I’ve Loved These Days

by Kathryn Eastlick

When it came time for me to move from Phoenix to Seattle two summers ago, I called Emily, my dear friend of 15 years. "Road trip!" I shouted into the phone.

In the movies, such a declaration would be followed by a shot of two blondes roaring down the highway in a red convertible, singing loudly along to the Rolling Stones. Well, we’re not blonde (unless subtle highlights count), I drive a Ford Taurus, and our musical tastes lean more toward ABBA and the Les Miserables soundtrack (we’re not afraid to admit it!).

We left Phoenix on a hot July day, belting out "The Winner Takes it All" with gusto. We did not talk about the fact that I wasn’t coming back. At the end of the trip, Emily and I would have to say goodbye. I was moving to Seattle to live with my now-husband; she would be far away in Phoenix. Maybe we should have tried to prepare ourselves for the eventual goodbye, but instead, we turned up the volume on ABBA and pressed on the gas pedal.

Day One—Aaaiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!

As teenagers, Emily and I forged our friendship on Space Mountain, so it was only fitting that we begin our road trip with a day of roller coasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain, home of "Goliath," my favorite adrenalin rush. 15 years ago, I was the one terrified of the twists and turns of Space Mountain and the Matterhorn. This time around, it was Emily staring up in horror at Goliath’s 61-degree drop.

"There is no way I’m getting on that thing," Emily said. But we eased into line after I promised I wouldn’t deny knowing her if she chickened out at the last second. Of course, she didn’t chicken out—I secretly believe she’s much braver than me, which I don’t tell her because she’ll scoff. Whizzing down the metal tracks, Emily and I screamed, and our adventures officially began.

Day Two—Does this helmet make me look fat?

In San Luis Obispo, Emily’s relatives treated us to a huge Italian dinner, much to our glee, as we had eaten nothing but Doritos all day. Thankfully, our hosts were polite enough not to comment as we drooled on ourselves. During dinner, Emily’s uncle mentioned his brand-new Harley V-Rod. "I’ll take you girls for a ride in the morning, if you like." My mouth was still full of dessert, so I looked at Emily, who shrugged. Hey, after Goliath, a motorcycle ride would be cake (or in this case, tiramisu).

We rolled out of bed at 7:30 the next morning and pulled on jeans. Outside, Uncle Eli handed me a helmet and soon we were roaring down a rural highway. Cows whizzed by—man, we were going fast. I tried to peek at the speedometer and thought I saw the needle hovering above 80, but unfortunately, that was when my helmet decided to check out the view from the back of my head. Afraid to let go of Uncle Eli, I spent the rest of the ride staring at helmet padding. Then it was Emily’s turn. I hoped she wouldn’t have the same helmet issues I had, but when she dismounted the Harley 15 minutes later, somehow I didn’t think a mere ill-fitting helmet would make her look so pale.

"I—almost—died," she sputtered. Apparently, Uncle Eli had decided to give his niece a real experience and shot the Harley up above 100 mph—much faster than Goliath’s measly 85mph, and sadly, without those handy-dandy lap bars. Back on the road later that day, we listened to Les Miz three consecutive times to help Emily recover from her brief stint as a biker hellcat. Nothing like a little falsetto crooning to sooth one’s nerves.

Day Three—Aaaiiiiiieeeeee! Part II

While Emily had troubles with the straightaway, it was the hills that made me crazy. We had looked forward to a beautiful drive up the coast of California, purposefully taking twisty Highway One for the majestic vistas it promised. Instead, we were met with gloomy fog, and so, while Emily slept, I drove five miles an hour around hairpin turns with no visibility, my teeth chattering as I waited for the headless horseman to pounce. When we finally made it to San Francisco, the twists and turns changed to drops and dips. Having spent my whole life driving the flat roads of Phoenix, negotiating steep hills made me ever-so-slightly insane.

"We are going to fall down the hill!"
"Everything’s fine," Emily said as I started to twitch.
"Oh no, what was that? Did you hear that? I think the brakes are about to go!"

To make matters worse, we couldn’t find our friend Mary’s apartment. Emily got on her cell phone while I randomly turned this way and that.

"Should I turn right?"
"I don’t know—No! Mary says go left. Then go through the next light and she’s on the third corner."

We found ourselves perched at the top of a hill that rivaled Goliath.

"We’re... not... going to make it," I whispered.
Emily clucked. "We’ll be fine."
"I’m going straight, right?"
"Straight, right?" Emily asked the cell phone. "What street is this?"
"I don’t know," I said, looking around. "I can’t see over the dashboard." Then I spotted a small sign. "Oh wait, it says ... Lombard?" I heard a loud squawk from the other end of the cell phone.

