Like a vagabond through the distance

An ode to my grandfather, my favorite vagabond

My grandfather was a vagabond. Well, not actually. He was a welder, born in Mexico City, though he would spend his life denying it due to the bigotry and racism he encountered in 40s Los Angeles for being from “across the border”. He told everyone he was born in Spain, a European, and had married a first-generation American—my grandmother. She was born to actual European immigrants, coming from Denmark (my great-grandmother) and Germany (my great-grandfather).

My grandfather had an infectious laugh. He loved big band music and Mariachi. But more than that, he loved the long and winding road. He would drive anywhere. All you had to say was, “Let’s go?” and he’d be ready and waiting behind the wheel. He managed to make any holiday an excuse to pack up the van, or later, the RV, and go off to discover someplace new.

Me and my grandfather, 1970

My grandmother was more of a home and hearth type. She was never fond of life on the road, though she always came along for ride, often sitting in the farthest back spot, complaining about the twists and turns, the heights on travels that took up to mountains and cliff sides, sometimes threatening that she wanted to be let out and would find her way back home. I wonder now if she protested too much. If there was something in the bickering and heated words between them, while he continued to drive, that she enjoyed.

Maybe I want to believe that because it is hard for me to fathom why she wouldn’t have loved every minute of every trip, like I did.

My grandfather let me ride shotgun. He gave me the coveted job of navigator, of opening the complicated folds of a map that was too big for my small arms. The job included being an eagle eye for all things interesting, to point out any roadside attractions, and to help choose the best spots for a meal or a soft-serve ice cream cone. I quickly learned that the smaller, unassuming diners were the best choice, and that a story could be crafted out of anything we came across.

We used to be the only two still awake and talking, on the road, as we rolled through the desert in the middle of the night. We would build on stories that one or the other would start, inspired by a lone, misshapen cactus, or a counter clerk with an unusual laugh who rang us up for a full tank of gas and glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

My grandfather taught me the love of the road and of telling stories. In many ways, he helped shape the writer I am today. I know when my restlessness hits, the first thing I long for is to get in the car and go. Sometimes it is a weakness of mine, a lack of desire to stay in one place for too long. My stick-to-it-ness with anything beyond my children has often been a struggle.

At times, though, it has been one of my finest strengths. It has made me flexible and agile. Capable of starting over; knowing that I can start over, that it is always an option. It has saved my life before in more ways than I care to express today.

I know that I see the world differently because of him.

I see possibilities and histories, and tales to tell about everyone I come across. I often burn to write them all down while I’m in the midst of an on-the-road experience. I know that my vagabond soul and the writer that I am are part of my grandfather’s legacy, passed on to me.

I wish I could travel back in time and tell him how much he meant to me. How much he helped shape the woman I am— a writer, a traveler, a vagabond, a survivor, a lover of change, and of the road itself.

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