Number 59

Autumn in New England (part II)

So I'm home now. Actually I'm in another coffee shop (yes, I spend a lot of time in coffee shops). But this one is a Caribou Coffee, and it's in St Paul, MN. What I mean to say is that I got back home to Minnesota two days ago after one mammoth 15 hour drive. I didn't actually take the time to figure out my total mileage for the two weeks I was away, but I think 3,000 miles is a fair estimate. Perhaps I should calculate that number in kilometers as part of my drive took me through Canada. You know, that wonderful country to the north with the hot and sane national leader (sigh).

Ostensibly, this trip was about me distributing Rebecca's ashes in a few of those special places from her life.  If I evaluate the trip using only that rubric it was a wonderful success. I have a feeling of great contentment, secure in the knowledge that I finally put Rebecca to rest in a befitting way. However, the trip became so much more than that. It is not hyperbole for me to describe it one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

I left on Wednesday afternoon, October 2, from Minneapolis. I had just finished a therapy appointment. It rained on me pretty much the entire drive to Beloit, Wisconsin where I stopped for the night. The next day's drive would take me to Oberlin, Ohio where I had gone to college more than (cough, cough), 30 years ago. I had only been back a few times since I graduated and was looking forward to a walk down memory lane.

It was a weird mixture of deja vu and discombobulation. So much of the campus looked exactly the same, but then I would turn a corner expecting to see students throwing a frisbee on the quad and there would be a new building instead. I went to the physical education building to re-visit the pool where I used to swim back and forth when I was on the swim team. I told the student working the desk that I had an ID but it was off by "30 years, 50 lbs., and one gender." She smiled and let me through.

Much like Scrooge's first visit on that long ago Christmas eve, I felt that the ghosts of the past were very close. I really felt like I was taking a walk with my much younger self. We had a good visit. That night I visited one of the many new options for a meal that the town now offers. (Back in my day we had two pizza parlors and a diner). I had a great deal of fun observing that the current crop of students act pretty much the same way my friends and I did back in the 1980s.

My next stop was Scranton, PA. I picked this because I had to stop somewhere for the night, it was along my route, and, of course, The Office. The Office is one of my daughter's favorite shows, and I couldn't resist visiting some of the real world Scranton places that had been on the show. Taking selfies of myself at those places and sending them to Grace sounded like fun. There was, however, one problem (and it brings me no joy in reporting this): Scranton is a dump. I got a picture of myself in front of the "Welcome to Scranton" sign you see during the opening credits of the show, and then beat a hasty retreat. The best thing I can say about the motel where I stayed that night is that I did not catch any communicable diseases.

On Saturday afternoon, October 5, I arrived at the First Presbyterian Church of New Haven, CT. This was my first place to distribute ashes. Way back in 1993, I was singing in the church choir when a new soprano started singing with us. Her name was Rebecca, and I was smitten. She was apparently smitten, too, because we were married in that same church eleven months later. A few years later, Emma would be baptized in the same building. That afternoon, back in the present, I spoke some words to Rebecca, told her I loved her and tossed her ashes into the air.

The next morning, I was there for Sunday services. I nervously entered a building I hadn't been inside of for over 15 years. I was immediately greeted warmly by the current pastor, which served to put me at ease. In this context, "served to put me at ease," should be interpreted as "started crying lots of happy tears." I was soon surrounded by good friends I hadn't seen in far too many years. The visiting continued after the church service until the time came for me to leave.

If I say "It was a very meaningful visit," and move on my next adventure without analyzing it further, I fail to communicate to you why this entire trip became about far more than I imagined when I planned it. (1) I re-established contact with friends I thought were 'lost'  through the passage of time. (2) It re-kindled memories of Rebecca's and my life when we were in that "stupid-in-love" stage. (3) It was a time where condolences on Rebecca's passing were offered up in kind and loving ways. In that way they felt like words of healing. (As opposed to other times when cloying attempts at sympathy feel like the emotional equivalent of ripping a bandage from a fresh wound.) (4) And finally, it was a time of acceptance. Since the time that I began telling my friends and family about my transition, I have been BLESSED time and time again with words of acceptance. It doesn't matter that it's happened many times, because, even still, each and every time it happens, I am reminded that I am loved just for being myself. I simply lack the words to explain how extraordinary that feels. Each time. And it happened a lot on this trip.

 (to be continued)