How a Road Trip Becomes a Funeral Procession

People seem to think Aaron and I travel a lot, and I suppose that might be accurate. We’ve tried to see as much of the world as we can together. Aaron visited me while I was on study abroad in Rome in 2002, and I got to show him the city I had been calling home for four months. For spring break in 2005, we spent nine days in my Ford Focus, driving from Mount Pleasant to New Orleans, out to Texas, and back home—and we slept in the car for half of those nights. A trip from southern Illinois to Pittsburgh, PA to visit Aaron’s brother turned into a jaunt to Niagara Falls, because why not? And in 2012, we spent just over a week in India to shoot a promotional video for CMU. When Aaron has to travel for a work-related conference, I sometimes go with him so that we can spend more time together.

During the planning stages of this road trip, a lot of people were curious about how we thought it would go. Isn’t that a long time to be away from home? Do you think you can handle sleeping in a car for a month? How are you going to handle the day-to-day stuff, like hygiene and meals? But wouldn’t it be easier in a real camper? You’ll stay in hotels some of the nights, though, won’t you? (To answer that last one: yes, occasionally). Some people have even wondered what it will be like for us to spend that much time together, possibly because they are thinking of their own relationships and wondering if they could handle the same. A lot of people have told me they’re jealous of all the things we’ll see, but question how we’ll tolerate “roughing it” the way we’ve planned. But that’s the key: Aaron and I planned the kind of trip we wanted to take because of who we are and how we approach travel (and, ultimately, life).

We agree on a lot of things, but we each approach travel a little differently. It’s a combination of our personalities, plus how we were raised. He’s a planner; he likes to know all the details, figure out the logistics, know what’s going to happen at all times, and be able to plan for everything to go wrong. I need flexibility when I travel; I prefer to act on my whims, make unplanned stops, seek out weird or interesting places in the middle of nowhere, cut trips short or add days if I feel like it. Our common ground is that we want to experience as much as possible for as little money as possible, because we both grew up in frugal households. We’ve spent the years cultivating both our sense of adventure and our ability to work through all those not-so-perfect moments, because I’m prone to travel-induced meltdowns (but I’m working on it, and we both know the warning signs well enough to prevent the worst ones).

For us, traveling is also part of our identity as a couple. Even though we’ve known each other since elementary school, and have been friends with each other’s brothers for years, we didn’t really get to know each other until a class trip to Washington, D.C. seventeen years ago. I wasn’t even supposed to be on that trip; Aaron and my brother Steve were in the class, our moms and my grandma were chaperoning, and there was a space. Four days later, we knew we wanted to marry each other. Getting to share that experience as the basis of our relationship means a lot to both of us. I will forever owe a debt of gratitude to my Mom for helping me meet my husband—even though she didn’t plan that part. She was just helping me see more of the world outside Pinconning, any way she could find.

Mom taught me that it’s okay to want to escape everyday life sometimes. Some of my best memories with her are the impromptu trips that happened when she asked me, “Do you want to go somewhere?” and we’d just get in the car and end up at the beach in Tawas or at a county fair halfway across the state. She showed me that the unexpected can sometimes be better than the plan. She also taught me that traveling isn’t about destinations so much as experiences, especially when they can be shared with people you love, and if you can laugh about all the things that go wrong. Like the time when Mom, Aunt Vicky, and Gramma Rice visited me in Rome. We took a trip to Venice that resulted in us having to sleep outside on the steps of a church on some cardboard boxes because there were no hotels available. The four of us wore socks on our hands and had to use an alley as a bathroom, because the pay toilets closed at 9 pm. As miserable as it was, it was also one of the best experiences because we laughed so much at our own poor planning and misfortune.

Traveling doesn’t just show us more of the world; it forces us to question our place in it. We have to figure out where we’re going, but also where we’ve been. Each place leaves its mark on us, adding nuance to what we thought we knew about each place, the people in it, and ourselves. Even packing a suitcase (or in this case, the back of a hearse) requires some introspection: what do I think I will need to bring with me to experience where I’m going the way I want to? Gathering our possessions made us think about our expectations of the places we’re going, and ourselves. Aaron’s a Boy Scout through and through, so his goal was to increase our self-reliance, so that we can stop anywhere we want and have what we need.

