I am in Southern California on a sunny day in October 2020, seven months after the world took an abrupt turn, having just attended a collecting club meet. A month prior, I couldn’t come to the area for my Uncle Lucky's burial due to a virus case where I work; a month and a half later, the state enacted strict stay-at-home orders like they did back in the spring.

It’s been a challenging enough year on a personal, national, and global level. Then my dad was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a rare and particularly deadly type of brain tumor. On the last phone call before the news, he was feeling depressed but optimistic about the pandemic. We’d get through this mess, and travel again, he said.

So, while my dad lays in a hospital, post-surgery, I am off for the weekend, in part taking the trip he couldn’t, to process all that happened and to get a much-needed break from the pandemic as it relates to my daily experience.

After the bar, I pass the oil derricks of Kern while evening begins its descent. I settle in at the La Quinta Inn in Valencia. The next morning, I come by my uncle's house. He was an incredibly vivacious man who never graduated high school yet attained a high level of success as a painter for Universal Studios, amongst other pursuits. The doorknob from the Psycho house and a variety of other memorabilia and signed photos had hung in his garage for years. They were all from films and shows he worked on in some capacity. He was into Westerns and had things like wagon wheels in his yard. When we stayed at his house, it wouldn't be uncommon for him to be up at 6 a.m., having salami and a Pepsi while singing and milling about to old country and western tunes.

He and my dad kidded each other all the time, but laughter was a necessary part of this ritual, and beyond all the light-hearted atmosphere there was a deep and real bond between them. My dad was the youngest of seven, and didn't have a father growing up. Due to their age difference, Lucky became a father figure and my dad would consult him throughout his life.

Memories wash over me, but I can't stay long. It is time to head to a license plate collectors meet in Riverside. After that I visit my cousin and a longtime friend. On the way to my cousin's, I listen to Game Four of the World Series. The Los Angeles Dodgers lead the Tampa Bay Rays two games to one. My dad is a lifelong Dodgers fan. While I'm decidedly not, I smile thinking of how a friend of his sister-in-law who works for the team had arranged for JumboTron to feature the message "The Dodgers are rootin' for you, Dr. G!" My cousin and I dine at an Irish pub, where tents, patio lights, and heat lamps have created an outdoor dining space. It's part of a new reality created by the virus, which we talk about along with baseball, family, and my dad's diagnosis.

Finally, the brief whirlwind trip concludes the next day with visits to two unique nature-related places. The first is the Gibbon Conservation Center, where the eruption of noises coming from the animals in one momentous symphony is spellbinding. The second is the quirky Quail Run Ostrich Ranch.

I take the same road back, through the Angeles National Forest, to the interstate. The charred reminders of a fire that ripped through this area in September are still fresh. Blackened trees and burnt hills stand out in stark contrast to the even gray sky.

My last stop is the Harris Ranch Express BBQ. It’s located in a gas station with patio-only dining, putting it in an advantageous position compared to many other restaurants. A year ago, in what seems like eons before the pandemic or my dad falling ill , my girlfriend and I came here on our way back from a trip to Pismo Beach and Disneyland.