HORIZONS n o n e m o w d a o R e h t
The recent death of a friend prompted a cross-country trip to reconnect with old friends and follow in the footsteps of fellow female wanderers from decades past. by Hadley Austin
Jim’s “real” memorial was in Elk Grove Village, in an imposing stone Arts and Crafts style church, with a tasteful gathering at a country club afterwards. Canapés were served, and throughout the evening everyone who approached the three of us who had known Jim during his graduate school days in Arizona seemed to know we were from outside this well-coifed and well-dressed community. I guess we did look a little whackadoodle by comparison. Patty was in haphazard long layers of black and, having come from Phoenix, was not dressed warmly enough for the blustery winter day. Dan was wearing jeans and a wool plaid jacket with a cut that was popular over a decade ago. You can wear jeans to a funeral in Arizona and nobody thinks a thing of it. Not so in the Midwest. Even I, who have lived in Chicago for more than seven years,
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looked out of place. I’ve never quite been able to fall into the fashion rhythms and perpetual put-togetherness of this place. So, there I was in a grey and black Kate Spade wool dress, destroyed eyeliner (head smack: do not wear eye makeup to a funeral), and with my waist-length curls looking like a weaver bird’s nest. Jim always looked out of place, too. He’d wear a lawyerly blazer and slacks with cowboy boots and a homemade t-shirt that more often than not said something fairly raunchy and offensive. He drove a vintage, cherry-red Mercedes on the dirt roads through the Hopi reservation for work. He would have loved that we were there looking and feeling out of place. When he died, Jim was living in Austin, Texas, and was forever asking me to come visit him. I never did. It was easier just
to wait for him to come home to visit his family. I regret that now, of course. I wish I’d gone to Texas and had a drink with him at his favorite bar, met whatever girl he was dating at that given moment. So in honor of Jim, I’m spending five weeks on a solo memorial road trip, dropping in on all the friends I only ever see on Facebook. I’ve got so many babies and spouses to meet, so many new homes to sleep in, so many marathon catch-up sessions to partake in. But first, I have to make my way to Jim’s second memorial in Flagstaff, Arizona, his favorite town and where he and I met ten years ago. In making my way alone across America, I am following the trail of many brave women who didn’t have the benefits of four-wheel drive and thoroughly connected Interstates. For instance, the incredibly courageous and eccentric Emily
fw-chicago.com September 2015
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