The grind of everyday life can make it hard to see through the chaos and figure out what you really need, versus what you think you want. Traveling strips away those things: the nagging daily worries from work, the housework that’s never done, the shower that needs fixing, the other shower that also needs fixing—all of that can wait until you get home. Traveling, the way we do it, makes us feel more alive and more ourselves. We have to figure out how to meet our most basic needs, and the rest of what we do is completely up to us. To have that freedom is an invaluable gift, and it’s something I’m finding I need to help me process who I’ve become since losing my Mom.

Mom died 11 months ago yesterday. When I first got the phone call from the Midland ER, they told me they had my Dad there, but they didn’t know where my Mom was. In my panic and confusion, I thought that meant she had left the hospital and driven somewhere else. A few more phone calls while we drove east changed our route, because we had to make a choice which ER we were going to drive to, which parent we were going to see. Because Mom actually died in the helicopter, rather than at the site of the crash or in the ER itself, there is no “place” where her death happened for me. She lived a traveler, and she died one.

This trip is helping me to remember what she taught me about wanting to escape—or, in this case, needing to, in order to get back to myself. Traveling reminds me that none of us really have a set place in this world. We are all travelers; we just temporarily settle here until we go somewhere else. I want to enjoy this ride as long as I can.

What's in a Name? Practicality and Puns!

We’ve been referring to the hearse as Carl since we bought it in May, so here’s his origin story.

When we got back home after a weekend trip to Salt Lake City in early May, our to-do list became more interesting than it had been in awhile. We were on a mission: Find a hearse. Buy it. Modify it for the kind of road trip we like to do. Go.

Thankfully, buying a hearse isn’t really that difficult, if you know where to look (and if you don’t, Google can help). Based on our budget and needs, CW Coach Sales in Cincinnati looked like our best bet. Since he’s a wholesale dealer (which means you vacuum out the dead flowers yourself), the prices were about half of what other hearse resellers were charging for similar vehicles. Aaron called to get a little more information about their inventory and was pleased to discover that the six hour drive to Cincinnati was going to be totally worth it. Unlike Aaron, Mike (the accountant at CW) was a man of few words. He told Aaron that we’d probably want to get a 1995 or 1996 model because they were a little bigger and had powerful engines. He also assured Aaron that people buy decommissioned hearses for a lot of uses, and no, we weren’t crazy.

We made plans to meet up with some friends who had moved to Cincinnati, and scoped out the CW Coach lot after hours on Friday. The fenced-in lot was jampacked with hearses and limos of various styles, colors, and conditions—which meant we would have a good chance of finding just the right car. Satisfied, we had dinner and caught up with Matt (Aaron’s co-worker from his WSIL days) and his fiancée Sarah, as well as Dan and Brett (fellow poets from my MFA program at SIUC). Our conversation meandered through suggestions for road trip stops, questions about the logistics of living in a car for a month, and things to consider while buying a hearse—since that’s something none of us had ever done.

We went to CW Coach the next morning to find the hearse of our dreams. The dealership is in an area of Cincinnati that is mostly used car lots—the type with large, garish signs and bizarre statues in the lots (we saw a gorilla, a black panther with a gold chain around it’s neck, and a horribly racist depiction of a Native American, just to give you an idea). CW Coach didn’t go in for gimmicks like pushy salesmen or a clean lobby, though—and we appreciated the no-nonsense approach of "We have cars. Go find the one you like and then pay for it."  Mike turned us loose in the lot, inviting us to explore our options. We climbed inside to test out the length of the “bed” and confirmed that hearses are extremely roomy and perfectly suited for modification. Think about the possibilities: the passenger cabins are luxurious and comfortable, and the back is a box nine feet long, four feet wide, and just over three feet high, with large access doors on both sides and the back. We were both drawn to a 1996 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, recently acquired from a funeral home in Iowa. We knew a white hearse would be better for our purposes, since so much of our trip was going to take us through the American Southwest. Even though he was 20 years old, the interior was in excellent shape and it had just a shade over 60k miles on the odometer.

