California
I'm in L.A. and I find myself thinking about my dad more than I anticipated. Which is silly because my dad spent a couple of years here in his late teens, and he would often talk about his time in California.
I wish I had listened more carefully, instead of listening in the way that you hear it but you don't rehearse it to memorize it, because you're fairly sure you'll hear the stories a few more times.
Here's what I do remember.
He moved out here to go to a Baptist bible college in San Dimas that no longer exists. He used to say that, growing up in the Baptist tradition, he was taught to believe the only legitimate vocations for a Christian were pastor or missionary. So, he went to bible college.
Why he went all the way across the country to L.A. to do so? I'm not sure. Maybe he wanted to get as far away from home as he could.
He was putting himself through school, and got a job with a man named Bill. Bill owned a tow-truck company. And that's what my dad did for work. He drove a tow-truck, and Bill used to call him at all hours and say, "Tim, we need a pick-up on so-and-so street." Or something like that.
Daddy eventually moved in to some kind of rental apartment that Bill owned, and I remember he said his roommate was a total slob. I'm sure my dad contributed to the mess, too.
During that time, my dad drove all the way home to Maryland in his little convertible. I can't remember what the occasion was. I wish I'd asked him where he stopped on the way, if he stopped at all–did he ever see the Grand Canyon? I also remember his car didn't have a radio. Can you imagine? All those hours alone with your thoughts?
I remember him talking about avocados–all the ripe avocados you wanted. You could just pick right off the trees.
San Dimas is on the northeast side of Orange County. I'm in Huntington Beach, a short walk from the Pacific Ocean. I wonder if he ever came to Huntington Beach, walked on the pier, swam in the ocean? Did he ever try surfing? Probably not, because he wasn't a confident swimmer. He never had lessons as a child and strong ocean currents made him nervous. But, boy, did my dad love the beach.
I'm sitting on the beach on a towel that's about to get soaked by a sudden big wave, digging trenches in the sand with my heels. My dad used to do that. When we went to the beach, he would post up in his chair under the umbrella, and swing his legs forward and back to make deep trenches in the sand. He might read a book, or not. He just loved to sit and look at the water, hear the waves breaking and smell the salt air.
I wonder what other parts of L.A. my dad went to? As I drive through Newport Beach and Costa Mesa, I wonder, did he ever come here? I'm sure it looks far different now than it did in the late 70's.
Did he ever party at a grungy beachside bar, or take a girl on a date here? I know my dad had a few wild years–a tame wild, but wild nonetheless. Drinking and dating girls, maybe a little weed here and there, although I seem to remember him not liking the experience of being high.
I wish I could ask him about these things. And this makes me wonder–when I see him again, in heaven, whatever that means or looks like–will I be able to ask him about those things? If all sorrow and sin and regrets are gone in heaven, if every tear will be wiped away, will we remember the hard things on earth? Will we be able to talk about mistakes we made, the lessons we learned?
Maybe we will, but they won't hold any sadness for us anymore. I'd like to think so. I'd like to think the hard and sad and bad have eternal meaning for us, even if they don't have eternal weight.
I'm sitting on the beach in L.A., thinking about my dad, and I find myself homesick. I don't often feel homesick on trips. I'm usually a good traveler and adjust fairly easily from one place to another. Still, this morning I'm alone and there's a thick marine layer covering the sea and land, and I wish I could go home.
But even then, what home am I longing for? My mom in Annapolis? Or my new home in Lynchburg? Some sense of place and belonging is eluding me.
As I sit here, thinking about my dad and wishing I could ask him more, wishing I had paid more attention when I had the chance, the fog starts to clear and I can feel the sun on me. I look up and around, and see that the rest of the beach is still cloudy and hazy. It's just on this little stretch of beach where I'm sitting that the sun is shining through and clearing my view for the blue sky beyond.
And I think I hear God say, "Your home is with me, child."
My dad lasted a couple of years at college in L.A. He was overworked trying to pay his way through school. He caught mono, quit school, sold his car, and flew home. Later, he found out that he hadn't actually quit school because he had already been academically withdrawn from the classes he was failing. That was the end of his California adventure.
Well, dad, I can relate. My trip to California also came to an unfortunate end. I flew home with the beginnings of that sickness-which-will-not-be-named, very glad to return to the east coast and to Virginia, as humid as it is. It may not be home forever, but it's home for now, and that's good enough.