Christmas Family Ties

                                    Christmas Family Ties

We visited my parents last Christmas. Even without two small children, it’s an arduous road trip, twenty-six hours if you’re lucky, thirty or more if you’re not. The drive from Utah to Texas encompasses everything from urban to rural to urban again, arid to humid, mountains to coast, scenery both breath-taking (south-eastern Utah, the area around Moab that includes both Arches and Canyonlands National Parks) and mind-numbingly dull (flat and lonely stretches of West Texas that seem to go on forever).

Why on earth would anyone drive over fifty hours round-trip, especially with two little boys in the backseat?  My boys are two and four, and even short trips to the grocery store can be miserable if either is in a rotten mood, let alone both. And on a long road trip, you can guarantee that there will be some rotten moods back there.

The honest truth is that my parents are old. Mind you, what I thought was “old” when I was twenty seems pretty vigorous and youthful from where I stand today. But my parents are considered old by most people who are also alive. My mother is a youthful 76, my dad is 80, with some serious health issues. My father had his first coronary bypass surgery almost twenty-five years ago, and it was a sextuple. I had never even heard of a sextuple bypass until then. He has had more bypasses done since then, along with numerous other treatments. He and his brothers all seem to have built-in cholesterol factories, pumping the artery-clogging glop out at truly alarming rates. So far I seem to have escaped this genetic mess, although I’m young enough that the jury is still out. If my father had suffered a heart attack before his initial bypass surgery, it would likely have been lethal. Poof! Gone like that – just like his own father. As it is, the miracles of modern medicine have kept him going, pretty active until recently, for the last quarter century.

For Thanksgiving last year, my parents went to visit my cousin and her family. My cousin Holly is about ten years younger than I am, and is my favorite relative aside from my parents. She’s great company, as she is clever and kind and funny and generous. She and her husband have a lake house out on Lake Eufala, in Oklahoma, which is where The Family (minus me and my crew) had Thanksgiving dinner. Unfortunately my father had a heart attack that day and had to be taken to the hospital some twenty minutes from their lake house. By the next day it became apparent that he would need to be sent to the hospital in Norman, OK, over two hours away, which had a state-of-the-art cardiac care unit. During the long ride in the ambulance, Dad had a TIA as well. It turned out that despite the many bypasses, angioplasties and stents, he now only had one coronary artery working.

Charlotte and I decided to leave on the evening of December twenty-second. Several friends had told us that traveling with small children was best done that way; the kids could enjoy the newness of the trip for awhile, and by the time they started getting bored it would be dark outside, encouraging them to sleep. We wisely brought the portable DVD player and the bedtime CD I had made them, stopping at dusk to get them into their pull-ups and jammies. As a natural insomniac, I took over the night driving while my wife got some sleep, and drove all the way until daybreak.

In the pitch-dark, with no sound except some light snoring, I had time to just sit and think, uninterrupted by the usual squabbling, chattering, screaming and crying from the Back Seat Gang. The quiet was astounding, awe-inspiring, and unbelievably welcome. I let my thoughts drift back to my childhood with my parents.

My father and I have never had an easy relationship. He and I were always too different and too alike. The differences of background, temperament, and communication causing a gulf between us that our similarities – stubbornness, a streak of combativeness, and the need to state our case until others understand it – did little to bridge. When a family contains an Only Child, you find a triangle that is rarely balanced. Either the parents are weighted “against” the child, or one of the parents is more like the child. It is difficult and rare to have the dynamic balanced so that someone isn’t left feeling shut out. Since my mother and I share similar temperaments and interests, my dad usually felt like he was left out, or that we were “ganging up on him,” as he put it. We’re both lively, out-going, and love to read and talk. My dad is good with his hands, can build things, from child-sized furniture to oil paintings to ceramics of all kinds. His ability to make and draw and paint has always amazed me; it’s truly a God-given talent that I simply do not share. I’m lucky to draw a recognizable stick-figure on a good day. Mom and I like concerts and socializing; Dad doesn’t seem to care much for either. I suspect that he is introverted, that being around people too much makes him feel weary and depleted, and that he would far rather be in his workshop outside or in front of the television. While my mother and I would read and talk, and talk about what we read, my father watched re-runs of “Law and Order” episodes or worked with his kilns, paints and stains. I suspect that their marriage was more harmonious before I was born, and again after I grew up and left home.

When I was a child, Dad always seemed a little distant and intimidating. We had wonderful times together, memories I have lovingly burnished the way we had once polished small lumps of obsidian in the rock tumbler until they became smooth, shiny, beautiful. Most of the time, however, he seemed stern and loud, or he teased and needled me until I wanted to lash out, always done verbally if at all. We argued about everything, what to watch on television, what constituted a Great Composer, whether an opera or play could be bad on the basis of how many of the characters lived or died. Later we argued over politics and social issues, and which driving route was best for getting to the museum with the minimum of traffic or road construction. In short, we weren’t really compatible. I loved him, and he loved me, but it was not an easy or comfortable kind of love.

And now Dad was sicker than he had ever been, suffering severe chest pains and needing nitro and oxygen almost every night. Charlotte and I had decided to strike out for Texas so that the boys would have one more Christmas with their “Boppa,” as there might well not be another one. My wife, who lost her own father several years ago, is very motivated about making memories of our family. Her parents divorced when she was young, and visits with her mother were sporadic. She was very close to her dad, and she was completely devastated, crushed when he passed away five years ago. My father, who is sensitive and kind under his gruff exterior, told her, “I can’t ever take your dad’s place, but I can be a dad to you now.” Charlotte wanted us to take the kids and go see my mom and dad, and she especially wanted us to have a family portrait made together. The last one we had done with my parents was before the birth of our younger son, now two years old. I agreed, we needed a photograph with my parents and both boys, and the sooner the better.

