Moojinorbit

Call it pride, but there are not enough tranquilizers, narcotics, and muscle relaxants in the world to unwind my psyche after sitting in the passenger seat, with my dad at the wheel of his 1979 peach and white Ford Ranchero (complete with topper, so he can cram the back full of junk and tools), while we execute the longest, slow-motion trek in history from Silverthorne to Frisco, Colorado on the back roads, not the highway, with chains on the tires, going to and from a very mediocre dinner at 20 mph or less, to hang out with a 20 year-old Christian named Jennifer.

I purposely made that one sentence. Now I’ll try to break it down (rather than breakdown).

(Close enough, but imagine a topper, and white instead of rust, and covered with dirt.)

I carved three days to spend “Christmas” with my dad this week. This was a sacrifice for me, because it’s really, really bad timing for me to effectively throw a few days to the wind that might otherwise be used to help me gear up for the end of my minisabbatical and the beginning of the new year. It was not a generous sacrifice, though, because I did not feel generous in my heart about it but, clearly, grumpy and resentful. Three days with the person who triggers me most in the world is a very long time. But we got to hang in the timeshare Katie has up in Silverthorne, and it’s a really nice condo, and we spent today skiing at Copper, which is a nice thing. But any of you following this blog for long know that my relationship with Cowboy is ambivalent at best. Once I get past the 24-hour window, serious emotional cabin fever sets in and I feel homicidal urges. Especially given that now that he’s half deaf, I have to YELL everything TWICE, and the act of yelling just calls out my anger from the various dusty compartments where I keep it.

So, he mentions last night he wants to take me out to dinner. Fine; great; dinner on him; a miracle! But then he says something about this pastor and his wife he knows in Frisco and this “young lady, Jennifer” that lives with them, and how he sent her a Christmas card and thought maybe he’d bring her to dinner. Um, okay, I’m thinking. Random, but at least I’ll have someone under 80 to talk to. He gets on his cell and phones this Jennifer and next thing I know we’re gonna meet her tonight for dinner. I can’t imagine why in the world the woman said yes.

Now, the chains are on the Ranchero, because though it made it all the way up the 2 mile hill to the condo, there is this kind of steep 100′ driveway, and it was really slick when he arrived, so he had to put on chains to make it. And, understandably, he doesn’t want to take them off for the drive to Frisco and then put ‘em back on to get up the driveway again. And for some reason I haven’t put all the pieces together about what this combination of factors will mean and offer to drive. So we head off to Frisco with the chains on.

Which means we’re going literally about 15 miles per hour. And if we speed up one of the chains starts slapping the wheelwell like a raging, whip-wielding dominatrix, so we slow back down. People in 4-wheel drives are crawling up our backs, wanting to pass but being too chicken to, which makes Cowboy angry, so he’s talking back to them, or slowing down so they can pass and then ridiculing them for not acting fast enough. Pleasant, indeed. But the worst is realizing that what should be taking about 7 minutes is going on 30 now, and I’m stuck in a slush-encrusted low-rider with no seatbelt and an 81-year-old at the wheel, cussing in “fake” cuss (dag nabbit, jiminy christmas, etc.)

Fast forward to dinner. Who is Jennifer? Oh, just some pretty young, bright-eyed, shy brunette who goes on missions to Mexico City with the church, works at the knitting store in town, and just finished her AA. A total sweetheart, really. She wants to study linguistics. I tell her she should definitely apply (though she doesn’t seem to have a clue that linguistics is a pretty wild-ass theoretical program, not just a Spanish major). “Conversation” is filled with verbal Grand Canyons, and Cowboy–who probably can’t hear the deafening silence anyway–is no help. This poor girl seems as bewildered as I that my dad has befriended her. I try to make a couple cracks that he can’t hear, but she has that good Christian girl sense of humor–which is to say, none. All I can gather is that a) he somehow felt gracious toward her because she is a pretty, modest working girl; and b) he heard she can draw and he wants her to draw some old wagon that he saw one time. Whatever; the whole dinner was what I refer to as a Tweak Pocket, a bizarre collision in the Universe.

