Memories of arches

Not all arches are made of stone. - Photo credit: Tom Pender

In talking up the trip with other parents, they all told me, "You'll make memories." Of course we'd make memories - but what kind?

Family travel memories are a mixed bag for me:

• Like spring break in Puerto Rico when I was furious after losing all my camera gear on the ferry ride from Culebra

• Or that time in Prague when, during a spectacular day in Old Town, I went ballistic because a minor shopping mix-up turned into a stressful crowd separation

• Or that other time when I [insert bad behavior here, usually around Day 4]

Memories like that? Hmmmm. Abby and I started the trip with an explicit pact that, no matter what, we would have each other's back. I'd look out for her. She'd look out for me. We'd conquer canyons and pass through arches, moving from here to there. Making memories. Together.

The mutual commitment made for a travel dream come true:

• In tight parking lots, she was a dutiful RV spotter and backer-upper.

• We shared in the cooking AND the dishes.

• With only one bathroom, a tiny sink, and 22' to work with, we managed to give each other space.

I'd like to think our good memories were born from that pact. Maybe we just got lucky. Either way, we encountered moments that were funny, light, touching, and profound. But most importantly: heartfelt & shared.

Now back at work, the individual days have already blurred for me. 50+ years have brought a cycle of learning, forgetting, and re-learning life's lessons. This week it finally dawned on me, again: Making memories is not about remembering the particulars of when & where. The chronological account is far less important than the feelings and connections afforded by individual moments along the way.

Previously, I might have returned with questions like:

• Where exactly were we during the first snow?

• When did we discover - and recoil at - the smelly grey tank (or as Abby called it, the "pee water")

• Where did we first encounter the Mountain Mamas*? Only to see them again on another trail the next day in a different national park 100 miles away?

Does it even matter? To me, not so much anymore.

Over the years and possibly like yours, our refrigerator has been a display case of wit & wisdom. They come and go, but one truism has hung around. It's something Jan put up decades ago from her teaching days:

Children won't remember what you told them,

but they will remember how you made them feel.

This is what memories are to me now. Who cares where we were when that thing happened? The specifics may no longer be in the brain, but the feelings are still in the heart. Isn't that the value - and beauty - of memories? Maybe the bigger challenge is not remembering all the details but being present enough to experience them fully in the first place.

Despite loosening my grasp of historical accuracy, I still remember Abby's last day of elementary school with photographic precision. I recall the overcast morning, grey clouds hovering over my melancholy as I pondered my daughter's imminent departure from the innocence of the playground. While other children had long ago dismissed their parents' grip, my little girl let me hold her hand all the way to the end of fifth grade. Walking her down the hall, chatting about the day, hand in hand, are some of my best Daddy memories. Poetically, Abby's fifth grade teacher was Mrs. Arch.

We arrived at sunset for our final national park, Arches. We marveled at the day's final rays, the landscape carpeted in purple velvet. And we realized our departure, which seemed so far away at the beginning of the week, was upon us. Soon we'd be on the road for the last leg, headed back to Las Vegas and ultimately home.

In the rear view mirror, the trip itself appears as an arch. It's now time for the final hand-off of my not-so-little girl, so she can move from here to there.

And begin making memories of her own.

*A group of road-tripping women with kids out of the nest and husbands at home; enjoying spectacular vistas during the day and rounds of Mother’s Little Helper at night; on the rocks, thank you very much