Traveling Barbara

Traveling Barbara

I met Barbara one morning when she almost ran into my car in a parking lot at Pacific Bay. “Please move so I can go forward.”  Her van was an old, oversized commercial one, empty inside. She had even ripped out the passenger seat to make more room.  The van was so long, she could only drive forward; it forced her to look ahead, never behind.

I moved my car and, surprisingly, we became fast friends.  She later revealed that she lived in that van for several months while looking for a warm place to be. 

Pacific Bay was that place.  At least for now.  A 55+ community about a mile from the ocean, “The Bay” is one of those California condo developments that features a mini-golf course, a large outdoor pool that needs refurbishing, and a mock Grecian fountain.  The place is lost in the sixties; that’s when an ex-Hollywood comedian invested his money creating the seaside community. The claim to fame was the weather- - perfect year-round. There’s a Saturday morning “welcome” group coffee, a bone-building and water aerobics class, and a plethora of blooming shrubs near the greenest grass your homeowner dues can support.  Into this lost world, enter Barbara.

Barbara, the former post office employee, who hated every second of her tenure there.  Her vow: get out and start living. She retired early and moved from a small Northern California town to, as she phrased it, “The cheapest house I could find.”  The house was somewhere in the middle of Nevada.  A once thriving military base, now only a skeleton town was left.  A run-down bowling alley.  A deserted casino, The Lucky Star. One grocery store on Main Street. And she did buy her home cheap.  Way cheap.  She economized even more by eating and showering at the local senior center. She gathered what little she needed at thrift stores or in dumpsters.  A dumpster diver she called herself. No phone, no computer, no electric lights.  Now, she finally had time to read, a hobby she discovered from the local library, a mobile unit that came to town once a week.  She became a senior Ms. Lincoln, reading her library books by candlelight and dreaming of far off places in a sweltering, empty house in the middle of nowhere.

After a time, she sold the house and moved to the Bay. She had accumulated an ample savings from her economical lifestyle, a small pension, and the sale of her Nevada home.  So, she found a fixer-upper condo at the Bay, paid cash, and proceeded to see what new adventure this area could offer.

We often took walks; I enjoyed her company. Eccentric people had always fascinated me.  As a child I seemed to collect them.  Dixie Darling, an ex-kettle drum player from Tonopah. Ed and Henry, former antique dealers in their 80s who dyed their hair and penciled in tiny moustaches.  Junkyard Bob, a biker poet.  So, it was no surprise that Barbara intrigued me.  She made friends with many of us at the Bay.  We loved her modest style - - her trusting nature.

“They call me traveling Barbara. Since my retirement from that prison, I vowed to spend every penny I had to see the world.  And I am seeing it. I’ve cruised the Baltic, seen the Pyramids and roamed the streets of Paris. I’ve gazed at the wildebeests in Tanzania, had lunch on a train in India and shared dinner with the captain of an Amazon steamer. I’ve even taken a world cruise.  Thirty-three ports in over four months.  It was amazing.”

Her goal was to visit 100 countries by the time was 70. She did it at 71.

She spoke in a brash voice with her blue-grey eyes beaming.  “Over 100 countries, and I’m not done yet.”  But she was done with other things.

She hadn’t owned a telephone for over fifteen years.  Her friends at the Bay were concerned.  A single woman with no phone. “But Barbara, how can we help you if you need anything?  What if you have an emergency?”. 

We begged her to at least get a cheap cellphone with a calling card. But she would have none of it. “Don’t ask me again!  I don’t need a phone.”

She didn’t seem to need most things.  The fixer-upper was sparse and she made no repairs.   No stove.  No television.  No carpeting except a worn area rug she found in the lane behind her house. She acquired a couch and a used mattress at a second-hand store.  She had a hot plate and a little microwave oven a friend recycled to her. She had a battered small radio to keep up on the news but it was so full of static she could barely hear anything. Only a stuffed reindeer who sang, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” added some zing to the place. She rescued it from a dumpster behind a discount store.  When my little granddaughter admired it, Barbara gave it to her.  I went home and sprayed it with disinfectant.

