My brother Gordon, his wife Marian, and I had returned from our fifth road trip gathering family history. We had searched through county records, newspaper archives and historical museums, hunting for birth and death records, local articles, pictures, deeds, wills, and old maps – things you have to go to the actual places to find. We make Marian come as she has a sense of direction.
Gordon and Marian, who were in their early seventies, and I, a generation younger (note: they are now in their early 90s, and I am still a generation younger), along with whoever in the family we manage to entice to accompany us, pack what we need for two or three weeks and set out to snoop wherever anyone will let us. But we have this uncanny knack for arriving at the county museum, local library, or city hall on the day it is not open, is closed for remodeling, or just as they are locking up for the night. In the past four years we’ve explored the Sacramento Valley, the gold country of Northern California, the cemeteries of Southern California, five western states, and our father’s family farm in Minnesota, to visit cousins and take pictures of homesteads and headstones.
Our latest road trip covered 5,000 miles. We drove through Nevada, a small corner of Arizona, the Rockies of Colorado, the expanse of Wyoming, and the flatlands of Montana. An extra 500 miles was spent heading off into the wild blue yonder. Gordon won’t look at a map, so he makes Marian, but when she tells him which way to go, he doesn’t believe her. I can’t read a map and get carsick if I take my eyes off the horizon, so I stay out of it.
My brother always tries to convince me to eat at Subway. Forget it. I drag them to ethnic or organic restaurants. At dinner, I order water with no ice and a salad with no onions and a veggie burger with no mustard and could they please leave the dressing on the side. Gordon leans into me and asks through clenched teeth, “Can’t you just order something like it comes on the menu? You are like dining with Sally in When Harry Met Sally.” I snicker, “That’s not the scene that comes to my mind in that movie…”
In Nevada, our Valentine Hoy cousins graciously put us up for a night (I want to live in their house – heir linens cost more than my furniture, not to mention that Celine Dion lives in the neighborhood) and they fix us a fabulous meal (another reason I could move in with them). My brother comes into the living room and looms over me as I sit on the couch, admiring a very good copy of a Rembrandt. “How do you want your steak cooked?” I don’t eat meat, but I note the look on his face and have the common sense to say, “medium rare.” He says, “Right answer.” Our mutual ancestors were in the cattle business and for my cousin’s birthday, his wife had given him a miniature HOY branding iron. The two-inch letters burned into the steaks were a nice touch, as was the homemade strawberry ice cream. And between you and me, the steak was delicious.
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