I traveled on an Amtrak train from Wisconsin to Pasco, Washington to see family and celebrate the life of my uncle who recently passed away. Warning that that this post is going to discuss some topics involving death and there are images depicting animal bones. I am posting this about a week after trip as writing doesn't come easily for me and I wanted to provide enough time and distance from the events.
My train ride had been largely a very good experience, It was quite comfortable both physically and in vibe. Folks were mostly warm, welcoming, chatty, fun, yet respectful of boundaries. While discussing it with others, I would compare it to a cruise ship with airplane features. I was able to read, paint, sleep, watch videos and listen to music on my own, shared meals and socialized easily with others throughout the trip.
The train ride each way took about 38 hours (two nights and a day and a half, roughly). We arrived in Pasco, early in the morning. I took a local bus to the airport where I rented a car. The local bus drivers were super friendly, eager to help and welcomed folks aboard.
Awaiting my mom's arrival I explored, my favorite thing to do! After enjoying a wonderful meal at a local café and bakery, I found a park near the Snake and Colombia Rivers. Within minutes of stepping out, I came across animal remains--ribs and spines of a creature bigger than a dog but smaller than a deer. I whipped out my watercolor sketchbook and captured this, noting the the surrounding area was also full of charcoal trunks and branches. I wondered how a visual representation of death came across my path so quickly in my adventure.
Later that night, I found myself at an arcade bar, looking to get some fun time and burn a little energy with Ms. Pac Man. Between games, I met a nice group of stagehands who began to share a table and drinks with me. We all shared some light stories and one of the people, began talking of family trauma that impacted them in a joking, but serious way. They paused to say that the best thing their parents did for them was help them grow a spine. I could relate--not just because I had painted a spine earlier in the day. I bought them a drink and was on my way to the hotel. Conditions in which children are exposed to via their parents are guardians can make for some interesting challenges for people later in life. Family can certainly be complicated.
The following day, during and after the memorial service, my family had varying thoughts to share about my uncle. Stories were told of all kinds. Some from business partners, others who were employees. I had not known much of my uncle's success and business influence until the last few months. I knew had been a wildly successful risk-taker who created something of his own empire. He valued strength in personality and loyalty and expected people to follow his lead. A few stories of my uncle's gruff communication and love for playing craps and sharing this with his children. Again, another instance of games, but I could only think of how games can bond people and create opportunities to know one another. Many of my family didn't know my uncle even played craps. I couldn't help but think of family and it's complicated interpersonal relationships often colored by memories and verbal history that changes over the years as people change.
That night, I had a big, comfy bed rather than a coach-class seat on a train. Regardless, I couldn't sleep. My mind was spinning over the many dark secrets, half-truths, and feelings of shame and hurt that my family carries around. Again, I compared my experiences with family with that of the nice folks on the Amtrak and the bus drivers. Why was it so easy to like folks I knew nothing about? The next day I found myself a beautiful place to paint where two tree root systems were entangled with each other and exposed. Here is a reel.
Seemed a relevant subject given the situation with my family. I thought to myself that my entire life I had heard stories from my mom's family about different experiences. Many different twisted pieces of partially exposed stories rooted in bias. Stories told and shared among siblings, in-laws, cousins, and parents. How many of these stories had been completely changing over the years? There was some room for forgiveness, hope for apologies, but regardless there many unmet expectations.
Preparing to leave, I did 1.5 miles walk from the airport to a bus stop after missing my first bus. Carrying all my bags of clothes, art supplies, and food I had to stop a few times and take a break. On my way, I crossed paths with a man working on his old beater car in a parking lot. He desperately asked for assistance to turn the car key while he was under the hood. I helped for a few minutes, turning the key to no avail. I didn't want to miss my bus a second time. The man offered to drive me anywhere I wanted if he could get his car running. Luckily, a woman approached us looking to trade sweet snacks for money. I ended up trading her an instant cup of miso ramen and a quarter for two rice crispies treats. She took over helping the man so I could catch my bus, the man thanked me. I caught my bus with a man in a mobility device. We chatted a few minutes. He told me he just came back from Hawaii where he rekindled his relationship with his sister because "we're the only ones left in the family." Once on the bus and secured by the driver, everyone on the bus chatted with him and the driver. Another man wished my good luck on my journey as I got off the bus.
I got to the station and the train was delayed, but it was the perfect chance to eat. I pulled out my remaining ramen, a banana I took from the hotel at breakfast, and one of the rice crispies treats. It was a great meal that I enjoyed on an old wooden bench in a train station, reflecting on just how easy it was for those folks to ask for help but didn't expect help for free, they were willing to offer something in return. I wondered how many people of privilege would be shocked by this kind of attitude from "the poors."
I quickly fell asleep in my coach seat on the train. Burrito'd up in my sleeping bag listening to the Amish family nearby cooing and lightly clapping with an infant, a warm and supportive group with young parents.
I spoke with my mom for about an hour on the phone, we talked family. My mom has always fit in the least among her siblings. She has walked a very different path than they have. She did not chase success or business, She sought stability and predictability. There is a thick mystery left throughout her family in the wake of many different resentments, feelings of rejection, judgement, and hurt. A large amount of unmet expectations and desire for love and acceptance buried just beneath the surface. A family that used to function well despite disfunction. My mom's family used to play pinochle. I remember as a kid growing up and watching all my aunties, uncles, and grandparents uncles join in on the fun.
We ended our call somewhere in Montana, me missing my mom. I thought of all the people and situations that have hurt her, people who punished her for not meeting expectations. I couldn't help but look myself, too. How often had I had been harsh towards her? I began to feel shame and regret, my eyes swelling with tears. Does she ever think about her mother and feel regret and shame? Just when I needed something life-affirming, I heard a lively table in the lounge car discussing a dice game I knew well, ten-thousand. The small group grew with new players, including a person wearing a knitted witches' sorting hat and a Amish man who moved over to the table enthusiastically. The group was diverse in age and skill level but regardless they started rolling dice and playing the game. Laughter and the clatter of dice filled the observation car, kicking the atmosphere up a notch.
Why did my mom's family give up on playing pinochle together? Had past mistakes become grudges? Maybe vulnerability was punished? Could it be that the game reminded them too much of their parents, divorces, and other losses. Perhaps it was too painful to replace empty seats at the table.