She found treasures in dumpsters, back alleys and on the streets. She once gave me a large, unopened candy bar and a quart of skim milk she found discarded in her neighbor’s driveway.  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on this,” I responded.

She had a table with three chairs.  I remembered my college days and the Thoreau quote: I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society. Her couch was a washed-out floral, but homey and comfortable.  We would sit on the faded floral and talk about books and ideas. I discovered she was well-versed on literature, history and world religions, especially Buddhism.  I had also studied Buddhism so our conversations regularly focused on topic of attachment.  On this, she was an expert.

“I don’t collect anything.  Don’t need to.  I’ve been alone for a long time.  Don’t think about it too much.  Just keep moving.  That’s what I do.  Keep on going. I never even take photos on my trips.  Everyone asks me why.  Too much trouble and besides, who really wants to see them?  And when I’m on a cruise, I don’t sign up for those silly shore excursions either.  I just walk the ports and eat all my meals on the ship. And I don’t shop on my travels.  Never spent a dime on anything except gum.  I’ve never bought a souvenir from anywhere.”

“Not even once?” I asked in disbelief. 

“No, and no postcards either.  Too expensive to mail anyway.”

One night she made us some .99 Cents Store microwave popcorn that was tasty. I sat munching and listening to her talk of Malaysia, the Balkans, and Pago Pago.  She said that Easter Island was her favorite spot in all of her travels.

“Those statues are huge and mysterious.  They’re called Moai and the island has almost a thousand of them. It’s a small island covered with these weird, gigantic sculptures. No one really knows their story. I like that even more than the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall.  It’s an island with an unknown story. Just think.”

I also loved to travel, but had not visited a handful of the places she had. And I’d never thought about Easter Island.  Barbara kept assuring me, “I’m not done yet.  Not by a long shot. What else is worth doing?  Can you think of one thing better than seeing the world? Can you? I can’t.  Not one thing better than that. Not for me.”  

There were some better things I thought.  My grandkids for one. But yes, traveling was high on the list too and, for Barbara, it was the sole item.

“So, what about your family?” I asked.  “Aren’t they better than any trips?”

I knew I had crossed a line.  I could tell by the vacant look on Barbara’s face.

“I don’t like to talk about my family,” she answered.  “Let’s just say I’m not in touch and leave it at that.”

She went back to discussing her travels.  But I grasped something about her that night. Barbara was more than a passenger counting countries and pinching pennies. She was, like Easter Island, an unknown story from a secret place - - a place that left her with only one choice - - keep moving.

˜ 

One summer afternoon I bit the bullet, took the plunge, jumped over the edge into the abyss - - I decided to take a trip with Barbara.  Two mature friends traveling together.  Harmless, I thought.  And for Barbara, traveling with a roommate was a real cost savings.

We searched hours on my computer for exotic locations. Her bucket list still had plenty of empty spaces - - the salt flats of Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia; West Poland’s Crooked Forest; the Cappadocia Valley in Turkey. 

Barbara wanted an obscure spot, off the tourist radar.  I remembered a place my Dad was stationed as a Naval officer in World War II.  He spoke of is stark beauty, remoteness, and kind residents. An image of his small carved wooden bear was still in my memory. Kodiak Island.  I promised him I’d visit one day.  I had forgotten the promise until now.  So, I googled and found it’s the second largest island in the States but has only one major road, one stoplight downtown, one weathered movie theater, and one semi-large hotel, a bit worn around the edges.  Most of the island is a National Wildlife Refuge. The mountains are sharp and covered in vegetation. Instead of hundreds of tourists from cruise ships, there are bald eagles, puffins, mountain goat, and of course, the illusive Kodiak bear. Some say the island is Montana- by- the-sea.  Barbara loved the idea; thought it was perfect.  It was August so the weather should be okay.  We joked about meeting an “ancient mariner” in a dive bar there. I made the arrangements; she packed her backpack; and we were off to Kodiak Island, Alaska.

