Petrichor and the Arizona Sun
The Shape of Our Dignity: A collection of moments that lead to authenticity.
The air is filled with the sweetness of nature, as dark clouds roll through, heavy, in the desert sky. They look angry and eager. Flashes of lightning dance across them, like a clash of metal striking; spark! Its tangled and twisted electrified branches reach openly. The rumble, like that of what you picture coming from an old weathered man laughing deep in his belly. The rumble rolls, at first faint and distant, until it lurches headily to a crash. The dance movement counts an off-beat waltz almost. The air hangs heavy with droplets of life. Then all at once, the wall of earth’s shower smacks the ground, washing away wear from humanity. Then it comes, the air sweet, drenched in petrichor…you know you’re nearing your destination.
The warnings seem daunting, as we make our way south on I-15, heading to our weekend of reset and break. Monsoon season is especially active this year. The tropical weather caps the desert landscape. Flash floods–well known in many parts–raging in uncontrolled temporary rivers, as the dry desert floor attempts to drink as much up as it can. The wipers on the car swing, frantic, back and forth. They attempt to make visible strides, as I am hands-gripped, heart-pounding, trying to remain calm. The wife, her anxiety, and the angst car rides cause, sits right at her chest. I know this about her; she has a hard time resting.
We don’t get these moments often. Our busy lives seem to allow excuse after excuse of why we can’t. We are fortunate to have a small little getaway abode–borrowed from the in-laws–where we can lay our heads away from the busy. An oasis just far enough from home, but not too far to worry about all the things traveling by car can bring.
We counted the five hours from our origin point, mile-by-mile, as the youngest playfully continues to irritate from behind my driver’s seat…are we there yet? Kid, I wish we were there all the time; as I yearningly want to give them moments like this more often than I am able.
The twentieth time asked is about where my days of me bugging my parents the same takes me back to family vacations that always were filled with so much go, do, no sleep. The words kick in my “dad mad” mode. I have to remember, it’s all in fun. We take short breaks to let the fur kids stretch their legs. Beg for the teenagers to actually eat real food. Get asked a million questions, but they don’t want an actual answer.
I’m the kind of person who likes to explore, learn about the areas I travel to, and know its fun facts and history. One day, the kids will be grown, able to do these things themselves, and not rely on our too busy lives to make the leap toward a break. I know I’ll miss them, as they move away, make mistakes, learn, and grow on their own.
For now, the oldest in the bathroom for two hours, and the youngest arguing over phone time, is not helping my thinning hair and aging body; gray flecks peak through what was once more strawberry than blonde. Yet, I know I’ll probably miss the family banter, the arguing, and yes even the teenager in the hour plus long shower still coming out smelling like teenager.
Life didn’t seem like it could be like this twenty years ago. Twenty-three years ago, I’d lost what I thought would be my only chance at being a parent. Lost in miscarriage. Lost in coming out with the idea that being queer meant not having children. I wanted them dearly, and that loss was tragedy. Scarred from what could have been. Scarred from what it would have been.
I’m grateful to have this chance at parenthood. Being a step-dad is a blessing and a curse. I’m not the one who has known them the longest. I’m not the one who their genetics are begot. I don’t have the natural connection, nor the instinct. I chose this, as my wife gently reminds me. I chose to stay, even with kids, even with all that that means. I chose; something I feel is stronger in its will.
Thirty years ago, I was that annoying teenager for my parents. Yet, I don’t remember life as a young person after my fifteenth birthday. We were living in Yuma; dad assigned to the Proving Ground there. Life changed, dramatically, after that.
The movers arrived several days before our big Utah exodus. Mom said if we weren’t ready for them, they’d pack in all the crap anyway. I didn’t clean my room. I didn’t put things aside that I needed for the known length of time we’d be separated from our belongings. I didn’t pack my designated duffle bag–the one I used every year for young women’s camp–with my favorite pajamas and stuffed animal. I sobbed, my stuff strewn across the floor, attempting to determine what I could and couldn’t live without for the next two to three months as the moving crew worked around us packing the thirteen years of memories into boxes labeled with the the brand meant to carry you safely to your next and final destination.
I tried to keep them from moving me away from my friends'; away from the people I loved. It couldn’t be stopped, as we watched the semi truck pull away with our outdoor furniture strapped to the outside of the back swinging gates. The over-scheduled hauler carried two families’ things, heading toward the same fate that government closures and relocations brought to them.
