Road trips were always unerringly the same with my family and we had gotten good at them. Every summer we would pack up and leave home, embarking on a month long journey for my dad to raise support. Miles slipped beneath our worn wheels with ease. Nobody would believe how three little boys would be crammed into the backseat (not to mention all the other items stuffed in with them) and yet somehow refrain for hours from bickering. We had lots of practice and a good many “Don’t make me stop this car!”s under our belts. The routine was worn out with age but we still loved it. Five in the morning, pulling out from the half empty Super 8 parking lot, we always had miniature powdered doughnuts and bottles of chocolate milk in our laps. In between pre-home-made PB & J sandwiches I gnawed beef jerky. I would try to make it last as long as I could, savoring each dry strip. It was a necessity.
This time we were headed to Canada, my first time out of the country. As an avid camping family it seemed the logical choice. After all, as native Montanan’s we were practically neighbors. We were going to meet up with my dad’s parents and his brother Pat. I didn’t know Pat, he was divorced and usually when we were in the area he was busy with work at the broadcasting station. The fact that he lived, along with all the McRae’s, in Wisconsin had never provided more opportunities to get to know him either. The one thing more awkward than meeting a new acquaintance is meeting an unknown relative. Probably because you are supposed to love them, right? Extended family is a joke.
Rain greeted our entrance into my first foreign country. It’s hardly fair to call it “foreign” but I took what I could get. Bleak sky prevailed, quickly closing gaps in the clouds that afforded any small glimpses of direct sunlight. The backseat of our rusted green Nova was growing more confined by the minute and my legs were beginning to realize they had not moved in several hours.
Setting up camp in the rain is practically impossible and completely miserable. Your hair slowly soaks in the misty precipitation and leisurely runs in slick rivulets down your spine making you shiver. All the while your dad lets you know what exactly you are doing wrong. My dad always insisted that we do it first so that he could follow up and show us how it was “supposed to be done.” When we finally had his approval, our tents pitched and firewood gathered there was no consolation knowing that everything was already thoroughly soaked.
Every one of my dad’s siblings drove Jeeps, a trait probably inherited from his parents. Not that they really needed or used them for the original exploratory purpose. Jeeps were just preferred. Their convoy of rugged all terrain vehicles came sliding up the path only a few hours behind us, grabbing soft earth with their tires and slinging it in every direction. They pulled up next to our meager vehicle spattering it brown and making it look insignificant.
I always love to see Barbra and Mac, for grandparents they aren’t too bad. I’m not their favorite by a long shot but that hasn’t ever bothered me. I’m quiet and reserved, hardly what constitutes a McRae. I gave grandpa his hug, easily wrapping my arms around his slight frame, hardly anything to hold on to. His clothes smelled like his preferred brand of cigars. Grandma was bouncy and full of energy that came from some unknown well. She is a strong woman. Knowing what she has gone through in her life proves it. Her hugs were always warm and sincere. I think she really appreciated the people in her life, almost losing grandpa to cancer for a second time most likely attributed to that. Then there was Pat, I knew nothing about him and honestly did not care to. I don’t like meeting new people and I avoid it as much as possible. Uncle Pat and I began our awkward relationship with an introduction from my mom,
“Thad, you remember Uncle Pat don’t you?”
“No, not in the slightest,” I thought, but smiled and nodded my head. Being young and shy I found that agreement could make anything simpler.
There is only so much one kid can do to create entertainment for a whole week in the woods while his parents engage in various forms dominoes. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s warning, the mud and I could have had endless hours of fun. That left it up to my imagination to make the afternoon drag by.
…I, Chief Running Wolf, slipped through the forest undergrowth, my feet silent as the animal from which my name was taken. I can smell my query up ahead, it was not far off. My sharp eyes caught a red flash of blood from the first arrow I had let loose, spattered on the moss. It was fresh. I hear a rustle to my left and…
My concentration was broken by the sound of a river up ahead and I realized I must have gone far. All around me the trees and grass had the sheen of fresh rain and its bright scent clung to the air. Beads of clean water gathered on thin branches, slipping along the wooden length until the weight was too much, release and tapped me on my upward turned brow. I was always partial towards rain and held no trepidations when it came to getting wet. The woods were beautiful; glistening even in the dull light. The cedars quickly gave way to smaller vegetation and these to large smooth rocks the size of my fist. I walked carefully on these towards the sound of the river for a bit before looking up and seeing Pat. He was balanced on one of the bigger rocks at the edge of the water. In his right hand he clutched an assortment of brightly colored pencils and with his left he drew one of them, the blue one, across the open notebook he had sitting in his lap. I approached him as quietly as I could but he didn’t even look up as the river stones mutedly clapped together under my feet. I looked on, entranced, as he finished his sketch of the water flowing in the river bed and the trees lining the banks.
I still love to draw, years won’t change that. Uncle Pat was not particularly good at it, but it gave us a bond; the secret kind that nobody could see or even noticed except the two of us. It is funny to me how when two people share a fondness for something, words hardly matter at all. We sat in the wet woods of Canada sketching God’s creation together every day until we left.
“Goodbye Uncle Pat.”
I looked down at his white face. It was barely a week after I was told he was murdered. Murder is a cold, mean word. It is harsh to hear and carefully used. My uncle was murdered. I could not cry, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I tried, but my eyes were still dry. I tried thinking about the time when we were together. I hardly knew this man, my uncle. It was always strange to me how family will stay family and will always be family whether you know them or not. Death changes a face.
I knew who it was and yet my heart couldn’t really connect the dots.
I turned away from the casket and shuffled back towards my seat. Only grandma was crying; wet eyes. Someone in the back hastily muffled a laugh as I was sitting down. I squeezed my eyelids together, thinking back to me stumbling upon him by the river. Such simple memories in a reality so detached from the everyday norm. When I finally let my eyes open and looked around I saw his ex and two kids sitting up front. I wondered what it was like to lose a dad. I still don’t know my cousin’s names. I’m right, extended family is a joke. The service ended and they exited quickly, following in their mother’s wake.
Funeral homes are stuffy and dark places that nobody likes to be in. They make everything unbearably more depressing. I don’t know if it’s the dim miserable lighting or the thick scent creating a haze in my mind and making me think too hard. Whatever it is, the moment I pushed open the door and sharp air hit my face, I forgot about those thoughts. I forgot the pessimistic jokes I told myself and cynical floating ideas. I forgot that Pat was gone. All my family followed behind already talking and laughing together at some joke. Traces of the suffocating room quickly washed from their minds by the brisk breeze and traces of pain were shrugged off. That’s how the McRae’s have always been. There is one way I am like them: I smile a lot.
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