˜

On the island we hiked, met the locals, and marveled at the beauty of the place.  The Russian domes on the churches.  The fishing fleets.  The wilderness lodges for salmon fishermen that visit each year. The rough sea and small islets surrounding the town.  My Dad was right - - the people were friendly and we when we went to a street fair, we actually saw folks we had met while exploring the place. But much of the time I was alone. I had lunch and dinner with the incredible vistas Kodiak offered. Barbara took the apples, peanut butter and granola bars from the free breakfast buffet and ate them all day.   I examined artifacts in the few museums.  Barbara waited outside, refusing to pay the slight entrance fee that kept those places going.  When I visited the Naval Museum at Fort Abercrombie, she would come in only if my Dad’s photo was displayed.  It was not.  I browsed the handful of gift shops, and bought an “Alaska Girl” sweat shirt for my daughter. Again, she waited outside. But none of this bothered me. I was there to feel my Dad’s presence. I did.  And I knew what I had signed up for. Even when she asked for tomato juice and creamer on the plane, I wasn’t surprised.  “You know I’m having my lunch,” she quipped.  “Tomato bisque.”

Six days on the island and we hadn’t seen a Kodiak bear.  The clerk at the Best Western said a guest told her one was spotted in a meadow about 10 miles down the road.  We immediately jumped in our rented SUV and headed out.  It was dusk when we arrived and a few other spectators were parked near the meadow waiting for the big attraction.  As we waited, Barbara began to chew on a granola bar and reminisce.

“I’ve always loved sunsets.  Funny how the sun never totally goes down here. Just a bit of light, even late at night.  I once took my kids to Spring Lake for a sunset.”

“Kids?”  I was in shock.

“I had two kids, both from different fathers.  Men I don’t even remember really.  I loved the kids, but I wasn’t much of a mom.  We lived on frozen pizza and fast food.  Never cooked a real meal.”

Crammed into an apartment in Northern California, Barbara raised the kids, Sharon and Kyle, with little thought. After a day at the Post Office, she’d fast feed the kids, tuck them in bed and head out to the local bar.  She’d drink, dance and smoke the night away.  Then, up the next day, pour milk and cereal for all of them, and off to school and back to the post office. 

“I had a lousy life then; I didn’t know much better.  My Dad left when I was six.  My Mom had a few jobs and didn’t see my sister and I much.  My older sister raised me really.  Somehow, I managed to graduate from high school. I remember taking the bus alone to my graduation. I left home a week later.”

When the kids were nearing their teens, Barbara married a guy from New Mexico. He was a loner she met at the bar. They married impulsively, on a weekend trip to Las Vegas.  It didn’t last long.  There was constant fighting about his drinking and lack of a job.  And her kids hated everything about him, especially his smell of liquor and cigarettes.  After less than two years, he walked out, just like her Dad.

Her son left too; joined the Navy at eighteen.

“I was always closer to my son than to Sharon.  When Kyle got stationed at Yokosuka in Japan, I saved enough to visit him there.  My first big trip really. He married a Japanese girl.  When he left the service and they returned to the states, the marriage was over. That’s when all his problems started.”

And they were big problems. In and out of Naval hospitals, Kyle couldn’t keep a job.  He lived “hand to mouth” according to his Mom.  Drugs?  Alcohol?  Barbara didn’t’ say, but Kyle was on a downward spiral.  Sharon, on the other hand, had grown into a beauty, with Barbara’s glorious blue-grey eyes. 

“She’s got a hard edge,” Barbara said of her daughter.

“We haven’t spoken in 15 years.  She married well and I have a granddaughter, June.  Haven’t seen her since she was six. Never contacted her either.”

Her eyes were soft and glassy.

