Friday October 8, 2004 Journey to Watertown

Friday October 8, 2004 Journey to Watertown

When we left my dad yesterday, he was being compelled to right a wrong done to his lifelong friend Charles Upton, now deceased. Mr. Upton lay in a grave in a cemetery near Watertown, New York but his grave is one of two bearing his name. The one above his grave shows his dates of birth and death. The one a short distance away within the Upton family plot, shows his name and date of birth but no date of death. Righting this wrong done to his departed friend is one of two duties my father feels obligated to perform. And he performs this one with a sense of involvement and earnest desire to undo a wrong.

The first obstacle to solving the problem is getting from El Paso, Texas to Watertown, New York. They could drive, take a Greyhound bus, or take the Amtrak train. For as long as I can remember my father has journeyed all over this country in cars. I barely remember my first journey with him. He had come to take my grandmother and me back to El Paso from Biloxi, Mississippi. My grandma was in need of medical attention and being a dependent of my father, she was entitled to all the health care service the U.S. Army had to offer. As you might have guessed my dad was in the Army, a sergeant, back in Spring 1953—he was a slightly more senior sergeant when he retired in 1965, over twenty years since he enlisted at the start of World War II.

However, the car was out of the question. It would take some time to get the 70 something Lincoln Continental in good enough shape to make the trip. His other option a full-size 1970s Ford van with a modified V-8 lifted from a junkyard Ford van fitted to a transmission salvaged from another Ford probably from a different junkyard. This he favored for pulling the Land Yacht Airstream trailer, vintage circa 1960. I’ve traveled with my dad when he was pulling this trailer and it was a journey to remember. Like a one-man pit crew of a race car that barely made it into the pits, each night he’d pull out his tool box and go to work on either the van or the trailer. Now pushing hard into his 80s, with a fully healed hip replacement, and a healing knee replacement—don’t get me started on this, he was in no condition to drive, even if he rented a new car from Hertz.

As for the second option, he and my mom had traveled from El Paso to the outskirts of Washington, DC on a Greyhound bus before and he knew what to expect. He just didn’t like being cooped up for that many hours on a bus. The only option left was Amtrak. The train is an appropriate analogy for this journey, an elderly couple traveling across America on a train that the country was fast forgetting on a quest to right a wrong done to one of their own by a world that has become indifferent to the elderly and the dead.

My sister made the reservations and purchased the tickets to and from Syracuse. From Syracuse, my dad planned to rent a car and drive over to Watertown. That plan got changed when our youngest sister, who lives in the suburbs of Boston got wind of these plans and decided she would take charge. Instead of having Dad and Mom rent a car, she would meet the two of them in Syracuse and do the driving while they were in New York. That was the new plan.

Like all sojourns, my father’s trip to Watertown to attend to the details of Mr. Upton’s burial had more than one purpose. My father needed to find himself now that Mr. Upton was no longer around to fix my father to a common well-defined purpose. The trip was also meant to scratch an itch that my father had since, first Mr. Upton’s illness, then later my mother’s illness had firmly tied him to El Paso on a very short leash. He was biting at the bit to leave, to see something of the country he once crisscrossed nearly every three years—the typical length of a tour of duty at any one base in the Army.

The trip began On Monday June 7th Amtrak Pullman class, from Union Station in El Paso, Texas to Syracuse. New York. Four days outbound, four days return, with four days of sleuthing in cemeteryville accompanied by some sightseeing along the St Lawrence River. My mother and father had a reservation for the 4:00 PM train from El Paso. The train finally left at 10:00 PM that evening. My sister, the oldest of three younger than me explained that the late departure was the rule rather than the exception. The tracks that Amtrak runs on are owned by Southern Pacific and the railroad giant always gives preference to freight trains using the tracks over Amtrak passenger trains. This leg of the journey was to take them to Chicago where they changed trains and proceeded on to Syracuse.

The following day I called my Dad on the cell phone he’d acquired for the trip and found them on a bus heading for Dallas from San Antonio, a movie blaring in the background. The bus had entertainment to occupy the passengers’ time en route. The train had engine trouble and a bus bridge was used to ferry passengers on to their next connection. The next call later on Tuesday June 8th found my Dad and Mom on a train out of Dallas en route to Chicago. I learned that my Dad had gone to the men’s room as their train began boarding and he had not heard the announcement. He asked an Amtrak agent when the train would be boarding only to learn that the train was about to pull away from the station. The next thing my dad and mom are on a cart being rushed to their cabin on the train, neither of them capable of running nor of walking at a fast pace.

My call on Wednesday found my Mom and Dad nearing Chicago. I caught them just as they were pulling into the station. After a short uneventful layover in Chicago they boarded their connection and left for Syracuse, pretty much on their original schedule—all the delays notwithstanding. Upon disembarking Amtrak, my youngest sister met the two weary travelers and took them to a lovely bed and breakfast she had reserved for their stay in the area. It was a drive to get to Watertown from the B&B but my sister was driving.

When he arrived at the cemetery, my Dad saw his old friend laid to rest in the new plot bought to contain the old man after he had been unknowingly evicted from his family plot. My father recognized that he and his old friend were being screwed. The cemetery should have been obligated to compensate Mr. Upton by giving him another plot when the one his family had paid for nearly 100 years ago was taken away. And my dad knew that the cost of the additional headstone should also have been borne by the cemetery. However, my father felt as though it was more important to take care of the problems without the conflicts that a small claims court suit would entail. You could say he turned the other cheek, something my dad has done a lot of in his life, though I’ve known him to occasionally be the one striking a cheek—no one is perfect. The only other detail that remained to be taken care of was rectifying the missing date of death on the headstone within the Upton family plot. It would cost, of course, for someone to come and add the date to the stone. My father’s reply was that he would pay the cost. And, looking upon the stone, long unattended and in need of a cleaning, he asked them to clean the stone as well. With payment tendered, the cemetery assured my father that the jobs would be taken care of and that the cemetery would take pictures of the completed work and mail it to my dad. With the transaction complete, this second duty was finally discharged and my father felt a burden lifted from his shoulder.

Tomorrow the final burden.