Today was my dreaded drive to Bakersfield to pick up my dad's cremated ashes (I do not like the word "remains") and the meager wordly possessions he'd left behind. I decided the 8ish hour roundtrip turn-and-burn was better than having to stay in Bakersfield or some other perched location between here and there. I went by myself because that's how things worked out.
Have you ever made that drive, 101-S, across 152 through Gilroy, down I-5? Nearing Gilroy, the air is rich earth and pungent garlic, aromatic like an Italian grandma's cellar. Although the fields are mostly fallow for the winter, the scent wafts and hangs, an indelible Gilroy characteristic. It's like the air is green, even though it's clear as ever. Breathing takes on a new meaning, as my mind tries to capture the phantom experience, bottle it up, possess it in my nostrils. Passing the rich, tilled soil, signs emerge: farm stand, pink pineapple, 10 avocados for $1, Venmo/Zelle accepted. I don't stop because there's still so long to drive. I imagine the people painting the giant letters on the pieces of plywood too large for one to carry alone. I imagine what it must take to grow stands of pink pineapples. I see a sign for Anderson Split Pea Soup and recall they were closing, and wonder if that's true and, if yes, why the sign still stands. I think the signs have been there my whole life.
A bit past there is the Casa de Fruta exit, where we used to go to the RenFaire. My mind tumbles over all the times I've gone with Ken and the kids, the times I went there as a child with my mom, dad, and sister. I try to find specific childhood memories and there's one of a man with a silly fake nose in the parking lot, another of making candles, another of the ocarina vendor.
Above there, the pass along San Luis Reservoir had me near blind with thick fog, heavy mist lifting off the lake. Then finally, I-5, two lanes, big rigs, you're going 90 or 55, the green highway signs ticking off places like Coalinga, Avenal (where my mom was born) and Shafter, the occasional glimpses of the Central Valley Project canal, the roadside signs blaming Gavin for sending freshwater to the ocean, as if the estuary doesn't need to breathe too and cotton grown with cheap water means more than the existential existence of salmon. At one point there's the confined animal facility, the place they send cows to suffer before they suffer some more then become some people's food. The sharp ammonia chokes, the toxic metaphysical juju stabs my heart. Along the way, I stop at Harris Ranch for a much needed pit stop and to grab something to keep me from being dizzy, a perfectly acceptable pasta salad, a Pepsi, caramel corn for back home. I skip the bonsai stand across the way. I think about how my dad never went to Harris Ranch, because it was built after he'd stopped making the trip from NorCal to Ventura. Finally, the last 20 miles.
The funeral parlor was a pathetic little spot, one of maybe eight businesses in a one-story 70s brown corner plaza, the sign read "discount cremation." The gal was expecting me, the ashes in an unceremonious black, plastic, rectangular box, papers to sign. There wasn't really a place to sit that I noticed, though now I am noticing that I just didn't notice. I declined to look through the stapled paper bag from the sheriff and just signed the papers standing at a utilitarian table. I chirped yesses and thank yous, finally tearing up when it was time to lift the box and bag of items the coroner passed along. The box is always heavier than you think it'll be. Then I put the stuff - the bag, the papers, the box of my dad's carbon and minerals - in the trunk.
I next had to go to the Motel 6 where they'd found him dead and gone, just a mile away from the ash-getting place. A nice manager named Maggie had held his things for me since he died there, all alone in a bed with three meth pipes and possessions that fit into a roll-a-board and backpack with room to spare. I left the housecleaners a chunk of cash, some sort of penance or perhaps trauma tax that I decided was appropriate for him impacting their day that Oct 21st, and their kindness in collecting the stuff for me. Maggie was sweet and we both tried not to cry. I stilted out the what are you doing for Christmas sort of banter we use to make the world go 'round this time of year. The other worker brought the junk and that was that, more things in the trunk.
I cried for awhile while driving out, waved goodbye to the part of his spirit that might still reside in Buttonwillow, which is the exit north of Bakersfield, the place he'd lived since 2022, till he up and left for some reason unknown in Augustish.
For the next four hours, I went 10 to 20 miles over the speed limit when traffic allowed and Waze indicated the route was cop free. The Spotify algorithm served. Passing the CAFO this time was an all-out assault on my senses, I guess because the north lanes are closer, perhaps because this time I could see their shiny fur, the barren piss-soaked ground, the crowded conditions, and probably the weight of my new cargo. I imagined the nitrogen plume that must seep deep into the groundwater, the cosmic sadness of the cows' lives. I turned the music up to drown out the smell. I yelped a certain way, again and again, to keep from gagging on the sour air and to swallow tears.
Back home, I went through the things. A green roll-a-board ($5.75 from goodwill), a dirty blue and blue backpack. Two pairs of pants, two shirts, one black baseball cap (new) - all rancid smelling like they were wet and dried and then put away damp. A beaten pair of trail running shoes. A plastic jar of tools like Allen wrenches and screwdrivers. A bag of cords. One laptop, three phones (two damaged). A folder of paperwork, including his DD-124 with its Vietnam War era data. A pretty stationary calendar left on the month of October. Packets of Primatene, a bottle cough medicine in orange gel pill form. Pill canisters marked "glue" and "blades," filled as labeled. Two thick black sharpies. Drugstore glasses. Some sticky pennies. Cheap earphones. $98 cash and a bank card. Three external hard drives. A butane lighter (for the meth pipes) and a container of butane to refill it. A bag of rubberbands. A bus card with his photo, rubberbanded with some business cards and an insurance card. An envelope with an address in his writing. A card I had sent him in December 2022, my lazy "love you, Summer", the only words written.
The computer wasn't locked down. It contains nothing neat, no lost letters, no fragments of poems, no memories or photos. It appears his last web visit was to a Gregorian chant video, a fact that somehow soothes me. Bookmarks are mostly YouTubes of various musical performances, old and recent. Other searches, too. The phone had a pattern sort of unlock, which I figured out after several tries. This phone was bought on 9/18. (I knew his old phone, which was in my account, had stopped being used in May. I'd texted someone who was in his text history and was told he was alive and that the guy would let him know I wanted to hear from him, but he never called or texted. I emailed but rightly worried that his Gmail had 2fa tied to the phone.)
Then, the saddest thing. In the drafts of a newly created Gmail, a message dated the same day he bought the phone and addressed to the generic info email at my work. "I'm Summer Bundy's dad. Please ask her text me at". A next draft had the phone number. He never sent them. It appears he used the phone for web surfing after that, and he lived a whole month more. I wish he'd sent the email, sad he didn't.
Thus concludes my 9+ hour quest. I hope I can sleep in some, cuz I need the rest.
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