"Turn right!" Emily yelled, but it was too late. The light had turned green and suddenly I was picking my way down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, the crookedest, most evil street in the world. I thought about jumping out, but Emily dropped the phone and forced my hands back onto the wheel. Then, out of the blue (and possibly due to lack of sleep and excessive gummy worm consumption), I realized that Lombard Street was the funniest gosh-darn street in the whole wide world. My shrieks turned into snorts, and soon Emily and I had both dissolved into hysterical laughter, tears streaming into our smiles. Tourists clicking pictures looked at the crazy girls in the dirty Taurus and shook their heads. "Drugs, probably," they whispered to each other. "Such a shame." Miraculously, my car did not upend itself and bounce down Lombard like a Slinky, and we turned off at the bottom. We hugged and thanked God for sparing our young lives.

That night we drank margaritas and filled our tummies with spicy fajitas. I dreamed I was strapped to a motorcycle superglued to a runaway train. Emily, lucky girl, dreamed she was a princess (we’re pretty sure she was, in a past life).

Day Four—Sunflowers and Serenity

I, for one, was happy to bid goodbye to San Francisco’s crazy streets. But we faced a long day of driving and were starting to suffer from too much togetherness. My tendency to try and make everything rosy ("good French fries, huh?") and Emily’s inclination to call it as she sees it ("definitely not") resulted in some clashes. Our arrival at Geercrest Farm could not have been timed better.

Geercrest Farm has been in my family since the Oregon Trail days, and I used to visit with my grandmother as a child. I cherished my memories of strolling through the wheat among lazy sheep, with a strutting rooster following at my heels, and to my delight, the farm hadn’t changed a bit.

While Emily trotted about snapping pictures of sunflowers and sheep, I sat on the porch with dear old Vesper, an 80-something dynamo and my own distant cousin. We stroked the cats sleeping in our laps and watched the sun go down while Vesper listed her latest projects (weeding acres of farm land, dredging the pond, planting raspberry bushes). Without a word, Emily appeared below us and clicked away. I now have that picture framed on my desk, so I can look at it and remember an afternoon of perfect peace.

Day Four—The Search for Burgerville

We spent almost an entire day searching for Burgerville, which Emily had read about in Gourmet magazine, of all places. Supposedly they were located everywhere in Oregon, but it took us five hours before we found one. Behold—Walla Walla onion rings, Tillamook cheeseburgers, blackberry milkshakes! They just don’t make fast food like that in Phoenix. Ah, bliss.

Day Five—Reality Sets In

When we arrived in Portland, Emily called home and learned that her grandfather had passed away. It wasn’t a surprise—he had lived a very long life and her family knew the time was coming very soon –¬ but such a loss hits hard no matter the circumstances. The idea of saying goodbye to someone you love sobered us. Suddenly Emily and I remembered that our own goodbye was coming far too soon—in just a matter of days.

We had planned to use all the money we’d saved by skimping on food (not counting that third blackberry milkshake) to treat ourselves with a first-rate dinner in Portland, and so we did, but it wasn’t quite the lighthearted affair we’d had in mind. That night Emily and I got tipsy and teary thanks to a bottle of wine and years of memories.

Day Six—Goodbye

After a morning walk through the Portland Rose Test Garden, we climbed in the Taurus for the last two hours of our road trip. It was a quiet drive, and we couldn’t decide on what music to play. ABBA sounded too chipper, Les Miz too obvious—finally we settled on Billy Joel. As downtown Seattle came into view, Billy’s song “I’ve Loved These Days” started playing. Billy was probably commenting on 80s’ excess when he wrote about saying goodbye to champagne and satin sheets, but he was also singing about the end of an era. It was the end of an era for Emily and me. When we heard Billy sing, "A few more hours to be complete, a few more times that I can say - I’ve loved these days," I bit my lip, and Emily looked out the window. What could we say? We had said it all. Ten minutes later, our road trip ended. Emily got on a plane and flew back to Phoenix the following morning.

Today

Summer has arrived, and that used to mean movies, baseball games, and complaining about 100-degree heat. In Phoenix, Emily and I would talk almost every day, but now I haven’t talked to her in a month. We try to call and e-mail, but it’s not the same. I’m in Seattle with a new husband and new responsibilities, and Emily is far away building her photography business.

Emily contends that we will probably never be as close as we were during our road trip. I have to believe that she is wrong, because I miss my friend. I especially miss her in the summer, when I see Harleys on the road, sunflowers in bloom, and blackberries for sale. I miss her when I hear Billy Joel on the radio, and when I blast ABBA when I’m home alone. I miss Emily every day. Which reminds me, I have a phone call to make.

Kathryn Eastlick is a freelance and creative writer based in Seattle. Visit her website (www.kathryneastlick.com) for more stories and her alter-ego blog, or email her at kathryn@kathryneastlick.com.