“When my son died, my daughter was furious with me.  I had planned a trip to Italy and, right after a small memorial service, I left.  It was all too much.  Sharon called before the airport shuttle arrived and blasted me. Yelled at me for being selfish.  Said I was a horrible mother and gave her a nightmare childhood. I’ve never heard anyone so angry and full of hate. She told me that Kyle’s problems were all caused by me - -I was never there for either of them. And when I married a bum, she hated me even more.  She said the fact that they managed to grow up at all was a miracle.  She was screaming, her voice piercing into my heart. I slammed down the receiver and went to Rome and Florence and Venice. And I don’t miss having a phone, I’ll tell you that.”

We never saw a Kodiak bear that night.  Many people on the island who had lived there for decades, even a lifetime, told us they had never seen one. 

“The bears keep to themselves.  Once in a while they’ll poke into dumpster at the golf course, but it’s rare.  They roam on the refuge and stay away from the town.”

After a week, it was time to pack and leave Kodiak. Barbara had little to pack.  She slept in her clothes, took no make-up, not even sunscreen.  No frills, as she called them. She used the free toothbrush from the hotel even though her front teeth were almost gone. She said it was from all the gum she constantly chewed, a habit she developed to quit smoking. 

“I was going to go to Mexico to have them fixed but I just didn’t seem to get around to it. I took a tour to Croatia instead.”

I shut my suitcase and looked around the small room.  The blackout curtains had done their job.  Light didn’t make it through and they gave an illusion of night, even when it wasn’t.  I looked down at my phone; it was time to leave. And after what I’d heard the day before, my own heart said it was time. I wanted to see my daughter and hug my grandkids.

“Well, guess the ancient mariner concept didn’t quite work out, but it was a great trip,” she commented as she flung the backpack over her shoulder.

“Yes, a great trip.”

We headed out to the tiny airport.

˜

On the flight from Anchorage, Barbara ordered three coffees, two diet sodas, a bottle of water, and extra pretzels, all at one time.

“And no ice please.”

The attendant gave me a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Just coffee thanks.” I wasn’t embarrassed.  It was just Barbara taking full advantage of anything free.

She looked slightly away from me and continued her story.

“Several years after Kyle died, my sister sent me a package.  I was living in San Diego then.  The note inside read, ‘Sharon said to mail this to you if I knew where you were.’  I slowly opened the package and twisted off layers and layers of bubble wrap.”

I felt a chill coming.

She continued.

“Before I even read the yellow sticky on the jar, I knew it was Kyle. I had left his memorial service in a hurry.  I couldn’t handle sadness. Sharon got his ashes but never told me.  And after all that time, I now had them with me.”

I nearly chocked on my coffee.  She calmly drank one of the diet sodas.

“When Kyle was feeling good, we’d talk about traveling. Seeing the world together.  Since his wife left, I thought it might happen.  But, not meant to be. So, on my world cruise, I walked the port towns with Kyle.  In each port, I tried to find a nice place. When I did, I tossed some of the ashes from a plastic bag I kept in my backpack.  So, really, we did see the world together, even Kodiak Island.”

˜

Barbara eventually sold her place at Pacific Bay (made quite a profit) and moved on.  I once encouraged her to contact Sharon and June to see if they might meet again and perhaps work things out.  Time was passing for all of us at the Bay. She was angry at me for that suggestion.  Our friendship slowly faded, like the floral pattern on the used couch.  She wrote letters for awhile to some of us, and then the letters stopped as well.  She had moved on yet again and we had no way to contact her.

But my connection with her story wasn’t completely over.  Almost a year after she left the Bay, I got a call one afternoon from a guy named Michael.

“Sorry to bother you, we just wanted to know if Barbara got down okay.”

“What? Who is this?  What are you talking about?”

Michael was calling from Indiana.  He and his buddy Joel had met Barbara on the Mt. Whitney trail the week before.

