when we got home. Laughing with Holly and Robyn, when he'd belt out the last hymn in church with supreme gusto. He and Oma would always come out to my horseback riding shows, where he'd pat my horse's neck, telling me, "he's a nice horse". Opa was continuously trying to share all his treasures with us. Photos, furniture, bikes, clothes...you name, he had it. To say he liked shopping was an understatement. His favourite line, "I never seen a bike that nice, you?".
During the last few years, most of the time we spent together, was driving up to Elmira on weekends to visit my Oma at the nursing home. On her good days, we'd laugh with her as she giggled or smiled about nothing. And on her bad days, we'd share some tears at the injustice of her situation, fighting the nasty Alzheimer's disease that took her away from us.
It was on these visits that I got to see a different side to my Opa. Sometimes I'd come into my Oma's room to find my Opa singing to her or telling her the latest news with me, Robyn, or Holly.
I would often pick him up in Aran's Jeep, and he would always tell me what a nice Jeep it was...a smooth ride. If I turned up with my Cav, he'd frown and say, "no Jeep today?". Sitting in the Jeep together, he'd tell me stories of his childhood in Holland. Like the time he kicked a dog in the head after it chased him while he was delivering newspapers on his bicycle. The dog was running after him nipping and growling, so he gave it a swift thump, it yelped and collapsed in the ditch. He looked all around to make sure no one had seen and took off, his heart thumping in his ears. The next time he went back to that farm, the owner of the dog was waiting at the end of the lane way. "Tony!", he said, "Have you seen my dog? I can't find him anywhere!". And then my Opa would look sheepishly at me and tell me how he'd replied, oh so innocently, "Why no, I haven't...son of a gun". And then came the classic, contagious, wheezing, Drenters laugh, "heh heh heh", that he'd got away with it. We shared some great laughs together.
Other times, he would get real sad when I told him the simplest stories. He welled up when I told him a story about a triathlon winner who waited at the finish line to high five all the participants as they finished. He was touched to the core by the slightest display of humanity. Sometimes he would open up to me about Mom, telling me how lucky he felt to have a daughter like my Mom. "She does everything for me", he'd say. Don't I know it, I thought.
Aran drove us through to Kanab, Utah, right near the border of Arizona, and only 80 miles from the Grand Canyon. We didn't realize this town was known as Little Hollywood for its role in hosting plenty of Westerns created from the '30's to the '70's. All around town plaques highlight the actors and actresses who lived and worked in the area including The Rat Pack, and Don Knotts. As we wandered around I thought about how much my Opa would have loved this place. I had visions of him in the living room, feet propped up on the sofa, a whiskey poured, a cigar lit, watching a Western with the fire blazing.
I have made the decision not to fly home for the service today. Some people may not understand this. That's OK. There are moments when I don't understand it myself. I've been agonizing over it and dealing with all the emotions that come when you lose someone so important in your life. I've made the decision with Aran by my side, willing to support anything I wanted to do. I've made this decision with my family's support, my Mom having already arranged for the burial ceremony to take place when we get home. And I've also made this decision knowing my Opa would tell me to keep traveling.
It'll be a different road trip now. It'll give me time to accept that I'll be coming home not to say hello, but to say goodbye to my Opa.
I never met a man like that...you?
I sat on a picnic table in the arid desert heat, crying and thinking back to the last conversation with my Opa. I had called him and he said he missed me. Words I never thought I'd actually hear him verbalize but he did.
I remember the first time I told him about our trip. He was shocked, and a bit angry and hurt. "A lot of people die in a year, you know", he responded through a choked voice. But if you know my Opa, you know he's got a tough exterior, necessary for protecting his soft, warm heart. I understood that I had hurt his feelings by leaving. It was my number one concern to leave my Opa who I had become especially close with in the past few years. We were best friends. And I loved him. And he loved me. His support for me was unfaltering, and he put his own worries and emotions aside for me. The night before we left, I went to say goodbye to him and he told me he was happy I was going to see the world and have an adventure. I don't think he knows how much his words and support meant to me.
I was so close. Only 27 sleeps away from crossing the border and driving to his house, just like I'd be thinking about the past 11 months. Only 27 days until I could see him again and give him a hug and tell him how much I loved him and that I missed him, instead of leaving messages on his phone or sending postcards. Only 27 days until I could share my adventures and pictures of the places we'd been. Just like he did during our afternoons together, going through slides of his travels with Oma and Mom through Europe and America. We'd flip through them one by one and he'd have a great story for each image. I think it's safe to say we shared a passion for travel. And I loved these moments together.