We stayed in a crappy run down hotel in downtown Salt Lake City, as we waited out the final days of our time in what I’ve known as home, then and now, for well over 35 years. The sale on the house was finalized the day after our items shifted southwardly, freeing up the chance for my parents to purchase a more reliable vehicle that would haul my mother, my sister, the dog, the cat, and our personal affects we’d use in the next hotel rooms that awaited our arrivals.
Dad and I led the way in what would become my first car; grandma’s old ‘78 Ford Fairmont. Once a beautiful red two-tone with cushy red interior, two doors, white top roof; a beast of a boat. It had no working air conditioner, save for natures ac; the crank down windows weathered with age. Little did I know that every surface on its wide dashboard would soon become a fun place to apply science and gastronomy in the arid landscape of the Arizona desert.
The move took several days; stops my mom insisted were needed. We caravanned south on I-15. Restroom breaks were a full routine. Grab the cat from under the seat, wrestle him into a makeshift harness and leash him. He was not a happy camper during the stops, or during the trip for that matter. I feel you dude, I feel you. Next, leash up our middle-aged Miniature American Eskimo named Sheba. Check for garbage. Don’t talk to strangers. Stay together….
Stay together, the words that stand out the most in my quest to understand what happened to the Us; the family we pretended to be.
This move felt dooming, like life shattering things were our destination. I felt that the moment they sat us down in our home; the one we truly became a blended family in. I felt that as I stood watching strangers pack our things into box after box. I felt that as we made our first nights stop, destination Sin City. Hotel, of course, Circus Circus. Family and pet friendly, it once had a shine and smoke screen of amazement. It soon became old and all too familiar in the years ahead of us from this move.
It was the first night I deeply missed my older brother. He’d made the decision to stay in Utah, age 17, to not continue towards the destiny that was ahead of us as a family. We’d already made some important decisions as kids; survive and grow up to not be what we knew. He had the opportunity to do just that, and I achingly missed him every day since. After all, I wanted to be just like him; I wanted to stay behind too.
We made the next few days into site seeing, and getting to know what lay between our new home and our old one. We’d make the trip back and forth each summer and winter. We’d have grandparents come down during Arizona winters to stay with us, as the parents made plans for adult only vacations. We’d travel to and fro, making Circus Circus a stop every single time.
Yuma was the place I had my first kiss; a young gentleman who I learned from on just how I wanted to be a gentleman when I finally found me. High school dances, running in the flooded and muddy lettuce fields, playing Truth or Dare, nighttime catfishing along the Colorado River between Arizona and Mexico, my friends and I being stopped by boarder patrol every single time to search our beat up hatchback of some car brand.
Where I had my first girl crush; my math teacher who saved me from many things she didn’t know I faced at home, and who would never know I had a crush. She saved me; helping me study Spanish. I only passed my final because she taught me the word for a fruit of which she held the same first name. Where I saw in a movie my own parents wouldn’t let me watch, two women kiss; and the lady who showed me the movie seemed to be hitting on me. Where I knew what it was like to feel connected to a part of me that seemed forbidden. Where I knew my best friend was swishy and gay, and I loved him ever the more for his bravery to not let others stop him.
It became home, in all the houses of my friends, the school walls I found sanction in, and the other moms who recognized I was different, but that didn’t matter. It was the place where my friends and I learned to call the four corners of our ancestors. Where I learned to become a part of something I believed in. Where life-long friends truly have been life-long friends.
It became the place where my parents would split. My mom leaving me behind to take care of my little sister; the one who finally made enough bad decisions to warrant getting her out of there. She has her story that I’ll not tell here, accept to say that all the pain and trauma she went through at the hands of strangers was not her fault or deserved. It separated us long before our move, and still has separated us to this day.
This new place, where life moved in a different time zone, beyond the busy of Salt Lake City, that took us away from so much, was now connected to my time to make the decision to stay or leave. There I learned to drive that ‘78 Ford Fairmont; my soon-to-be divorced from my bio mom, man who I’d known longer than my bio father, the one that taught me all the things important in life dad, taking time to make sure I was going to be ok.
Even through the devastation a move can bring when you are a young teen, the mentally checked out mother with her own demons, and some of the most crucial moments in a young persons’ life, Yuma was the good and the bad. The petrichor in the air, and the buzzing of the Apache Cicadas will take me back to the happy moments, and give me a glimpse into what I remember most about my years in the Arizona sun.