The hours on the road warp your sense of time. By the time we arrived in Houston, I couldn’t remember what day it was, although it was the evening of December twenty-third. Still a day left for last-minute shopping, something we had planned in advance as we needed “Santa” trunk space for my parents’ gifts.

My parents’ house was vividly decorated, as it is every year. My mother loves to go all out with the Christmas decorations, ornaments, lights, all of it. The gaudiness of it brings back wonderful childhood memories, and we have a toned-down version of that in our own home now. The boys were delighted with the tree and the twinkling lights and the collections of ceramic carolers and nativity scenes that my dad had made over the years. Even more, they were overjoyed to be with their beloved Nana and Boppa again. They ask for my parents all the time, every day, sometimes several times a day. The distance in mileage in no way diminishes the closeness of their relationship with my parents.

The next day, Christmas Eve, was a whirlwind of activity: negotiating the over-crowded Christmas shopping, grabbing a quick lunch and planning Santa things while the kids were napping, ending the day with making cookies for Santa and tracking his journey via the NASA website. As far as Santa’s visit to the house, all I can say is that he was completely exhausted and ate far too many cookies.

A few days after Christmas we went to have our family picture taken. Travis, my older son, wore a navy pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a little red tie, of which he was inordinately proud. I wore my own navy suit and red tie to match him. When he and I “match,” he talks about it for days, pleased to be like Daddy. Charlotte and my mother wore purple dresses that were exactly the same shade (what are the odds?), and Rowan had a little black suit with a maroon vest, and a black tie with tiny white dots completed his ensemble. My dad seemed unsure what to wear, so I went with him to his closet to give him my suggestions. He ended up wearing a charcoal suit, and went with my suggestion of a black tie with tiny white dots, almost identical to Rowan’s.

My mom came in and said, “Oh, the tie is perfect, we will all match! But Earl, don’t tie it in that tacky Windsor knot. I think that just looks awful.” I suggested a four-in-hand knot, which, according to Wikipedia, is probably the most popular way to tie a tie. Since my dad has a bit of extra bulk around his middle, a smaller knot that creates a “longer” tie is a good idea for him. I showed him how to do it by doing my own, and he tried it himself. “Let’s both look in the mirror so I’m not looking at it backwards,” he suggested, so we stood side-by-side looking into his full-length mirror. Finally he said, “You tie it. I’m not so good at this stuff anymore.” So I tied his tie, we both regarded it approvingly, I dusted some cat hair off his jacket, and off we went.

The photo sitting was amazingly quick and easy. The studio was one well-trained in working with children, which was a blessing. Having pictures made with two little boys, especially kids who are my boys’ ages, can be a real trial. Keeping everyone calm and happy, getting the whole crew to smile at the same time, as opposed to making silly faces or starting to complain, is quite an undertaking, and we were all pleasantly surprised that it was over so soon, and that we ended up with a truly beautiful photograph.

We crammed a whirlwind of fun trips and activities into the next few days. My mother always dreams up places to go and things to do for small children to enjoy. Too much free time is never an issue when we visit them! We drove through the neighborhood admiring the holiday lights and decorations, had a lovely Christmas dinner, took the kids to the local park with a playground, went for walks with Mom and their evil hell-hound of a dachshund named Lili, spent an afternoon at the Children’s Museum, baked another batch of sugar cookies as “Santa” ate so many of the others.

All too soon it was time to pack up the car and head back home. The kids cried, Mom and Dad cried, my wife and I cried. A few hours later the kids had fallen asleep and Charlotte was dozing. I again made the most of my insomnia and drove through the night. I listened to an audio book on my IPod for awhile, then turned it off and reflected on the week spent with my parents, my worries about Dad’s health, and if the dog bites Charlotte sustained from the hell-hound would leave scars. That dog is a menace. No wonder she and my dad are so close; they're both old and cranky.

Like a bolt from the blue, a realization struck me. I had tied Dad’s tie for him. I had picked out his clothes. This man, strong and gruff and overwhelming in my childhood, who always rebuffed my attempts to get close to him, had needed my help. This was symbolic to me on several levels. First, there was the fact that he has always worked with his hands, and done it well, enjoyed doing close detail work, like painting the facial features on chess pieces or making miniature wooden trains with working wheels to go under a tiny, ceramic Christmas tree. And he had asked for my help tying his tie. More meaningful still, there was the tacit approval for my knowledge, my suggestions, my opinion. My father, who would never admit to a mistake, who rarely showed any kind of approval, who argued heatedly about everything under the sun, this man accepted my suggestions and asked for my help. I was so stunned that I nearly drove off the road. Dad had shown both physical weakness and an emotionally vulnerable side of himself that he usually kept hidden under a hard, crabby shell.

I always knew that my father loved me. Now, for the first time in my life, I could believe that he respected and accepted me as well. With a pang I remembered sitting with him on the bed as he suffered chest pains and another small TIA. I had been too defensive, too afraid of being rebuffed again to take his hand. I had lost that chance, one that might never be repeated. Please God, let him live long enough for me to see him again.