When it was time to take Carl for a test drive, Mike had to play an impressive game of hearse-and-limo Tetris, making a 17-point turn to maneuver the car out of the gate to the street. Mere blocks into the drive, we were throwing out adjectives like “pillowy” and “cloudlike” to describe the smoothness of the ride. You don’t drive a hearse, exactly; you guide it and it just glides. Aaron was impressed with the effortless power of it. We concluded that it’s a real shame that most people only ride in a hearse once—and that they are in no condition to enjoy it.

We went back to the dealership and completed the sale with Mike. Afterwards, he took us to meet the proprietor of the dealership, Carl W. He stood next to a small barbecue grill parked in the open garage bay door, eating a plate of ribs. We explained our trip to him, and he advised us not to make the mistake most others do by tearing out the platform floor, since it really doesn’t give that much extra useful space. Carl told us he’s sold hearses to roadtrippers before, but they’re also useful for anyone who wants to haul stuff, or for the obvious Halloween-related purposes. Aaron and I appreciated that Carl never put down his plate of ribs the whole time we spoke with him. It put us at ease because there was no bullshit to his approach: what you see is what you get. If you want something else, go elsewhere. Our kind of guy.

Aaron led the drive home in the hearse while I followed behind in my Toyota. We took scenic country roads and passed through the quaint main streets of small towns in Ohio and Michigan. A few people stared. A few waved or smiled. Later that night, we decided the only appropriate name for our hearse was Carl. It commemorates the decision to buy the hearse and take the trip, and all the weight of that choice. Personally, I have always liked names with a multitude of variations, and Carl doesn’t disappoint: Charles, Charlie, Charley. Chuck. Karl with a K. Carlo, Carlos, Carla, Carly. Charlemagne and Charlton, Charlotte and Charlene. I thought of all the men and women our hearse carried to their final resting places, that there may have been a Carl, or any of those other names. I’m grateful to Carl that he gave them such a smooth ride.

The other benefit of naming him Carl? We really like puns, jokes, rhymes, and silly nicknames.

How much can it haul? A Carl-load.

Where do you take him when he needs a bath? The Carlwash.

What’s his pirate name? Carrrrl!

The Dick-and-Jane version: See Carl. See Carl Go. Go Carl, Go! Or, if we have a flat Carl Can’t Go? Oh, No!

The Walking Dead version: Where’s Carl? Carl! Carl!

Charlie hearse.

Friday as we crossed the flint hills and rolling prairie of Kansas along the Pony Express highway, he became Carl the Conestoga—our own prairie schooner. Once we crossed into Colorado, he became Carl the Colorado Cowboy. As we continue on this trip, I’m sure he’ll earn many more nicknames. We’ll certainly have plenty of time to get to know him.

His and Hearse: A Funeral Procession for Grief

A few weeks ago, I used my first-ever hashtag on Facebook. Only a few people knew what #hisandhearse meant at the time, but now that the major pieces of the plan are in place, we're excited to reveal our plans for this summer.

Here's the short version: Earlier this spring, Aaron and I started discussing the idea of a summer road trip. We needed to find a the right kind of vehicle (versatile, affordable, comfortable) to take the kind of trip we had in mind. We bought a used hearse that we're taking on a 7,000-mile road trip from Michigan to California and back, with stops to across the country to visit National Parks and see friends and family along the way. I came up with #hisandhearse as a way for people to follow along with our adventures, since we like to take pictures and tell stories.

For me, the trip is more than just a fun way to spend part of my summer with my husband. For me, traveling by hearse is a symbolic way to celebrate surviving a very difficult year.

Last July, my parents were in a single-car accident on a country road. Dad was rescued, but has endured a few surgeries to repair a badly broken ankle and foot. Mom died in the helicopter on the way to the hospital; nothing could be done to save her. Knowing that has not made the last 11 months easier for our family to adjust to losing Mom. She was only 58. I had spoken with her just an hour or two before the crash. I'm one of many who were just not ready to say goodbye to her.

Anyone who has lost someone close to them understands the magnitude of such a loss. It is only through the love and support of family, friends, and sometimes strangers that I'm finding ways to keep going through a life I sometimes don't recognize as my own because it is so irrevocably changed from the plans I had before. Imagine that we go through life as a rower in a boat: we face the part of the river we've already rowed, much like we are able to see the past but not the future. Mom's death was a waterfall. After it happened, I knew I was still on the same river, but the scenery had changed completely.

