Growing up in Northern California, winters were long and grey and wet. Thirty degrees was a notable low, “Mommy! It’s freezing!” I would exclaim when we headed south on 101, driving by the digital display of time and temperature, courtesy of Wells Fargo. The novelty of thirty-two degrees equating to freezing fit comfortably for me next to extreme language like “I’m starving.” We were no more freezing than we were starving. Hungry and cold, perhaps.

The first holiday we spent in the sun was when I was nine, at the Inn at Death Valley, back when there were two places to stay there—the inn and the ranch. It was at the Inn where we met the guy who voiced Tony the Tiger. Where my mom, dad and I drank endless Diet Pepsi poolside. Where there were regular sunburns. (I still associate Death Valley with the smell of Solarcaine and the feeling of cool crisp sheets against my blazing hot skin.) Traveling in and out of Las Vegas before it was child friendly, my mother got a speeding ticket going one hundred miles an hour. UPS trucks had three trailers. And I saw my first of many real mirages.

Since both of my parents have passed over, one of the things I’ve discovered is the need to review all of my memories with adult-gained knowledge. I know now that these trips may have been an effort to placate a troubled marriage, but it seemed to me all of our time “in the sun”—as we called it, no matter where we went—was the height of our mutual contentment.

After two spring breaks in Death Valley, somehow the decision was made to shift to Palm Desert. Under most circumstances, we drove the eleven-plus hours south on I5 to the 210 to the 10. Each turn got us that much closer, and of course, the bounty of windmills in the middle of a barren desert meant that we were almost ready to head south toward the Santa Rosa Mountains. Having found a place that offered Mom her tennis, Dad his golf, and me a pool, we were hard pressed to ever look elsewhere.

Whether we drove or flew, the break always began with basic unpacking from car to condominium and a giant inhale of the sweet dry warm air. A quick change into shorts and t-shirt. Then we would pile back in the car for a trip to the grocery store where we would get small quantities of mayonnaise and ketchup and peruse the aisles for all of the things I normally took for granted. Our kitchenette made it a novelty to cook and clean up. Unlike at home, I happily helped in any capacity. I brought books and often homework (especially in college), baked in the sun, jumped in the pool to cool off. Repeat. I could feel the stress fall away as my skin darkened, my hair lightened, and the three of us wove in and out of conversation, rest and sport.

Over the years we stayed in different units, and my parents strongly considered buying one, but they never did. We could always try someplace else, they said. But we never did. One year X came with us for Christmas, and then Dad died, and then there were no more trips to the desert. For all intents and purposes, no more family.

As the years evolved and separation/divorce became our reality, G and X began to venture out into the world on breaks. They shared a mutual intolerance for sitting poolside. I never wanted to leave the animals, so that reinforced the status quo. Sometimes I used them to hide the fears I was reluctant to reveal to anyone. If I had to go, I always found ways to incorporate the pets into our decisions: a van to camp/roadtrip around the US; an AirB&B that was willing to up-charge me and take the risk; and our amazing Brooklyn landlords. Each of these adventures was preceded by significant anxiety on my part and concluded with absolute radiant delight that we did it.

When it happened that G and X’s January trip got cancelled, he casually said via Facetime from Indianapolis, “Why don’t you and Mom just go to Florida for a few days?”

Um, what?

I know the irony. Road trips, moving to the city, lakeside AirB&B. All of these should be (and indeed are) incredible opportunities. What is wrong with me? As a worldly young adult, I never would have imagined feeling such anxiousness about shifting the earth beneath my feet. (In hindsight, I see this in my dad. Resistant to leave; grateful to have gone. He held these cards close to his chest, but being his kid, I saw more over his shoulder than he realized. So much more. I know now he carried his own fears.)

Here I was, faced with another impasse. I felt myself wanting to cry with frustration, but this time I interrupted my own thought process: are you really going to go through this routine again, Cress? Just start looking for flights, for God’s sake. It may not even happen.

G beat me to it. Frontier Airlines was offering a deal: $29/each way (before fees). Oh boy. It became possible very fast.

My first response was to address housing for the pets. I already had assessed local options for the dog to cover an overnight in New York if I ever needed it. First a text: could she accommodate Zee for a week? Then I called “Purradise” and asked if I could get a tour of the cat accommodations. Once sorted, I could now look at flights and hotels.

G simply wanted go somewhere warm where she could do her work. How important was the beach? Views? Activities? Fanciness? Not important. Important = sun and books. I felt the need to verify, “Just a pool is ok?” “Absolutely,” said she.

Me, to myself: a pool, books, sun? Seriously?!

I found an inexpensive place for us to stay ($87/night, before fees) near enough to the airport and a Whole Foods so there wouldn’t be much driving. We could actually do this. Trying not to listen to my irritating fears—we were going to the sun, after all—I packed. A few days later, I dropped off the pets at their respective hotels (which, I might add, wound up costing me almost as much as our hotel stay, although no additional fees for them). And it began.

We arrived, traded boots for flip-flops in the Avis parking lot, and drove twenty minutes under blue skies and assorted palm trees. Already at work, G sat in the car while I checked into the resort. We grabbed our things and carried them up to our room. Despite having reserved a one-bedroom apartment, we were given a three-bedroom, three-bath condominium with a washer, dryer and dishwasher. Better than home!

But it was more than that. G was happy in the sun, doing her research. I was happy in the sun, reading, writing, thinking. Admiring the Spanish Moss blowing in the breeze. Being visited poolside by a Giant White Egret. Watching lizards, gold finches and grackles manifest and disappear according to their own individual vicissitudes.

It was nineteen degrees at home. Real freezing.

Walking slowly along the swampy lake that bordered the property, home to alligators we never saw, I reflected on how much my parents and my memories of our time “in the sun” were abundantly alive and living on in this week. Their energy felt so fresh. Neither of them knew G well, but they are so vividly present in her. As she sat in the sun, her back to the rays, I observed the slope of my father’s shoulders. As she soaked up each and every moment of heat without needing an ounce of relief from the pool, I recognized my mother, a child of San Joaquin Valley summers, being exactly the same way. As G and I cooked our meals in the condo—and shopped for said meals—I recalled the three of us, rarely needing to go anywhere except for the grocery store, weaving in and out of our daily choices and reuniting in the evening, often just reading in each others’ company. The similarities were so significant as to make me wonder about the nature of time and space, the sides of the veil, and memory.

It felt like they were holding our space. Like they booked (and upgraded!) our stay. Like they were saying, “Everything is alright… and everything is going to be alright.”

 

 

L to R: view from our screened porch; Lake Bryan; and the Great White Egret