Driving with My Father 

To give my brother and his wife a break, I take my 97-year-old, Alzheimer's riddled dad for a couple of days every month. By mid-morning, I'm stir-crazy and Dad is getting antsy. So, the days go something like this:

"Hey Dad, it's Sunday, how about a drive?" Never mind that yesterday was Sunday and tomorrow will be Sunday, too.

Dad loves a drive. He is down the steps before I can grab his elbow and keep him steady. Impatiently he pulls at the car door, then settles himself in the passenger seat where I buckle him in. Invariably, he looks at me and apologizes for not helping with the driving because, "That S.O.B. took my license away."

There are lots of good drives in Humboldt. Sometimes we head to Founder's Grove and Avenue of the Giants. Dad loves the big trees. "That's a big one," he says pointing out the window. And, one minute later, "That's a big one." I enjoy the reminders that each tree is uniquely worthy of attention.

State Route 36 is also a good drive. At Alton, the log deck depresses me, but it astonishes Dad and he teaches me to see it without preconceived notions about what it represents. It is pretty amazing seeing all those logs in one place. Dad also enjoys the curves of the road. "That's the way," he says, his left hand swooping and mimicking the curves. In my Dad's lexicon, good driving equals a good person. I'm 64 but I bathe in Dad's praise like I was 14.

Today, I hanker for a crab sandwich, so we head out toward Trinidad and the Seascape Restaurant. As we pass Loleta, Dad nods with quiet satisfaction, "This sure is pretty country."

I take the trip from Fortuna to Eureka a lot. I'm on autopilot, mainly worrying about whether Dad can hold his urine until we get to the restaurant. I'm wondering if the library is open in case we need a bathroom stop. My father's comment brings me back into the here and now. I see again that even the ugly places in Humboldt are beautiful.

As we head north through the mishmash of architecture that is Fifth Street, Dad points to one building after another. Toward the end he gets a little impatient, "This is a long town."

I nod and try to point out the incredible painted power boxes on every corner. At the stoplight on Fifth Street, I show him the trompe l'oeil mural on the courthouse with its illusion of giant beams sticking out into thin air. This is not a good mural for someone with his type of dementia; he doesn't understand why they don't just finish the damn building. I point out the jail. He used to work in law enforcement. He's pleased to see the beige and red checkerboard facade.

As we go between Eureka and Arcata, Dad's head droops. He loves driving but often falls asleep. I used to be insulted — I was creating carbon debt, wasting gas putting in my best effort to please him, he ought to stay awake. Now, I just enjoy the quiet. It's nice that he's at peace. I watch the sun glinting off the tidal flats and enjoy the egrets feasting beside the road.

I wake Dad as we go through McKinleyville and top the rise that looks over Clam Beach. This is possibly my favorite view anywhere. I love the long sequences of breakers rolling in, crashing and foaming against the yellow sand, the sea stacks and Trinidad Harbor shimmering in the misty distance. I'm absorbed by how vast the ocean is and how small the land is. I remind myself humans are 60 percent saltwater. Beaches are our home place.

Beside me, Dad nods in appreciation. "Pretty," he says.

As we pull up the hill on the other side of Clam Beach, I point out the elephant form in the rock just before the Westhaven exit. Dad is singularly unimpressed, though — "Of course" he saw the elephant in the "dumb" rock.

We take the off ramp to Trinidad and Dad does his hand-mimicking-curve thing as we turn sharply into the town proper. One steep downhill and we have reached the Seascape.

I think we might take a short walk along Trinidad Head trail or out the pier to see otters, or at least a few seals. Not unexpectedly, Dad declines. His gait is unstable and even with me holding his hand, he fears falling. We stick to the pavement and make our way to the restaurant.

The crab sandwich turns out to be over our budget, so I order clam chowder for both of us. Totally delicious. I know Dad liked it, too, because he rated it "not so bad," which is Dad code for exceptional. He sleeps all the way back to Fortuna.

It's the last time Dad comes to visit. He dies just a few weeks later. Though driving is hardly my idea of the consummate outdoor adventure, for an old man with dementia and an unsteady gait, it turned out to be perfect for both of us.

Lauri (she/her) lives on a Dinsmore homestead with a neurotic dog, crazy cat, 12 weird chickens and a husband who defies adjectives. She misses Dad.