We left the Oregon coast mid-October, just as the evenings were getting colder, with days of rain in the forecast. We took our time, mostly sticking to our 2-2-2 rule: drive no more than 2 hours each, arrive by 2 in the afternoon, and stay 2 nights. This way, we don’t get tired and cranky on the road, and it gives us time to move our bodies, and explore the area if we want to.
We stayed the first two nights in Medford, where we ran Big City errands, visited an art coop, and ate Thai food in a park. On the third day, we had reservations two hundred miles south for three nights at a casino RV Park so that Marika could bird at the nearby Sacramento Wildlife Refuge. After a summer of few bird sightings, she was delighted to see shorebirds and pelicans, a variety of ducks and hundreds of white geese.
But on the second day, the weather reports warned of big winds, which could heighten the fires that were burning on both sides of I-5 that we would be traveling. So we left a day early and paid for an extra night at our next stop near Stockton.
We drove around the back roads of the town, trying to find the big ships at the Navy Pier. We ate gyros from a food truck, checked out several farm stands, and visited a Cambodian Buddhist Temple with giant colorful statues depicting the story of Buddha’s Enlightenment.
And then big winds were in the forecast, and again, we left after just two nights and added one more night at the next stop in Bakersfield, at a man-made lake in the middle of desert and agriculture. It was a lovely, quiet spot, with a bike path and lots of families enjoying the water, but I’d never go there in the summer, when it’s probably mobbed with locals escaping the sizzling heat.
We overnighted in Banning, then spent our last night on the road at a favorite county park on the border of California and Arizona, along the Colorado River. I reveled in the water, and the grass, and the trees, and the last bit of solitude before we pulled into our usual RV park in Phoenix on the last Sunday in October.
We will be here in the Big City for the winter. We cancelled our volunteer gig at Dead Horse State Park in Cottonwood so that we could take care of my dad’s stuff, and get the house ready to sell, without time pressures.
My father was a meticulous paperwork person, and every year of papers is in its own hand-labeled banker box, dated with big magic marker numbers, all the way back to 2010, the year my mom died. For the past few years he’d been sending me emails with the subject For Your Executor folder, so I had a good idea of things. And on his last brief visit to the house two weeks before he died, he left me a new red folder on the coffee table labeled Sol’s Death Instructions.
Still, it took many deep breaths to make the phone calls to the funeral home, the insurance companies, the banks. Surprisingly, my very estranged brother even offered to help.
While we were still in Oregon, I arranged for a lovely ZOOM gathering at the burial, and friends and relatives from all over joined in to share stories of my Dad. He would have loved that we were all together, and it was free.
And then I gave myself time before taking on any of the other Executor duties until we got to Phoenix. I kept reminding myself that there was no expectation for me to hurry up and get everything done. I was sitting shiva, the Jewish custom of seven days of grieving.
And I gave myself permission to enjoy our last two weeks at the Snug, riding my bike every morning, sometimes crying, sometimes remembering, sometimes visualizing how it would be when we got back to Phoenix. But every time I got overwhelmed, I let it go, and focused on the peace and simplicity of life in the moment.
A few days before we left, we spread Cody’s ashes along the grass at the marina. Marika spread some of her mom’s ashes, too, because she would have liked the view.
And then we finally joined the migrating birds and headed south. We took our time, enjoying the slow change from ocean to forest, mountains to valleys, from Oregon, through California and finally, into Arizona.
I worried about how I would feel when we went to my dad’s house. Would I be overcome with a wave of sadness? Would I feel nothing? I told myself it would probably be something between those two extremes, that I will feel what I feel, and I just needed to focus on staying centered. Centered between extremes, and centered in myself. Grounded, stable, flexible, able to feel, and still move forward.
My dad had been living at his girlfriend Carolyn’s house in Sun City West for the past five years. They used to spend a few weeks every few months at my dad’s house, but in this past year, he’d only been there for a few days. And so when we went to the house that first Monday, his energy really wasn’t there. And it felt much like all the other times we’d stop at the house when he was in Sun City. There were dishes with leftovers in the refrigerator, tax papers piled on the dining room table, and a handwritten pencil note reminding me that the dishes in the dishwasher were dirty. So it felt like he was still alive, just at Carolyn’s.
Until I went into his room and saw his orange Samsonite suitcase, and the three banker boxes of pills and papers, the Las Vegas carry on bag filled with One Touch strips, and a laundry basket filled with his shoes – all the things that my brother had brought over from Carolyn’s house a week after he died.
I still haven’t gone through all of his things, but I have opened every dresser drawer, remembering how it was my job to put his fresh from the Chinese laundry, white, no starch, shirts, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, in his middle, shirt drawer. I’ve looked through his desk drawers and filing cabinets, and the green metal box where he kept labeled envelopes with the birth and death certificates of his parents, my brother and mother.
With all of the emotions, the executor stuff, and getting the house ready, it could all be overwhelming. But I’m able to separate each big job into its own pile, then break down the individual tasks that each involves. For example, executor things are separate from house things. And readying the house for us to temporarily live in, is different than getting it ready to sell. The piles help me take care of big things in small steps. And as I get more information about things, I know what “pile” to put it in.
And when I do get overwhelmed, I cry, I step back, and I lean into the support of Marika and my friends, and my family, until I’m ready to dive back in.
And so far it’s been OK. All of the financial and beneficiary changes are in process, and the a/c thermostat and plumbing leaks have been fixed at the house so we can move in on December 1st. We have spoken with a realtor as well as a cash-offer company, to get an idea of our options. And I keep reminding both of us that we don’t have to make any decisions right now.
In addition to all of the house things, Marika has severe osteoarthritis, and is on the path to a hip replacement in February. Staying in the house will give us a big, open, easy place to spend the winter, rent free, with no steps. And for the first time in five years, we can buy the family size of chicken breasts, and still have room in the freezer for ice cream. We’ll park the RV in the driveway, and I’m sure we’ll be taking some camping trips while we’re here.
Besides seeing doctors and dentists, food shopping and picking up take out, we have been limiting our contact with the world. We did get together with some dear friends, maintaining safe distance and practices the entire time.
The one constant through all of this is my morning bike ride. Every place we camped, I found a place to pedal. There was a multi-use trail along Bear Creek in Medford, a bike path along the edges of the park in Bakersfield, and where there wasn’t a designated place, I rode around the park and parking lots.
I even experienced a bucket list item – riding my bike on a golf course. It was glorious to pedal on the paved, rolling hills, with moist grass on one side and tall dry grasses on the other, watching the sun set.
Now here in Phoenix, the roads through the RV park are rough with a lot of tall speed bumps, which does not make for a fun ride. After a few days I ventured to the next door apartments parking lot, and then further, to the church parking lot down and across the street.
And it is divine. I ride along the sidewalk to get there, just down the block and a little ways down to 27th Avenue, around the corner and into the lot. And then I’m home free, peddling up and down the lanes, across the lines, around the light poles, circling and figure eighting my worries away.
Sometimes I cut my wheel across the lines in sharp angles, which makes me think of my dad, which makes me cry. Sometimes I visualize the yard sale we’ll have, or work out the details of the new Heart Sparks chakra group I’m creating. Sometimes I just listen to the wild screams of the kids in the playground next door, and think, how wonderful that they have the freedom to let it all out.
And so I take my cues from them. I make a few calls, sort through a few boxes, and add more to do’s to the house readying list. And when it gets too big and too much, I cry and let it all out. And then I’m ready to go again.
This is how you move through any kind of change. You hold on, and let go, and scream and cry when you need too. Then you look around you and lean in, and you see, you’re really doing just fine.
