We left St. Louis on the Fourth of July. Independence Day. It seemed to fit, though I'm not sure what exactly we were wanting or needing independence from. At the very least, leaving Missouri on a holiday that centers around post-sunset displays of colorful explosions gave us something to liven up what would have otherwise been a drive through one of the most boring states in the country--Oklahoma (second only to Kansas, which fortunately we were able to avoid).
It's not that our house in St. Louis was really all that big, because it wasn't. But the place must have been packed to the gills because it turns out we have a lot of stuff. In the months leading up to our move, we sold, gave away, threw away, and donated what seemed like everything we owned, and yet we still filled up the trunk of my G6, the bed of Jack's F150, and every available square inch of a 12' x 6' U-haul trailer. Bear in mind that the trailer contained almost no furniture--just boxes and boxes and boxes. We did bring our bed (which is now in the guest bedroom) and our small dining room table and its two matching chairs, but we left the sofas and loveseats, the tvs, the entertainment center, the dressers and nightstands, the other bed, and the other dining sets with family and friends who could make better use of it than we could.
We had made the executive decision not to unpack any of our plethora of wedding gifts so that they would remain securely packed for the drive to California. Of course, that also meant that we didn't need to bring any of our old dishes, kitchen appliances, pots and pans, etc. In fact, looking back on it, I'm not really sure what we did put in those dozens and dozens of boxes.
It took the better part of the morning and into the afternoon on the 4th for us, with the help of our gracious and exceedingly patient parents, to load everything up. I'm fairly certain that my hangover from Tara and Craig's party the night before had sufficiently dehydrated my entire body, because I managed not to cry at all during the hours of packing and loading. It wasn't until the last trip through the house to pick up the cat and put the dogs on their leashes that it all set in.
I hated that house. I really really hated that house. With it's knotty pine-paneled walls (that Jack swears must have value to someone) and it's completely unusable floorplan, I didn't like it from the first day Jack owned it. But when it was time to leave that damn house, I found that there was no other place I really wanted to be. With all of our furnishings out of the way, the house looked bright and open and even, dare I say, cheerful--a striking contrast from the dark, smelly rundown shit hole he had bought back in 2003. And even though Jack let me bring every picture and every memento we could fit in the U-haul, there were some things that we just couldn't pack along. That house was the first place we ever lived together. It's also where (and why) we once broke up. It was in our bedroom in that house that Jack got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, and it was in that basement moments later that we drank champagne out of green plastic beer steins to celebrate our engagement with nearly every friend we had in the world. That house was the site of many theme parties, game nights, BBQs, poker nights and casual get togethers. That house had been ours--for better or worse, nasty wood paneling and all--and no matter how hard I wished for it to happen, we just couldn't bring all the history those walls contained along with us.
Before we got into the cars, my mom snapped some pictures of us standing on our front porch. Although I've not yet seen them, I imagine they must be dreadful (no makeup, sweaty, wet from giving the dogs a bath, tears running down my face), and yet I'm so glad to know there is some digital proof of us in front of the little house on The Hill that was our first home.
Because our new apartment in California would not allow two big dogs and a cat, we had long ago made the decision to have Lizzie (our yellow lab mix) live with my parents for a while until we get settled some place that she can come be with us again. People asked us how we chose Mason over Lizzie and the answer was simple--no one would really want Mason. Cute as hell, but with no manners to speak of, we knew we might be the only people who could put up with him. And besides, he was our first and, as between the two of them, the one more suited to apartment living. I knew Lizzie would be okay--probably even better than okay since my parents are sure to spoil her absolutely rotten and she might actually get some peace without Mason chewing on her 24 hours a day--but we weren't sure how Mason would adjust to life without Liz. Nevertheless, we handed over her leash and, with a big dopey doggie smile on her face, she jumped into Yaz's truck with a lot less apprehension about this new adventure than I was feeling.
