Saying Goodbye to Things

And why it is sometimes harder than saying goodbye to people.

We all say goodbye to someone at some time. We say it to acquaintances out of habit or courtesy. We say it to friends because we hope to see them again. We value their friendship in our lives. And of course, we say it to family, loved ones, because were we not to see them again, a large chunk of who we are would be missing.

Sometimes, we know when we say goodbye, it could be a long time before we see them again. We will miss them. Unfortunately, we also say it not knowing that we will never see them again. Friends can leave our lives as easily as they enter it. They move away, or we move away, life gets too busy, or worse, an accident happens, or they get old and one day are gone, lost to us forever.

It seems kind of silly then, to think of expressing “goodbye” to a place or thing. I guess I am silly then. I have said it to places, homes I have lived in, vacation destinations, and a hometown. I have said it to canoes that I owned, a bicycle or two, a couple of backpacks, and cars. Sometimes that has been more difficult that saying goodbye to a person.

You as a reader, might think I value my location or possessions too much. I don’t think that is it. Rather, it is what a place or a thing represents. It is what they symbolize.

When I was quite young, I remember a rare time we were on vacation. My parents took my sister and I with them to visit relatives in and near Hot Springs, Arkansas. Three of my uncles lived there and it was where my father grew up. We stayed at a resort on Lake Hamilton. It had a pool and almost every afternoon my sister and I went swimming. My uncle Harold went fishing with my father and I. We had a great time. I remember when we left for the long drive back up to Illinois. I silently expressed a “goodbye” and had a few tears in my eye. It was not the place that made me sad, but all that it represented. It was the uncles, aunts, cousins, and the things we did. It was sitting in a boat for hours with my dad. It was the evening after dark, when my father and uncle could hear bass striking at prey in the deadfalls along the opposite shoreline. We went out in a boat, and they would cast to shore in the dark near those deadfalls and catch the bass. It was late and cold. I can’t remember a time when I felt more frozen, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want it to end.

Later, after I graduated from high school, I went on my own trips. The year 1975 was fateful, as I made my first trip to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. I grew up in northern Illinois. It is mostly flat there and except for towns and cities, is covered in summer by corn. The rivers and streams were the color of coffee with too much cream. I was astounded by the contrast of rock and evergreen forests in the mountains. I was enchanted by the clear, cascading mountain streams. The trip was fateful, as I never had the desire to go east or south after that. I always went west to the mountains. I hiked, went backpacking, and learned to fly fish for trout. When it was time to leave and drive back to Illinois, I would be watching in my rear-view mirror as I crossed the plains, looking for that last glimpse of the mountains. And I would say a silent goodbye. The mountains were just big piles of rock, erupting from the forest, some having snow on top. It was the adventure of being there and sharing of them with friends which made me sad. After arriving back in Illinois, I would have to go back into the factory on Monday morning. I would punch in, and suffer such a wave of depression, that I would swear I would never go to the mountains again. It just hurt so much to get back. A few days later, I would start planning my next trip.

In 1974, after graduating from high school, I bought my first used car. It was a 1968 Firebird 400. My father warned me about it. It was 6 years old and had a lot of miles on it. Also, he thought because it was powerful and sporty, whoever already owned it, “hot rodded the heck out of it”. Three weeks after I got it, it would only run on 7 cylinders. A cloud of oily smoke poured out the tailpipe. But, My father did not say “I told you so”. He offered his garage as a repair shop. He and my grandfather helped my tear the motor apart. We found broken valve lifters. I replaced them and the stems, put it all back together, and drove for a week, before it happened again. The car sat in his garage 2 more times before I reasoned that a new camshaft was needed. Why? Because the previous owner “hot rodded the heck out of it”. It then ran fine for another year, before the 70s gas crisis made an 8 mile per gallon car a bad idea. That, and getting married, led me to purchase a more economical vehicle. So, I said goodbye. The car was really a piece of worn-out junk. I was really saying goodbye to the weekends, working in the garage with my father and grandfather, in attempts to keep it running. I was saying goodbye to the dates with my girlfriend, for which it provided transportation, and the evenings I went “cruising” with my friends.