Grief is not gentle. It is raw. It makes you feel acutely aware of just how painfully alive you are, in part because of how fiercely you continue to love the one who is gone. Besides the expected sadness and crying, my grief manifested itself in other ways. I couldn't sleep or eat. I lashed out in anger and became easily frustrated at home and at work. I had unpredictable and terrifying panic attacks. At times, my grief was a black kaleidoscope, fracturing and darkening everything I saw. I had been visiting a counselor, but I still I sunk into depression by November and pretty much stayed there through February. I didn't want to leave the house or see anyone, and typically did so out of obligation or guilt, ducking out of things when I could and letting my calls go to voicemail as often as possible. Grief still complicates how I process my own emotions, and it can take longer for me to react or make decisions. I take medication now to help manage my emotions--something I fought for as long as I could, out of some misguided sense of shame about needing help.

With time (and with a lot of help), I've slowly started crawling back into the world a little bit. Being able to share my grief with others has been a tremendous source of healing, and words are inadequate to express my gratitude to everyone who has supported me and my family in ways big and small since Mom died. Thank you all so much. I know I have not been easy to be around these last few months, but it is because you have all been carrying me, or pulling me forward, that I've managed to figure out where I'm going.

Part of that equation, it seems, is travel. We did a little bit of traveling this spring, going to Ft. Lauderdale and Las Vegas for Aaron's work and Salt Lake City for a friend's wedding. Even though each trip was challenging, it sparked something in me that made me remember that there is a world out there, and it would be nice to actually interact with it and to see some more of it. Aaron started talking about taking a vacation together, maybe just us, an actual vacation (not a vacation tacked on to a conference, for example). We talked about possible road trip destinations. We caught a rerun of a few episodes of Ken Burns' The National Parks: America's Best Idea on PBS one night. I picked up a book about the National Parks at Goodwill, just in case.

And then, while sitting with friends both old and new in a hot tub in Park City, Utah, cocktails in hand and feeling giddy from the decadence of the situation and the effects of the altitude on our Midwestern bodies, we started talking about our idea to take a road trip that would somehow get us out to California. We had thought about flying out to Reno or San Diego or Sacramento, then renting a vehicle and driving back to Michigan--maybe an RV, maybe an SUV. Someone mentioned buying an old hearse, and we laughed a little, nervously.

But the idea stuck. We agreed that a hearse's noble history of transporting the dead was just that: the past. How wonderful that the deceased had been given one last smooth ride in a Cadillac. How wonderful that we would be able to give the vehicle a second life, with passengers who could actively appreciate it. We'd have the convenience of a camper, but the added flexibility to customize the back for sleeping and hauling our gear. In late May, we drove to Cincinnati and bought a white 1996 Cadillac Fleetwood hearse; the modifications on the interior have already begun.

This summer, Aaron and I will embark on the longest and most ambitious road trip we've been on in the 17 years we've been together. The trip, while important to us as an experience and as an opportunity to see new places together, really is a way to celebrate the end of a difficult year, and to honor Mom, who taught me that sometimes, the best thing you can do is just GO. Aaron and I started our relationship on a high school trip to Washington, D.C. because we switched seats on the bus and ended up next to each other. I was only on that trip because Mom said I could go--granted, she probably had no idea that she would be inadvertently setting up the meet-cute for her only daughter. Over the years, Aaron and I have reminisced about that bus trip as one of the best experiences of our lives, and we've long been grateful that both our moms were there for what turned out to be the beginning of our lives together. Since Mom's death, I'm even more grateful that she got to see the first 17 years of what's turning out to be a pretty decent story about the love two nerdy kids can have for each other.

I know I will grieve Mom for the rest of my life, because that's how it works when you love someone. I know there will be times the grief will feel as suffocating and intense as it did that night in the ER, and so many of the sleepless nights that followed. But I finally feel like I am ready to live more forcefully and deliberately than I have been able to since last July. I am ready to start making memories again. I am ready to haul my grief with me, to shoot it down the Interstate and drive it through this whole country, not because it will make it go away, but because I need to take it for a ride. I need to it see me enjoying life. I need grief to finally learn that it rides in the back. What better way than to strap it in for 7,000 miles and make it write postcards? What better way than to make it stare at snapshots of the lives not lost on July 29th?