The day after I got the news, we had a long drive from our stop in Rachel, Nevada, a tiny town with only about 55 people, known for the highest number of sitings of UFOs, given its close proximity to the infamous, Area 51. The trip involved a whole lot of nothing. It was a beautiful nothing though. Red coloured cliffs surrounded us, and on either side of the open road ahead, lay barren land, covered with shrubs and cacti. I didn't sleep well the night before, my mind unsettled, despite the uplifting Skype chat with my parents where we shared memories of Opa and grief at his passing. So Aran drove, and I stared out the window, thinking about Opa.
My childhood memories of trips to the Ariss "mall", as he jokingly called it, where he'd treat us to loads of candy, that Oma would scold him for when we got home. Laughing with Holly and Robyn, when he'd belt out the last hymn in church with supreme gusto. He and Oma would always come out to my horseback riding shows, where he'd pat my horse's neck, telling me, "he's a nice horse". Opa was continuously trying to share all his treasures with us. Photos, furniture, bikes, clothes...you name, he had it. To say he liked shopping was an understatement. His favourite line, "I never seen a bike that nice, you?".
During the last few years, most of the time we spent together, was driving up to Elmira on weekends to visit my Oma at the nursing home. On her good days, we'd laugh with her as she giggled or smiled about nothing. And on her bad days, we'd share some tears at the injustice of her situation, fighting the nasty Alzheimer's disease that took her away from us.
It was on these visits that I got to see a different side to my Opa. Sometimes I'd come into my Oma's room to find my Opa singing to her or telling her the latest news with me, Robyn, or Holly.
I would often pick him up in Aran's Jeep, and he would always tell me what a nice Jeep it was...a smooth ride. If I turned up with my Cav, he'd frown and say, "no Jeep today?". Sitting in the Jeep together, he'd tell me stories of his childhood in Holland. Like the time he kicked a dog in the head after it chased him while he was delivering newspapers on his bicycle. The dog was running after him nipping and growling, so he gave it a swift thump, it yelped and collapsed in the ditch. He looked all around to make sure no one had seen and took off, his heart thumping in his ears. The next time he went back to that farm, the owner of the dog was waiting at the end of the lane way. "Tony!", he said, "Have you seen my dog? I can't find him anywhere!". And then my Opa would look sheepishly at me and tell me how he'd replied, oh so innocently, "Why no, I haven't...son of a gun". And then came the classic, contagious, wheezing, Drenters laugh, "heh heh heh", that he'd got away with it. We shared some great laughs together.
Other times, he would get real sad when I told him the simplest stories. He welled up when I told him a story about a triathlon winner who waited at the finish line to high five all the participants as they finished. He was touched to the core by the slightest display of humanity. Sometimes he would open up to me about Mom, telling me how lucky he felt to have a daughter like my Mom. "She does everything for me", he'd say. Don't I know it, I thought.
Aran drove us through to Kanab, Utah, right near the border of Arizona, and only 80 miles from the Grand Canyon. We didn't realize this town was known as Little Hollywood for its role in hosting plenty of Westerns created from the '30's to the '70's. All around town plaques highlight the actors and actresses who lived and worked in the area including The Rat Pack, and Don Knotts. As we wandered around I thought about how much my Opa would have loved this place. I had visions of him in the living room, feet propped up on the sofa, a whiskey poured, a cigar lit, watching a Western with the fire blazing.
I have made the decision not to fly home for the service today. Some people may not understand this. That's OK. There are moments when I don't understand it myself. I've been agonizing over it and dealing with all the emotions that come when you lose someone so important in your life. I've made the decision with Aran by my side, willing to support anything I wanted to do. I've made this decision with my family's support, my Mom having already arranged for the burial ceremony to take place when we get home. And I've also made this decision knowing my Opa would tell me to keep traveling.
It'll be a different road trip now. It'll give me time to accept that I'll be coming home not to say hello, but to say goodbye to my Opa.
I never met a man like that...you?
Yep, my father . He passed away while I was in South Africa in 2010. I also did not fly home. We had made our peace before I went away and had our 'closure'. We were good. Neither of us cared about what other folks thought. He was an amazing guy.
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