Saying goodbye to Tara and Holly and the rest of our friends the night before was dreadful, but saying goodbye to my mom was even worse. I couldn't even say the words--I merely squeaked them through sobs. Yaz walked me to my car, left me with some words of wisdom for the journey ahead, and then we were off. Mom, Yaz, John and Cris stood on the sidewalk and waved goodbye, but with tears pouring down my cheeks, I could barely make them out. I glanced over my shoulder just once to say my own goodbye to our little house, but I didn't stop crying until the familiar sight of the Arch had long faded in my rearview mirror.
We drove straight through to Amarillo that night, but not without a few short breaks along the way. Jack had Mason in his truck, and I had our black diva (cat), Mis, in my car. Fortunately, both of our pets are well-traveled and good in the car. Mason was asleep within ten minutes and that's how he stayed until we stopped for gas the first time just outside of Springfield, Missouri. Mis roamed around the car for about thirty minutes before she settled in on the armrest between my front seats. Later she actually crawled into her little kennel (which she previously loathed with pure, unadulterated hatred) and that was where she spent the remainder of our trip.
The aforementioned most boring state in the country provided very little sight-seeing from the road (unless you count numerous cars towing other cars, pickup trucks towing other trucks, or a school bus towing a delivery truck and a red car). Our second stop was on the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma for dinner. We ate at a Pizza Hut--the first restaurant we came to on a long toll road that had very few exits--and sat near the window to monitor the pets in the cars outside. The sun was setting as we paid our bill, and as soon as we were back on Highway 44, the Fourth of July fireworks began and didn't stop until we were into Oklahoma City. As we drove I imagined the phenomenal display that would be going on on the St. Louis riverfront at that moment, and thought of my friends all together at parties and BBQs around St. Louis (and I managed not to cry this time), but I was thankful nevertheless for the small community fireworks displays we caught from the road. Talking to each other on two-way radios, I wished Jack a happy Fourth of July and we forged on toward Amarillo.
Just about the time the fireworks displays were ending, God's own display seemed to begin. Western Oklahoma and northern Texas were in the midst of a several week long string of storms, and we were about to drive into the heart of one. For the first forty minutes or so, there was only lightening--no rain. But when the rain started, it started. Stuck in a construction zone with poorly graded roads, the water wasn't really running off so much as just sitting in the road. For at least 20 miles of the trip I didn't drive my car; I water skied in it. There were times I thought I might burst into tears because, unable to see the road through dense sheets of rain and unable to control where I was going because of the hydroplaning, I was certain I (or Jack) would drive right off into blackness.
When we pulled into the La Quinta Inn in Amarillo at 3:00am, the rain had stopped but God's fireworks display was still well underway. Nevertheless, 2.5 seconds after my head hit the pillow I was out and couldn't have cared less about fireworks or anything else.
Day two proved much less eventful. We drove from Amarillo to Phoenix, stopping at some rest stop in New Mexico for lunch and at a mexican restaurant in the middle of Arizona for dinner. The weather was clear and hot and the sights were, well, novel (see pics below of dinosaurs, etc.). We had a gorgeous desert sunset and a fairly smooth drive. Notwithstanding a brief run-in with some tumbleweed somewhere near Flagstaff and a span of miles in which we were certain Arizona must have outlawed service stations, we made it safely to to another La Quinta Inn in Phoenix. Upon arrival Jack promptly lost the cat (we found her two floors up from our room, huddled in a corner and howling) but crisis averted, sleep was welcomed.
Day three was blessedly short. We had only six hours in the car from Phoenix to San Diego and, although hot as hell, it went by much quicker than the past two days. Excepting the spat we had when Jack failed to make the turn to follow me onto the highway (nothing like fighting via two-way radio), we managed to get along all the way through to the end. The cat and dog, sound asleep, hadn't even seemed to notice we had traversed 1800 miles.
We pulled into our new complex at about 3:30pm on Friday, July 5, signed no fewer than 15 pages of paperwork, got our keys and dropped off the cat in our apartment before we headed to a hotel for the night.
Some pics from the trip:
(Note that most were taken WHILE I was driving, so pardon the blur and funny angles. Mouse over the individual pictures for captions.)