“She was in pretty bad shape when we ran into her at camp, seven miles up the trail.  She was not prepared for anything like this.  She did have a day permit and lots of water but no raingear, tent or sunscreen. She took two granola bars and some gum.  She had no hiking boots.  She was wearing a pair of scruffy tennis shoes. Joel and I had prepared over a year for this climb.  We couldn’t believe a 73-year old woman was attempting this so ill-equipped and alone.”

I could believe it.   

Barbara told Michael and Joel she had practiced walking 10 to 15 miles a day to get ready for the climb. But that was on flat ground, not the steep conditions of the highest mountain on the continental United States.  And she wanted to do it in a day, and was sure she could.

“We sat with her and gave her some of our freeze-dried food. She looked exhausted. There was no way she could make it to the top or even down the mountain.  Joel and I planned to camp and get up at dawn and finish the climb to the summit. We let Barbara share our tent. Before she fell asleep, she gave us two things: your phone number written on a granola bar wrapper and a plastic zip-lock bag.”

Michael said she asked them to call me if she had an emergency on the trail on the way back.  And then she thanked them and asked another favor.

“These are the last of my son’s ashes. I just can’t make it.  Would you leave them at the top for me? She handed me the zip-lock bag.”

“After our climb we went back to camp and she was gone.  We asked her to wait for us: we wanted to help her down the mountain.  We hope she got back okay.  If you talk to her, please tell her we scattered the ashes on the top, just like she asked.  Will you tell her that for us?”

“Yes, I will tell her,” I replied. “I will tell her.”

I never saw or heard from Barbara again.

 

Reviews

[pdlaird]

This gem of a character study intrigued me from the outset. Barbara is one of those eccentric people who infect, inform, and enrich the lives of those they run into. Her character is unveiled piecemeal, almost like screen that is gradually lowered to reveal the picture beneath.

# An ex-postal employee, unhappy with her working life, who retires early, determined to “start living.
# Thrifty to the extreme, even without regard for her health. She’s a vagabond but with a determined zeal that a “normal” vagabond would not recognize.
# Intellectually curious, an avid reader and prolific world traveler.
# Stubborn, resisting any and all suggestions from others.
# A difficult past with regard to family life: lousy parents, and estranged sister and daughter, kids from different fathers, a failed marriage, poor parenting on her part. Couldn’t get much worse.
# A son who crashes and burns at a young age. Barbara is shamed by her daughter, so that when her son’s ashes are sent to her, she feels driven to scatter them around the world (explaining why she visits so many ports but hardly steps off the boat).

I especially admire two aspects of the writing. One is the descriptions that put the reader in so many graphic places: a 55+ retirement community in coastal California (“’The Bay’ is one of those California condo developments that features a mini-golf course, a large outdoor pool that needs refurbishing, and a mock Grecian fountain…”); Easter Island; and Kodiak Island. Another is the subtle use of symbols: the faded-floral couch (“our friendship slowly faded like the floral pattern on the used couch”); Easter Island (“an island with an unknown story”); Alaskan sunsets (“how the sun never totally goes down”); and Kodiak bears that “keep to themselves…once in a while they’ll poke into [a] dumpster…”.

The theme I took away was the nature of attachment. Barbara is a loner who, at first, seems not to need anything from other people. The narrator serves as a foil, someone who cherishes her daughter and her grandchildren. Both characters, however, share an attachment to a deceased family member—Barbara to her son, the narrator to her father.

If I were to offer a suggestion or two, they would be these:
# The opening paragraph could be stronger, do more to launch the story and catch the reader’s curiosity.
# Some foreshadowing early in the piece might pique the reader’s curiosity about what is to become of this strange character, conveying that this is not just a character portrait and has a story to tell.

Again, this is a story I enjoyed reading and one I recommend to others.

[angel]

I hitchhiked from Connecticut to California, taking my time, in 1973. IT WAS PHENOMENAL! Barbara went me some better, bless her heart.