- As my husband pulled out of the driveway, after our collective prayers for a safe journey, and my repeated passes of the house to make sure I packed every single thing we own, we were finally on our way. The van was filled with childlike excitement from kids and adults alike even as stacked bags threatened to fall upon us and smother us in travel toiletries. From the back seat my three year old was jabbering away, understandably, but I caught a few snippets of “dark” and “under water,” and realized my husband must have told her about the tunnel that runs under water in Mobile, Alabama. Despite my excitement, I winced for a moment, thinking about the tunnel.
- I, too, had always found great excitement over the tunnel. Not just because it was incredibly cool and unlike anything in my small town, but also because it meant you were getting close. My family took vacations to the beach when I was a kid almost every year. In fact, for my parents honeymoon to the beach, they took me along. That’s the thing. When I think of the beach, I think of my family vacations growing up. It was always a really fun time. Even when I had moved away and joined the Navy, I still returned home in the summer to go to the beach with the rest of the family. Such happy memories, but also sad. When I think of that tunnel, I think of my mom. She would roll the window down as we entered the tunnel and whistle the whole way. I don’t mean one of those little puckered-lip whistles either. She could do one of those finger in your mouth, really loud, bust your eardrum whistles (it was how she called me home from playing outside as a kid). She would whistle that crazy loud whistle out the window as we drove, continuing the entire length of the tunnel. Whether I was eight or twenty-eight, that made me smile a mile wide. It was the anthem that ushered us into our beach vacation. I guess sometimes even happy memories can make you a little sad, missing the times you once had.
- I recently was going through my file cabinet and a small rectangular envelope caught my eye. There was actually a stack of them, and as I pulled the envelopes, complete with addresses and stamps, from the bottom of my junk, I knew what they were. When my mom died, condolences were issued, many people sending gifts, cards, flowers, and such. I was tasked with writing the thank you notes to the people I knew personally, such as co-workers and old Navy friends, who had sent something. I wrote them. I addressed them. I put stamps on them. Then I let them sit on my coffee table. And sit some more. Then I finally picked up the stack and dumped it into a drawer. I couldn’t bear to mail them. Somehow mailing those thank you notes signified a finality to me that I wasn’t ready for. Mailing them meant saying goodbye for real. Sometimes it’s hard to say goodbye. It seems easier to just throw your farewells in a drawer and forget about them. When memories surface sometimes and make a lump form in my throat, I wonder just what all I’ve shoved in the bottom, underneath a bunch of stuff, just to forget, and not have to deal with.
As we sail along the dark blacktop, and the children become silent, lulled to sleep by the motion despite their eagerness, I think of the tunnel. This is our second trip to the beach for our little family, and I realize we are making our own memories, memories that my girls will carry after I am gone. Perhaps it’s time to incorporate the good times I remember with the good times to be had, not letting times past sadden me, but allowing times to come to encourage me. I can remember, but with happiness as my own family vacation memories are forged. I can’t wait to get to the tunnel! Although it won’t be as loud, I’m going to do it. I’m going to whistle the whole way!
That is all 🙂