100,000 Miles

My dad died when my firstborn was 11 months old.  It was pretty sudden, and as you can imagine, pretty horrendous.  My dad was that person in my life who truly understood me.  He always knew where I was coming from, and I always understood him.  When he died, it was the first time in my entire life that I had no one who completely understood me.  I mean I had my mom, my siblings, my friends, and my husband, but even he doesn’t have the kind of intrinsic bond I had with my dad.  My dad was my person, and when he was gone, I was lost.  I didn’t know how I could be me without him, and I certainly didn’t know how I could be a parent without the parent who really understood me and could teach me in ways I totally understood.  And how could my child/children never really know how awesome their grandfather was?  But I had no choice.  That’s when I thought of something my cousin Peter did that always stuck with me.

Peter’s dad and my dad were brothers.  Peter’s dad, my Uncle Frank, had died years before.  It was leukemia, and it was one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my life.  Uncle Frank died long before Peter had any children.  Now, Peter has 3 amazing, friendly, smart, beautiful kids.  I remember once when my family got together with Peter’s.  His kids were sitting around the table telling stories about their “Grandpa Frank.”  They had never met him, but Peter’s kids knew all the great stories and funny quirks and even what their Grandpa Frank would do in a given situation, and they were spot on!  I was dumbstruck.  Peter had told his kids everything about his dad.  From the silly stuff to the important lessons, Peter had kept his dad alive in the lives of his kids.  They may not have met him, but they HAD a Grandpa Frank, and they knew him, and they loved him.  Peter has always been a really cool, fun, caring person, and he is an excellent parent.  I never forgot that day, and now it was my turn.

Since my daughter had known my dad for almost a year, I had pictures of them together.  I made some 8x10s, framed them, and hung them in her room.  We would look at the pictures together, and I would tell her about my dad, “Grandpa Jack.”  When my son came along 3 years later, I showed him pictures of my dad, and introduced him to Grandpa Jack.

As my kids got older, there was more about Grandpa Jack that they learned:  like how he loved walking by Cinnabon in the mall, French burnt peanuts, and the Rolling Stones.  How Grandpa Jack loved lilacs and cardinals, and HATED rye bread with caraway seeds.

Eventually, when my kids could understand, I told them stories:  Like the time the cat puked in his shoe, and when he picked up 10 kids from the bus stop, piled us into his 1971 Toyota Corolla and drove us to school doing donuts in the parking lot (for which he was severely reprimanded but I’m glad he did it!)

The thing about my dad is that he was one of those really likeable guys.  He was funny, insightful, and could make anything and anyone seem important.  He was very honest, sarcastic, and respect and morality were very important to him.  So, if my kids were really going to know their Grandpa Jack, I had to tell the kids about what my dad would say or do in situations, and oftentimes, do them myself.  Of course this is not difficult in most cases.  My dad raised me after all.  He taught me about respect, and morals, and honesty.  He taught me to pay attention to the little things, wonder, and explore.  And when I share these traits with my children, we include my dad, and speculate on what he would think or say.

So the other day, I noticed that my odometer was at 99,989 miles.  Almost 100,000 miles!  I remembered when that 1971 Toyota hit 100,000 miles.  That was a huge event.  Back in the ancient days before Instagram, cars rarely lasted long enough to acquire such mileage.  In fact, I remember the little dials that clicked forward the numbers of the odometer, which didn’t even have a spot for 100,000, and after 99,999, the odometer just went back to zero.  My dad was so excited, it was a family event.  We all piled into the well-worn Corolla, my dad drove as we hovered over him watching the odometer (I don’t think seat belts were invented yet,) and it was like the ball dropping in Times Square when the numbers slowly clicked all the way back to 00,000.

So here I was, almost at the 100,000 mark in digital miles.  I started ramping up the kids.  “Look!  We have almost 100,000 miles on this car!  Do you see these numbers?  That is called the ‘odometer’ and it counts all the miles this car has driven and when it gets to 99,999, all the numbers will turn to zero and there will be a 1 right in front! 100,000 miles!  That’s a lot!  We should all watch it when it happens!”  Of course I told the Toyota story, and actually, the kids were kind of excited.  Every few minutes my 11 year old would ask what number we were on, and we estimated that the next day we would hit 100,000.  We reached our driveway at 99,997.

The next day was Saturday, which was awesome because now the entire family could take part in the odometer party.  The problem of course was that it was Saturday.  The 7 year old was up and dressed by 8am eating breakfast with my husband by 9.  I had two cups of coffee and was putting on gym clothes by 10, and no one had seen the 11 year old at all by 10:30, which means she was under her covers with headphones on watching YouTube videos on her Kindle.  “C’mon everyone!” I proclaimed, “Let’s go watch the odometer hit 100,000 miles!”  My husband was all for it, the 11 year old agreed to go if she could bring her Kindle and stay in her pajamas, and the 7 year old threw himself on the floor proclaiming the adventure “boring and stupid!”  After much negotiation, threats, and yelling, we all got in the car with me excitedly behind the wheel.  This was so great.  I was re-experiencing a fun time I had as a kid with my kids, and I was genuinely psyched! 

While still at 999,997, the 11 year old was screaming that the 7 year old hit her.  The 7 year old then kicked the seat protesting his innocence.  By 99,998 everyone “had” to see a picture on Instagram.  At 99,999, it was a bad time to be a pedestrian in the street in our path.  I turned onto a side street and let the kids take off their seat belts (gasp!) so they could watch.  I had to pull over to adjust my arguing kids who were jostling for position, and as we slowly drove down a small street in a housing project, it happened:  99,999 became 100,000!  We all cheered and pulled over again to take pictures for Instagram, and my heart was bursting for my family adventure, and for my dad.

On the drive back, I started talking about all the trips that made up our 100,000 miles:  The preschool I drove back and forth to for 4 years, the elementary school, dance recitals, concerts, Boston, Florida.  The happy trips to the waterpark and the Liberty Bell.  The sad trips to the vet when we came back with an empty pet carrier.  I asked everyone what he and she thought were our most memorable trips.  My husband said bringing our son home from the hospital.  I said evacuating from Hurricane Sandy.  After “This is stupid,” and “Nothing,” my son said getting his green belt in karate, and my daughter didn’t hear the question since she was listening to Pandora in headphones.

I have to say, so far this is one of my favorite family memories.  We did a Grandpa Jack thing.  We got together as a family and made an event.  It’s the stories and feelings that keep my dad alive for my children.  They are for me to pass on.  I felt my dad right beside me as I made one of his adventures my own, and I know if he were here, Grandpa Jack would have videoed the whole thing and posted it on Instagram.