So, after years of my life have been robbed from me, we’re back on the road with the clanking chain, driving along snow-covered Lake Dillon, and I’m sitting there seatbeltless (did I mention the belt was broken?) having dark fantasies about my own death unfolding as a result of this journey. What if we slide off the road and crash through the ice below? What if some mad rich guy who’s over how annoying we are trolling down the road decides to run us off with his Hummer? And all of a sudden, it hits me, the feeling I felt through so much of my childhood with this man. A simple feeling:

Helpless.

Helpless to change the situation, to have any meaningful control. Helpless about where we were going and how we’d get there. Helpless because we could only listen to Country radio or church-on-tape. Helpless because I couldn’t really be myself, or didn’t feel I could, and still don’t feel I can, because he does not want to know, because he’s so deeply absorbed in his own oddball world. Stuck in parking lots, waiting for him to get out of the bank or the grocery store, which always took forever. Stuck on really long road trips through the West. Stuck while he rode in some pockmarked town to track down someone he hadn’t talked to in 30 years but looked up in the phonebook. Embarrassed that we always seemed to be imposing on folks without warning. So, a little ashamed. And then guilty for feeling helpless and ashamed about my own dad.

For all the other things I could say about the man to balance this out–things that are real, and true, about how he is a good man–my truth in this moment is that I spent the better part of my childhood feeling helpless in his presence. I became a mollusk, shrunk way inside, listening, paying attention, silently, looking outward, inside a shell.

And that, my friends, is why I am a writer.

Yeah, yeah, I know; gratitude. Whatever.

(Photo courtesy of 4 year-old Reilly, who took it himself.)

I drafted this a couple weeks ago and just finished it up this morning.

***
In the continuing chronicles of my relationship with my dad…

I spent yesterday with the Old Man. We did the single thing we probably do best together: strapping boards on our feet and sliding down huge mountains of cold white stuff for fun. This we can do without talking about politics or religion, without awkward silences, without having to be anywhere but where we are together. In this one activity, I can enjoy following in his path exactly, as he carves graceful arcs in a dance with air and earth. In this I can only hope to live up to the model of excellence he has shown me all my life. When it comes to skiing, the man makes me proud.

As the day unfolds, I find myself noticing what does and doesn’t change over the 40 years I have known the man (which is precisely half of his life, as he fathered me at 40).

For instance, a phrase like, “there’s a nice little blonde lady that works at this warming hut restaurant” still basically translates, “I think that young blonde over there is hot; I noticed her last time.” All my life, whenever my dad has referred to a woman by her hair color, he is assessing her attractiveness, usually favorably. With that exception, most other observations about women are negative, along the lines of, “Jiminy Christmas, do you think you could drive, Lady?!”

What also hasn’t changed is that though my dad is wearing the same pair of worn-out blue ski bibs he’s been sporting for a couple of decades, he nevertheless invests in top-of-the-line boots and skis. I’m talking custom fitted Italian ski boots that come with a boot warmer you plug into the cigarette lighter in the car. I bet they cost a good $800. This is the exact equivalent to the way he wears hand made, special-fit Lucheses with the same Wranglers he probably bought in 1975. On the slopes he trades in his Stetson (alternately: custom multicolored hard hat with “Cowboy” airbrushed on the side) for a glossy chrome-colored helmet. A helmet. This is clearly not the old days.

He’s forever fond of the unspecified “we,” especially when regaling strangers with miscellanea about his past, only some of which is true, so guessing is something of a crap shoot. “Before ski areas became a corporate industry, we used to jump off twenty foot cornices on strips of plywood.” “We used to have to dig a tunnel from the front door to the street, we got so much snow.” “We ran a couple of ranches in Montana.” “We invented the Harvey Wallbanger at the bar I used to run.” “One time we dangled up there on a chairlift in a raging blizzard for four hours because the ski patrol thought it’d be funny to evacuate everyone else before they got to us.” Who is this ‘we,’ I always wonder, and where are ‘they’ now?

