“Just the Nuclear Family” My Daughter Said About Thanksgiving, So I Drove to California Alone…

The Open Road and the Redwood Giants

I spent the next week planning. I mapped out the route: Vancouver to Seattle to Portland to the coast Highway 101.

Down through Oregon into California: Crescent City, Eureka, the Avenue of the Giants. I’d stay in motels, eat at roadside diners, and stop whenever I wanted to stop.

I’d take my time, make it a week-long trip. Leave the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, come back the following Tuesday.

I didn’t tell Rachel. I didn’t tell James.

I just packed my bag, loaded up my old Camry, and left. The drive was beautiful.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed being on the road. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it since Patricia died.

We used to do all our road trips in this same car. It had nearly 300,000 km on it now but it still ran fine.

Patricia used to say this car would outlive both of us. She’d been wrong about that, but only because she died too young, not because the car died too soon.

I took my time. I stopped in Seattle for lunch and walked around Pike Place Market.

I’d been there before years ago but it felt different now. Like I was seeing it with fresh eyes, not just as a stop on the way to somewhere else.

But as a place in itself. I bought a coffee from the original Starbucks.

Not because I even liked Starbucks, but because Patricia had always wanted to do that and we’d never gotten around to it. I got to Portland by evening.

Found a small motel near the river. The next day I drove the coast highway.

The Oregon coast is stunning in late September. The tourist crowds are gone.

The weather’s cool but not cold. And the light has that soft golden quality that photographers love.

I stopped at overlooks and took pictures on my phone. Not selfies; I’ve never been comfortable with selfies.

Just pictures of the ocean, the rocks, and the lighthouse at Cape Blanco. By Friday I was in the redwoods.

I drove through the avenue of the giants. Those massive trees towering overhead.

Some of them a thousand years old, 2,000 years old. They’d been here before Canada was a country.

Before my great great great grandparents were even born. They’d be here long after I was gone.

There was something humbling about that. Something that made my problems with Rachel seem very small.

I parked at one of the trails and walked among the trees. It was quiet, not silent.

You could hear birds, wind in the branches, a creek somewhere nearby. But quiet in the way that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own heartbeat.

I thought about Patricia. I thought about how much she would have loved this.

I took out my phone and took a picture of one of the largest trees. A giant so wide around that five people holding hands couldn’t encircle it.

And then on impulse I turned the camera around and took a selfie. Me in my old blue jacket that Patricia bought me for my 60th birthday.

Standing in front of this ancient tree, smiling. I looked at the photo.

I looked happy. When was the last time I’d looked happy?

I posted it to Facebook. I hardly ever posted on Facebook.

My account was mostly dormant, something I’d made years ago because Rachel said I should stay connected. But I posted this photo.

I didn’t write much, just: “Patricia always wanted to see the redwoods. Finally made it. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.”

I put my phone back in my pocket and kept walking. I spent another hour on the trail.

Sat by the creek and ate a sandwich I’d picked up at a grocery store in Eureka. The sun was filtering through the trees in long golden beams.

I felt peaceful. More peaceful than I’d felt in months, maybe years.

When I got back to my motel that evening my phone was buzzing. I’d left it in the car because I wanted to have the walk without distractions.

Now looking at the screen I had 17 missed calls. 13 from Rachel, four from James, a flood of text messages.

My hands started shaking. Something must have happened.

Someone must be hurt. Why else would they call so many times?

I called Rachel first. She answered on the first ring.

“Dad! Oh my god, where are you?” “I’m in California,” I said.

“What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” “What do you mean you’re in California?”

“You’re supposed to be in Vancouver!” “I’m fine Rachel. I’m on a trip.”

“Why were you calling? What’s the emergency?” “The emergency is that you’re in California!”

“I saw your Facebook post. You’re at the Redwoods! Who are you with?”

I was confused. “I’m alone.”

“You’re alone? Dad, this is insane!” “Why would you drive to California alone?”

“Because I wanted to see the redwoods. Patricia always wanted to.”

“Is this because of Thanksgiving?” “Are you upset about Thanksgiving?”

I took a breath. “No Rachel, this has nothing to do with you.”

“It clearly has everything to do with me!” “You’re making a statement.”

“Posting photos on Facebook, making sure everyone sees you’re off having a great time somewhere else.” “I posted one photo.”

“One photo is all it takes Dad!” “Do you know how this looks?”

“Greg’s parents saw it. They asked me why you weren’t spending Thanksgiving with us.”

“I had to explain that we’d made other plans. And now they think I excluded you, which makes me look terrible.”

I felt something shift in my chest. Something that had been sitting there heavy and quiet suddenly became sharp and hot.

“You did exclude me, Rachel.” There was silence on the other end.

Then: “That’s not fair.” “Nuclear family,” I said.

“That’s what you said. Nuclear family.” “Just you and Greg and the kids.”

“Except somehow Greg’s parents were also included in that definition, but I wasn’t.” “Dad, that’s different.”

“They were already planning to visit. It would have been rude to tell them they couldn’t come for Thanksgiving.”

“But it wasn’t rude to tell me I couldn’t come?” “You’re not—” she stopped.

“That came out wrong.” “I’m not what? Finish the sentence.”

“You’re not in the same situation. You live alone.”

“You don’t have anyone else depending on you. Greg’s parents have each other; they’re a unit.”

“It made sense to include both of them.” “And I’m just one person, so I’m easier to exclude?”

“I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.”

I heard her take a breath. “Dad, you’re twisting my words.”

“I invited you to brunch the weekend after. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I was trying to make things easier. It’s hard hosting a big crowd.”

“And with Greg’s parents staying with us, the house is already full. And the kids have their activities and—”

“And I’m just too much trouble.” “Stop putting words in my mouth!”

Her voice was sharp now, defensive. I realized we were fighting. Really fighting.

We hadn’t fought like this since she was a teenager and I told her she couldn’t go to some concert in Seattle with her boyfriend. She’d yelled at me then that I didn’t understand her life, that I was old-fashioned and controlling.

I’d stood my ground. She’d gone to her room and slammed the door.

Patricia had mediated the way she always did, and by the next morning everything was fine. But Patricia wasn’t here to mediate now.

“I have to go,” I said. “I’m tired from driving.”

“Dad, wait.” I hung up.

My hands were still shaking. I sat on the edge of the motel bed staring at the blank TV screen.

Seeing my own reflection in the black glass. An old man in a blue jacket, alone in a motel room in Northern California, fighting with his daughter on the phone.

My phone buzzed again. A text from James: “Dad, call me please. Rachel’s freaking out.”

I didn’t call. I turned off my phone and went to bed.