In the early 80s, I purchased a Mad River Explorer canoe. I enjoyed canoeing and camping along rivers, so much that I couldn’t believe there would ever be a time in my life where I didn’t have canoe. Some of my canoeing friends felt that life wasn’t complete unless you had 5 or 6. You need a lake cruising canoe, a river running canoe, a whitewater canoe, a solo canoe, and maybe an extra one to loan out to friends with which you paddled. I had two, the Explored and a solo canoe. Then in 1992, I changed jobs and went to work in Park City, Utah. There are not a lot of places to canoe there, so before I left Illinois, I did the unthinkable and sold them. A work buddy bought the Explorer and the day he tied it down on his car and drove away, I said goodbye.

The canoe was just Royalex and New England Ash. I could buy another but, it was what that canoe represented. It brings back memories of my two canoe partners. One because I also said goodbye to her. She became lost to me around that time, but I remembered how we paddled the Flambeau River rapids in harmony, dodging the rocks, slipping into the eddies, and pulling for the standing waves that marked the deeper water. She knew when to pry, draw, or brace and together we made that Explorer dance. I remember once how a family of otters ran the rapid beside us, chattering all the way. A few years later, along the South Kawishiwi River in the Boundary Waters Wilderness, that canoe danced again. That time it was with my other paddling partner, my father, also now lost to me.

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In 1985, I purchased a Fuji Touring Series IV bicycle. I said goodbye to it just this last June when It was sold at a yard sale. It also represented many memories and people. I lived on Freeport Road, miles out in the country, in northern Illinois. On one of the first rides, I was with my wife. We came to a “Y” intersection. I was leading, and she asked, “which way shall we go, left or right?”. I said left and turned. She went right. Shortly after, our lives did the same thing. Not all goodbyes are happy ones.

That bicycle was with me through 10 moves in 11 years. It hung in sheds or garages in Illinois, Utah, and Michigan. I road it with friends I had met in 10 different towns. During the summer of 1989, I pedaled it on 13 separate 100 mile organized rides in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. I rode with longtime friends, as well as with riders who became friends for just one ride. Sometimes I would see the bike hanging from the rafters in the garage. I would get it down, dust it off, and do a single spin around the cul-de-sac in front of my home and remember.

This spring, our subdivision held its annual yard sale. I cleaned up two old Jansport external frame backpacks, purchase back in the 70s, and placed tags on them marked $10 each. On the second day, I said goodbye. As I watched them being carried away, I thought about the straps and hip belt that made me sore and the “oomph” of hoisting them on our backs. On trips, they carried home and safety from cold, rain, and insects. Mostly though, I remember how my first wife and I lugged those packs in the Wind River Range of Wyoming and on the Beartooth Plateau of Montana. We huddled next to them above timberline while pea sized hail accumulated an inch deep, and lightning struck so close, the hair on your arms stood up. We were carrying them in 1980, not realizing that Mount St. Helens had exploded while we were in the Porcupine Mountains of Michigan. I went on trips with good friends in Wyoming. In 1988, five of us spent 5 days in the Beartooth Wilderness, coming out just in time to witness the beginning of that year’s great fires just to the southwest in Yellowstone National Park. The packs were a means to adventure with good friends.

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Two weeks ago, I sold my final 2 canoes. I won’t have much need for them next year as I travel west. With the Covid pandemic, and everybody’s newfound desire to get outdoors leading to recreational equipment shortages, both canoes sold within 2 days. Goodbye.

I said goodbye to a lot of “stuff”. I see the empty canoe hoists in the garage. The backpacks no longer collect dust, and nothing hangs on the bicycle hooks. Some things I can only now see in my mind’s eye. Without occasionally noticing them there, will I forget the people, experiences, and adventures we shared? Things are part of our lives. They come and go. It is what they sometimes symbolize that makes it hard to see them gone. They are like bookmarks, marking the chapters of our lives, and the people who lived on the pages. It is hard to say goodbye.

Life is a journey. When we stop, things don’t go right. – Pope Francis