But the truth is, as much as he seems like a loner living up in Encampment, Wyoming, land of ranchers and survivalists, and driving all over the country in his Ford F350 by himself, my dad does have, and I guess always has had, lots of friends and acquaintances. Like, now he knows all these colorful yokels down in Talladega, Alabama, where he drives down a couple times a year to sell tickets at the races–for which he barely gets paid enough to cover his fuel. One of those guys called me this summer to RSVP for Daddy’s 80th birthday party and I swear I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying, his accent was so deep-swamp. But he loved my dad, and the dude actually showed up at the party with his wife, and pastor, and pastor’s wife in a happy little RV. (They were a little too interested in how well my walk with Jesus was going, so I kept a respectful distance.)

Also: my dad skied over 25 times this season. At 80 years old. (It pisses me off, by the way, that so many ski resorts are making people over 70 buy tickets. Don’t you think if those folks are still downhill skiing it ought to be on the house?)

As for what has changed, I’m happy to say there seem to have been a few late-in-life developments.

To wit, the guy actually bought me a pair of skis and boots this year, because my skis are too outdated and one of my old boots broke back in December. Now, I doubt he spent a lot of money on my new equipment; he knows a guy who owns a shop and got the stuff barely used and probably for a steal. But the point is he coughed up actual dollars on me for some shiny equipment when I wasn’t even there. He even got my shoe size right. Considering that when I was young and he’d (oh so rarely) buy me something semi-costly, it would typically come wrapped in the comment, “now, this is your birthday and Christmas present next year”–and it would be. So this random gift-giving thing is progress. He also bought lunch when we went skiing, and this, too, counts for something given the tight wad he is. (Maybe he wanted to impress the hot waitress.)

Also, he’s softer, less caught up in tight-lipped moralizing and grousing about the world. Maybe this is a byproduct of my setting a boundary with him a few years ago that we can’t talk politics. Or maybe he’s just happier. But it’s nice not to hear a lot of comments about Mexicans or Democrats or “Socialist Party A and Socialist Party B,” which is how he once referred to the two party system in the U.S.

He seems to be losing his hearing and says “What?” constantly, which is aggravating. But I suppose with all of the hammers, drills, and saws he’s worked around all his life I can give the guy a break.

He has a BFF, a best-friend guy named John, that he met in church in Longmont. And he calls John, or John calls him, all the time, which means that the last several times I’ve been with my dad I’ve heard them have their little check-ins, talking about what they’re doing that day. I think my dad’s kind of a father figure to John, who’s probably in his early 50s, but John also seems to keep an eye on Daddy, and that gives me a sense of relief. John even slipped me a check to help pay for Daddy’s party. Anyway, it’s cute. (No, Mom, this does not mean that Daddy is gay.)

And speaking of the phone, my dad use to be an absolute Hitler about the phone; he hated the thing, which led to all kinds of f’d up restrictions for me and Bill about phone use in the house and when we could talk to our friends. But now? Seriously, the guy is Mr. Popular with a mobile. His phone rings on the chairlift, and he picks it up!!! We literally got off a lift at the top of Mary Jane so he could listen to his voice mail. He had EIGHT messages. And last Christmas in Crested Butte, he chatted with more friends than Bill, Mary, and me combined. I’m trying not to believe that this is because he’s at the center of a massive evangelical anti-government conspiracy. I’d rather be grateful that the guy is 1) not lonely, clearly; 2) reachable wherever he goes; and 3) no longer a phone hater.

Also, he used to refused to smile in pictures on principle, grousing, “Why in the world do they have to make you smile for it to be a good picture?” But now just look at that happy mug.

For sign off, I’ll just leave you with this ol’ diddy my dad busted out midway through a lift ride that I later had to call him up and transcribe. I’d never heard it before and it just flowed right out of his memory. Cracked me up.

Fifty Cents

I took my gal to a social ball
it was a fancy hop
we stayed until the folks went home
until the music stopped

then to a restaurant we went
the fanciest on the street
she said she wasn’t hungry
but this is what she eat:

a dozen raw, a plate of slaw
a chicken, and a roast
asparagus and apple sauce
and soft-shelled clams on toast

Irish stew, with crackers, too
her appetite was immense
when she called for pie
I thought I’d die,
‘Cuz I had but fifty cents.

