Day Four of the National Disaster Massive Road Trip: Unpacking Memories at HOME!

If you have never driven through the Tahoe National Forest in the northern Sierra Nevada, I encourage you to put it on your bucket list. When California greets you with her spectacular snowy mountains, you may never want to leave. Every time I cross the Nevada/California border on Interstate 80, I’m struck by the beauty of my state and my good fortune to get to live here. Today’s blue sky was punctuated with huge, white, fluffy clouds. The snow on the mountains reflected the sunshine’s bright rays. I glanced back at the kids, ready to suggest that they put down their devices and look out the window. They were already looking out their windows, ready for our long drive to be over. 

Two hours later, I pulled the ginormous van into my Davis driveway, feeling as though we were returning from another world, and entering a new time. The kids and I agreed that we had been lucky on our NDMRT for so many reasons. Every detail worked out, despite a few snafus. I’m rather amazed we pulled it off. 

The ginormous van sits at about the height of a typical monster truck, so one more jumps rather than steps down from it. This van is a beast of a vehicle that served us well, but one that I will not miss. The sheer volume of unloaded college kid belongings surprised even those of us who loaded it in Wisconsin. Was that really only four days ago?

Even though I wanted to collapse on the couch, I made a quick run to Nugget (a favorite local grocery store) to pick up milk and eggs and all the perishables Andy and Jukie had consumed during their time sheltering in place. The checkout guy asked me, “So, you been keeping busy?” 😳 He would soon wish that he had never asked that question. Before long he was nodding with a wide-eyed expression that reflected his amazement and his discomfort. I suspect that he will never cross Wyoming in a snowstorm while navigating a vehicle whose windshield and headlights iced over to near opaqueness about once every 10 minutes.

Back at home, our family of five got our second wind over dinner and took turns swapping stories about our time apart. Surrounded by my own DNA, so to speak, I was done with social distancing. Geneva, on my immediate left, gave away the three oranges that her dad peeled for her, and wolfed down her noodles and fresh rolls, while Jukie, on my immediate right, gave me all sorts of beaming smiles as he devoured his salad. He exuded joy! And Margot, she got to sleep in my lap all through the meal. 

Geneva and Andy will finish their academic spring quarters online, with classes taught or taken in between long nature walks and bike rides, some of our favorite Davis activities. Truman has been making lists of books to read (he is finishing Return of the King now), movies to watch, and cookie recipes to try out. The last play Andy saw this month (maybe this year?) was Hamlet, in which the title character says “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" (or so Andy keeps telling us). This national calamity is awful, surely, as are our federal response and the man in the White House who should be leading us, but in our tiny corner of Davis this spring we will exercise social distance from everyone except those in the house, the close participants in our unexpected, extended, and, one hopes, healthy staycation. It starts for real tomorrow after we return this van with seating for 12, one which has been filled with stuff and memories that we will be unpacking for a long time.

Day Three of the NDMRT: Menace in the Mountains!

I feel lucky for us to have arrived in Salt Lake City safely. The Snow Hailnado we encountered on much of our drive through snowy Wyoming mountains caused the most treacherous driving conditions I’ve ever experienced. And I’ve driven through plenty of Midwestern blizzards. Visibility was awful. Snowplows were nonexistent. And thick ice kept coating our windshield wipers, necessitating frequent stops to scrape the ice. I’m so grateful to have had my fellow driver Mary with me, and can’t imagine having tackled the day without her. 

Every day each of us discovers what our new realities look like as we navigate our new restrictions. For example, at our Salt Lake City hotel tonight, our traveling party of five was told that no more than five people can occupy the lobby at once. We had to decide who was going to stand back out in the blustery wind so that room could be made for the hotel clerk or random passers-by. 

The former buffet breakfast is now served in individual bags, which only five people can grab at one time. Our fellow guests offered us knowing smiles as we attempted to give each other wide berths in the hotel’s narrow hallways, as if it were imperative that we not share the same Utah air. I caught myself imagining each person’s story — are they all on their way home, too? Were they as freaked out about all of this as we are? I would love to have asked them these questions, but I was in a hurry to collapse into my (also narrow) double bed, and those hallways weren’t wide enough to afford us what once might have seemed an everyday chat. 

