My dad knew my mom was pregnant before he shipped out to the South Pacific with the 42nd Bombardment Group during World War II. Mom stayed in Los Angeles until after I was born seven months later. Then she moved to Aberdeen where her parents lived. Dad made it home safely and I do not remember life without him.
Growing up poor, we did not take vacation trips. But when I was 9 or 10 years old, we drove to Rock Springs, Wyo., where my dad was born and grew up. I had only met his oldest sister, who lived in Seattle and was 18 years older than Dad, the baby of the family. So I was excited about meeting more of my dad’s family.
My mother was an only child. She loved to drive, so she was always the driver. My dad was content to be a passenger. Grandma sent some chocolate cookies she’d baked for us to eat along the way.
One day we drove well into the night. By the time we looked for a motel, there were no vacancies. The last motel owner my dad tried referred us to a homeowner who took in travelers. There was one room left and we took it, even though it cost $15, which was highway robbery back then.
The room had one bed. My sister slept with Mom, and Dad and my brother and I slept on the floor with a blanket. I doubt this would be allowed today. There was one bathroom for everyone.
We stopped at Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. We were parked in the entrance area where a few people were milling around — and so was a huge bear!
My mom rolled down her window and held up a cookie. The bear walked over. He loved those chocolate cookies! Then he started getting aggressive because my mom wasn’t handing them over fast enough. Finally Dad yelled, “Roll up the window!”
I’m sure disaster was averted. That was all we saw of Yellowstone. I saved the Yellowstone brochure I got that day. It actually shows drawings of people petting deer, which would be frowned upon now, as it should be. (I saw more of Yellowstone as an adult, thankfully.)
Unfortunately, my dad’s dad was the town drunk. My dad hated his dad for beating his mom when he got drunk. Dad never forgave that. Dad’s mom had died shortly after he graduated from high school.
When we visited, my dad’s father lived with one of his daughters, my dad’s sister. My mother would not go into the house. We just stood around outdoors, talking for a while. My dad acknowledged his dad, but even as a child I could see there was not much love there.
Dad’s oldest brother was named after their dad, making him “Junior.” Dad said that when Junior looked for a job, he’d be turned away because he had the same name as his father. Employers presumably assumed, “like father, like son.” My own dad did not believe in naming the son after the father. My brother has his own first name.
I don’t recall speaking to my dad’s dad, but hopefully I said hi. I never called him Grandpa. There was no connection, other than he was my dad’s dad.
It felt like an odd family reunion.
Two of dad’s brothers and wives were there with us, and we all went to a tavern for lunch. (At least back in 1950s Wyoming, children were allowed in the taverns.) We visited with my dad’s other siblings over the next day or two. Then it was time to head home. Dad had to get back to work.
I do remember one part of the long drive home. We had crossed over into Oregon and were driving by the Columbia River. My mom was having problems with the sun visor, which kept dropping down. She started fiddling with it to make it stay put. The next thing I heard was Dad shouting at her: “We were headed straight for the bank of the river!” Mom acted quickly and we averted a possibly deadly crash.
I’ve always found it a bit ironic that I’ve lived the past 54 years near the river where my mom came close to killing us!
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