One: Drop my daughter off at college in Oregon on a sunny day in September. Shed no tears, kiss her on the forehead, and leave her there, brimming with excitement.
Two: Race out of my classroom on the last day of school in June, knowing she has to be out of her dorm in less than 24 hours. Pick up rental van. Realize I’m an inch too short for the van and will spend the next 1,600 miles with my left foot dangling centimeters from the floor and my right knee pressing up against the dashboard.
Three: Sing along with pop songs on the radio. Remember that I have no teens in the car and can listen to whatever I want. Settle on NPR for a few hours until I’m far enough north that it’s a crackly whisper coming through the speakers. Feel smarter, full of information about world events, word origins and scientific theories.
Four: Pass through Los Angeles with little stress, listening to a documentary about OJ Simpson. Shake my head to rid myself of the refrain, “If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.” Listen to an Arthur Miller play. Barely notice the traffic. Forgo the usual cursing at idiot drivers. Glance at the clock and realize I’ve been in the car for 5 hours. Feel invincible.
Five: Find a radio station playing cheesy 80’s music, the soundtrack of my high school years. Sing along for a few songs, and then slide into maudlin silence, wondering where the years full of promise have gone. Lament being almost 50 years old, and having done nothing with my life. Punch the radio buttons in despair.
Six: Eat three taquitos from 7-11 and a bag of trail mix to keep from dying of boredom. Wash it down with steaming coffee to stay awake.
Seven: Stop and sleep for an hour at a rest stop. Wake up relieved not to have been maimed or murdered.
Eight: Worry about my daughter. Freshman year was not as easy as we had hoped. Criticize my parenting skills. Wonder if I forgot to teach her resilience.
Nine: Listen to country music. Lament the pickup trucks I’ve never owned, the gravel roads I’ve never driven, and the loyal dogs I never had at my side.
Ten: Listen to religious radio stations. Sit through so many sermons that I repent of all the sins I’ve ever committed and probably some I haven’t. Cry and swear to be a better person. Recognize that I am tired and emotional and irrational. Collapse in a cigarette-smelling Motel 6 room for a few hours.
Eleven: Gulp bad coffee and hit the road. See life more clearly in the morning light. The day is warm and sunny, and the sky is a startling blue. Pass Lake Shasta, relieved to see it full. Watch a train pass over a trestle, weaving through hills dotted with pine trees. Consider staying in Shasta for a few hours, or a few days. Remember that my daughter needs to be out of the dorms in a few hours and I am still hundreds of miles away. Shake off dreams of peaceful forests and hit the accelerator.
Twelve: Pull up in front of daughter’s dorm. Burst into tears. Too much driving, too little sleep and too much worry have taken their toll on me. Wonder if her dorm always looked so dreary. Wonder again about my parenting skills. Wonder how long I can keep my mouth shut on the drive home before beginning to pick at loose threads of conversation and unraveling the events of the last year. Wonder if everyone’s freshman year is hard. Wonder if I’m over-reacting.
Thirteen: Dry my tears and paste a smile on. The smile becomes genuine the second I hug her. Set a new world record for shortest time ever needed to pack a van. Recognize that daughter wants nothing more than to head south, the first year of college in the rear-view mirror.
Fourteen: Promise not to bring up any touchy topics. Keep my promise for half an hour. Bicker, judge, argue, criticize, console. Raise my voice. Scold her for raising hers.
Fifteen: Discuss war, politics, race, culture, gender, abortion, economics, religion. Agree. Disagree. Realize the girl in the seat next to me became an informed and opinionated adult over the past nine months.
Sixteen: Plug in my Ipod. Sing together to road trip songs she’s known since birth. Holler along gleefully to the Beatles and Mana. Nail the harmony on “Sweet Caroline.” Sing for hours until we are both calm and happy and united again. Sing until our voices are raspy and weak.
Seventeen: Pull up in front of our house. It’s been a long journey for both of us, but we’re finally home.
