I Don't Want to Forget a Thing

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Without further ado, today’s pocket.

“You are… my family tree… Be good to me… Take care of me. Bap, Bap.” We sing along with Ben Kweller as we head to the coast for a family vacation. Who doesn’t love a good road trip? Solid snacks, breathtaking views of the Columbia River, a popping playlist… No one curates a playlist quite like Dan. I think making playlists might be his love language. Bright Eyes, “Another Travelin’ Song” comes on next.

“I never feel quite prepared,” Conor Oberst sings. I can hear Emmylou in the background. This lack of preparation I know well. It is how I feel before most trips, most things maybe.

I spent the last two days prepping for this journey. I wrapped up my school year on Tuesday, so I had a little extra time to devote to the task, and yet by Thursday I was feeling overwhelmed by it all. How can it be so much work to take your family on vacation?

I took care of necessary things like picking up our renewed car registration tabs because they conveniently expired this week. I cleaned the car, and by that, I mean I took shit out of it that should probably have never been in it to begin with. I was trying to make some space because I was anxious that even the best playlist which includes Belle and Sebastian singing about a favorite New York Yankee, might not be a match for the misery that might ensue when five people, three of them taller than me, plus one puppy, squish themselves into a Subaru of average proportions for seven plus hours, more if you account for traffic, which I never do.

I made arrangements for my garden. Early in the season it pains me to leave the garden, but by late June, I’ve already started to let go a little. I understand there is only so much I can do. I am now applying that same level of hopefulness to trip preparations.

I did other just as necessary things. I packed books to read making sure I had one I really wanted to read. I do, it’s The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans, and I’ll probably finish it tomorrow because it’s incredible, so I made sure I had more books but also not too many because, not to repeat myself but five people and one dog in a modest size Subaru. Said dog is supposed to ride in the hatch, but he doesn’t seem to understand that. Before we left, I asked Dan if we should consider putting stuff on the roof, and he said yes in a way that clearly meant no.

To be fair, one year I packed our things on the roof so we would be cozier in the car. It was lovely. Everyone had ample leg space, but while we were driving on Route 2 on the way to our campground at Priest Lake, listening to another amazing playlist, we heard a thunk that was not part of any drum machine. Something had come untethered. We pulled over when it was safe to do so to see if we had lost something important. We discovered our tent was gone.

It was 102 degrees in June that year, so getting ready for that trip was a beast. I bought a small ac unit for our bedroom because we were leaving our dog at home, and I was worried she might die.

My prep this week still had a hum of anxiety to it, especially by Thursday when I realized I might not get it all done, but it was much less harried. I even prepped a few things I didn’t have to but wanted too.

I made garlic scape pesto for the cheddar and soppressata sandwiches we would eat on our way. Garlic scape pesto is made from the delightful circular garlic scapes that form as the garlic ripens. In the food processor, you can toss them with a little basil, lemon balm, toasted pine nuts, parmesan cheese, lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil. The spread is rich and a little goes a long way, so we use it on sandwiches as opposed to eating it over pasta. It is Spring in a jar.

I also baked three dozen chocolate chip espresso cookies because we are taking this trip on the day Seabass turns 16, and baking for the kids’ birthdays is what I do.

I can still picture him in his highchair, those long blond locks, his red cheeks covered with chocolate cake, the two fingers he put in his mouth to fall asleep which he eventually did right there in his chair, face full of frosting.

I remember the road trips we took when the kids were little – frantically trying to anticipate all their needs, hoping not to forget a thing while also not really having time or room to pack anything.

On one family camping trip, Seabass cried when I walked to the pump to fill up our water jug. It was about ten feet from where he stood in his little red short pant onesie right next to the rest of our family. It was too far.

When I was prepping for this trip, he asked me if he needed to come. I smiled at him and kept packing…two decks of cards so we can play Scopa, hoping someone will remember the rules without Grandma here, a speaker so we can listen to music when we cook and hang out at the beach, sunscreen so no one gets burned, even though it’s the Oregon coast so no one is going to get burned. I pack toilet paper for the glove compartment because one time Seabass got a bloody nose and we had no tissues on hand. Anna offered him a tampon. Dan gave him the shirt off his back.

I start to hand my son, who is now taller than his dad, everything I have so carefully prepared for the journey ahead.

“Load the car please,” I say, looking up at him. I follow him outside and snip some lavender to take in my pocket.

I pull it out later to breathe it in when there’s a slowdown, and some passengers, who I will not name for the sake of peace, are getting cranky, and one four-legged panting passenger’s collar starts jingling, which indicates an attempted escape.

“No, Kam,” all three kids holler from the back seat, working in unison to heft him back in the hatch where he belongs. It takes all three of them, and it is barely successful, but they pull it off. It’s stressful, but Seabass is laughing, and that makes everyone feel better.

We smell smoke and watch a helicopter dump water from the Columbia River over a brush fire that has broken out on the train tracks.

I unzip the small cooler and let the smell of everything, the lilacs, the pressed basil and garlic, the defeated dog, linger.

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I don’t want to forget a thing.

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