She said she wasn’t thirsty
though she had an awful tank
and to prove to you it wasn’t true
this is what she drank:

A whiskey skin, a glass of gin
it made me shake with fear
a bottle of pop with rum on top
and then a glass of beer

A ginger ale, a gin cocktail
she shoulda had more sense
when she called for more
I fell on the floor
‘Cuz I had but fifty cents.

She said she’d call her family
and then we’d have some fun
so I gave the man my fifty cents
and this is what he done:

He tore my clothes, he smashed my nose
he hit me more and more
he gave me a prize
of two black eyes
and with me swept the floor

he took me where my pants are loose
and threw me o’er the fence
take my advice, don’t try it twice
if you have but fifty cents.

Minutes since the Wadsworth family has departed my humble abode: 5.
Percentage of space suddenly freed up on my floor: 70.
Estimated number of inches it has snowed in the last 7 hours: 5.
Hours of delay I am concerned the Wadsworths may experience at the airport in a snowstorm: 2 to overnight.
Number of cars I have to pick them up if their flight is canceled: 0. (My car remains in the shop.)
Amount of money I’ve spent on insurance deductibles for things that weren’t my fault in less than 30 days: $1,000.00
Amount of money that has left over for Christmas presents: $0.

Number of toilet paper rolls I had before the Wadsworths arrived: 8.
Number of rolls left in my house after 2 days with my family in it: 1.
Number of snotty toilet paper wads my brother has left around my house: 7.
Number of times the toilet lid has been left up for me to nearly fall into the toilet: 12? (Not Mary’s fault.)
Kleenex boxes consumed: 2.
Estimated number of water bottles provided to recycling by said family in one week: 45.
Number of pounds each of us probably gained during a week of eating, playing, and hanging out in Crested Butte: 6.
Estimated number of times Reilly sledded down the sledding hill: 165?
Number of minutes my dad and I lasted on the ice rink: 45.

Age of Reilly: 4 and 1/2.
Number of times Reilly collided into something in my house last night after being hyped up from too long a drive home from Crested Butte: 4.
Length of time I spent downstairs with him after the aforementioned collisions blowing off steam through dance, dance-karate (our new art form), throwing a super ball on the walls, wrestling, playing Superman, and running around in circles at full speed: 2 hours.
Age of Nanny: 39 and 11/12ths.
Number of people who ended up in my warm bubble bath after the playfest: 2 (because Reilly decided to join the fun).

Number of children I’m ready to have by myself at this moment: 0.
Ratio of Mary’s patience to mine on an hourly basis: 10/1.
Pleasure of being an aunt: Infinite.
Number of kitties happy to be cozying up with their mama and watching the snow fall right now: 2.5 (Paco counts for at least a kitty and a half.)

7 days with my dad, brother, Mary, and Reilly:  See post title.

It’s a good thing we didn’t light the hotel on fire with 80 candles on that ginger bread cake.
Good thing all the guests showed up; we were a little worried there for awhile.
Good thing the weather worked out, so there were almost no excuses.
Good thing the folks from Alabama got to Cheyenne safely, and only talked about Jesus for about 15 minutes (straight).
Good thing Bill and Mary and Reilly were there with me. I know it wouldn’t have been nearly as fun for me without them.

Good thing people knew how to make conversation, ‘cuz it was an alcohol-free birthday bash.
Good thing folks at the Ron Paul fundraiser across the hall didn’t crash our party, cuz we ran low on appetizers.
Good thing Reilly could watch Sponge Bob on Bill’s iFone, because 4 hours of old people is a lot for a little guy.

Good thing we followed through and did this, because I think the whole thing had a healing effect on my dad. I got a gushing thank you note in the mail yesterday.
Good thing humans sometimes have the capacity to put the past in the past and find ways to love each other today.
I’m so happy that we pulled off a good thing.