Tonight Mary and I agreed that we really could have done with a bottle of wine. Instead, we settled for Door Dash noodles and a rousing game of Taboo, which Truman had packed. Tomorrow I deliver Mary to the Salt Lake City airport for her flight home to Denver, upon which time I will drive the 663 miles back to Davis. We’re returning to the temperate springtime of California, all of whose citizens were ordered today to Shelter in Place, something unfathomable just a few days ago. I don’t think I have ever felt so eager to return home to my own private shelter, and to see my guys and Margot. 

Just as rainclouds in California become snow squalls in Wyoming, so has the epidemic become an even more deadly pandemic since Truman and I left our golden state at the beginning of this week. As a “hot spot,” the Sacramento Valley may be more “hot” to the touch than anyplace else I have visited in our cross-country trip this week, but there is still no place that I would rather call my sanctuary than back in the arms of my husband and back within at least waving distance of many of you.

Day Two: The Outstretching Space of the Midwest

Day Two of our NDMRT feels more like Day 22. Is it just me, or does time now move at lightning speed? The news breaks come so quickly; we hardly register one alert buzzing in on our phones before the next news shock shakes us again. Feeling beleaguered, I find myself reacting viscerally to each incoming bit of information. Sometimes my heart races as I read aloud from my phone to whomever is nearby. I have no control over my body now as it regularly seeks either to fight or to choose flight. 

Even in such a state, I still have control over my breathing. Deep breaths help slow my heart rate. My state of mind usually follows my heart. Worrying for all our safety, I feel that I can’t get home soon enough. 

Slowly pulling away from Beloit College this morning felt surreal and so very sad: there were no students or faculty in sight. The moods of our small moving crew were helped by our sense of accomplishment for getting all the boxes and bins and people to fit into the ginormous van. I’m not sure any of us thought we could pull it off, but somehow we did, playing a complicated game of real-life Tetris. 

After that, with a mix of personal relief and public dread, we drove 678 miles through rain, through Iowa, and through most of Nebraska to reach a deserted hotel in Gothenburg, population 3,574, home to The Sod House Museum. Looking around the hotel, and around the town, we felt socially distanced. The kids went for a swim, which seemed safe, what with all that chlorine and not another soul in sight. The water seemed to feel like such a fun and soothing way to end a long day. 

Just before turning in, I look around and see that the pizza has been eaten, the many devices are charging, and everyone is asleep but me. Tomorrow we head for the mountain states and Salt Lake City, grateful that we missed the earthquake by a day.

Day One of Four: The Ginormous Van

What an incredible day. Truman and I made it to Wisconsin! Finally in Beloit, I am so happy to have my eyes on and my arms around my girl. Now to the challenge: cramming everything Geneva and her partner own into this ginormous van, which feels too big to drive, yet seems way too small to encompass all the stuff these kids have acquired over the last four years. I just want to get us HOME — and as soon as possible. 

In this uncertain new reality, we are all getting used to the idea that we cannot now come into contact with the people we love who are physically vulnerable. Today, I could not safely visit my three Illinois parents, all in their 80s. They live in Independent Living for Seniors, so there are no visitors allowed. How strange it felt to land at O’Hare Airport, and not drive straight to my mom’s home. And how could I possibly not visit a dear friend of 30 years who has been undergoing an intense treatment regime, a friend who needs every kind of support she can get? I parked outside her house, she bundled up and stepped outside, and then we stood about 10 feet apart and air hugged each other like crazy. What a strange and wistful feeling to have to keep your distance from a beloved friend you want only to throw your arms around.

And then finally, at Beloit College, we are all feeling so sad about saying goodbye to Geneva’s college experience prematurely. I had imagined that Geneva would be wearing a cap and gown the day we moved her out of her final campus residence. During what should be the end of spring break, most of the dorm rooms and apartments now sit empty of students but full of their belongings. Now everyone must leave. The virus struck our country so quickly; of course all the students had intended to return. Nothing is normal. Nothing feels right. 

Tomorrow we attempt our most ambitious day of driving, and straight into a snow storm. As a Californian since age 24, I wonder if I even remember how to drive in the snow. My first day of Driver’s Ed took place during a Chicago blizzard, so I suppose I can handle weather. I’m so grateful for my bestie Mary who flew up from Denver to provide driving relief, moral support, and lots of laughs. 

Meanwhile, we all must flatten the curve! As more and more of us “shelter in place,” I hope your adventures this week are domestic, warm, and at least a six-foot distance from those outsiders who do not share your DNA. I’m thinking about all of you, and hoping we all stay safe and well. 

Nebraska, here we come!