fatherly reflections
When I was young, my mother used to travel a lot. Or maybe she didn't travel a lot but that's how I seem to remember it. When she did travel, it was always traumatic to me in a way that even when I was older (8, 9, 10) would still hit me -- even though I knew that I was old enough, rational enough, to understand that she would be back - the next day, in most cases.
The days that she was gone were the only days that I was glad to be at school. If nothing else, it kept my mind busy so that I didn't obssess over my mother's absence and allow myself to be carried away in a panic attack that wouldn't subside until we picked her up from the airport, complete with blue suitcase and a special something for me in her carry-on bag. After school was torture. At the sitter's house, I would sulk and refuse to play with anyone else -- what was the point? My mom wouldn't be picking me up at 5:15pm like everyone else's moms... instead my dad was coming to get me and he always arrived at 3:45pm, like clockwork. This left me barely half an hour to sit on the end of the couch and concentrate -- fixate on something, anything, that would distract me from myself and the black clouds of panic that swirled behind my eyes.
But then 3:45pm would roll around and so would he. He was so fiercely anti-social that he refused even to come to the front door and say hello to the sitter, help me carry my things to the car, toss my backpack on the backseat, ask for a brisk kiss and how my day went. No, he instead would honk the horn from the driveway and not return the friendly wave from the sitter through the front window. I'd slump into the car and he'd say "are you sure you've got everything?" and as soon as I nodded, he'd swerve out of the driveway and rush us home.
Home. Home is where the heart is. The heart that is lumped in your throat and beating like a hummingbird's wings. Here, I am surrounded by my own things -- toys, dolls, books -- but somehow I feel trapped. Lonely. My father is in the den, watching the news on TV and undoubtedly reading the newspaper. It's almost like a game that we play when my mother is traveling - how much of the newspaper can he read before I resurface from my room, inquiring about homework, dinner? I suppose that it isn't really a game, since I always win. The last time she was away, he woke me up somewhere around 9pm and asked if I had taken a bath or made anything to eat. When I shook my head, no, I'm only 7 - I was waiting for you to feed me - he lifted me up and took me to the kitchen where he prepared one of the two meals he was fit to cook.
I watched him from the breakfast table and never offered to help. In my defense, I rarely helped my mother either, but I always stayed in the kitchen while she cooked, even if I was laying across the breakfast table chairs, reading Beverly Cleary. The way he cooked reminded me of a frantic magician, pulling open drawers with brows knitted together then suddenly - abracadabra! There was the spoon that he needed to stir up the pot. And again, where did that pesky little... oho! a slight of hand trick! The salt was on the counter all along. Years later I would watch the show Iron Chef and be reminded of my father's cooking -- not the gourmet ingredients, lobster brains, or presentation, but the maniacal running back and forth. The sweaty assistants chopping feverishly at the side board. Curse words muttered under their breath.
His #1 menu was the standard go-to when mom was away. She did a lot of overnight trips, so this worked out perfectly. Recently, I was talking to some friends about it and trying to describe how it took 2 skillets and 3 sauce pans to make and yet in the end... it was turkey (or chicken, or steak - depending on the leftovers in the fridge) sliced thick, set on top of toast, and then smothered in canned gravy. "Just like my mother used to make," he would beam at me. Clearly, he was a child of WWII, when people recycled their bacon grease and ate everything 'chipped' on toast in a glucky sauce. My friend piped up to say "At least it wasn't always spaghetti with jar sauce - that's all my dad could make" and Ryan topped us all with his father's "college recipe" of ketchup on Wonder Bread - the ultimate budget meal.
The days that she was gone were the only days that I was glad to be at school. If nothing else, it kept my mind busy so that I didn't obssess over my mother's absence and allow myself to be carried away in a panic attack that wouldn't subside until we picked her up from the airport, complete with blue suitcase and a special something for me in her carry-on bag. After school was torture. At the sitter's house, I would sulk and refuse to play with anyone else -- what was the point? My mom wouldn't be picking me up at 5:15pm like everyone else's moms... instead my dad was coming to get me and he always arrived at 3:45pm, like clockwork. This left me barely half an hour to sit on the end of the couch and concentrate -- fixate on something, anything, that would distract me from myself and the black clouds of panic that swirled behind my eyes.
But then 3:45pm would roll around and so would he. He was so fiercely anti-social that he refused even to come to the front door and say hello to the sitter, help me carry my things to the car, toss my backpack on the backseat, ask for a brisk kiss and how my day went. No, he instead would honk the horn from the driveway and not return the friendly wave from the sitter through the front window. I'd slump into the car and he'd say "are you sure you've got everything?" and as soon as I nodded, he'd swerve out of the driveway and rush us home.
Home. Home is where the heart is. The heart that is lumped in your throat and beating like a hummingbird's wings. Here, I am surrounded by my own things -- toys, dolls, books -- but somehow I feel trapped. Lonely. My father is in the den, watching the news on TV and undoubtedly reading the newspaper. It's almost like a game that we play when my mother is traveling - how much of the newspaper can he read before I resurface from my room, inquiring about homework, dinner? I suppose that it isn't really a game, since I always win. The last time she was away, he woke me up somewhere around 9pm and asked if I had taken a bath or made anything to eat. When I shook my head, no, I'm only 7 - I was waiting for you to feed me - he lifted me up and took me to the kitchen where he prepared one of the two meals he was fit to cook.
I watched him from the breakfast table and never offered to help. In my defense, I rarely helped my mother either, but I always stayed in the kitchen while she cooked, even if I was laying across the breakfast table chairs, reading Beverly Cleary. The way he cooked reminded me of a frantic magician, pulling open drawers with brows knitted together then suddenly - abracadabra! There was the spoon that he needed to stir up the pot. And again, where did that pesky little... oho! a slight of hand trick! The salt was on the counter all along. Years later I would watch the show Iron Chef and be reminded of my father's cooking -- not the gourmet ingredients, lobster brains, or presentation, but the maniacal running back and forth. The sweaty assistants chopping feverishly at the side board. Curse words muttered under their breath.
His #1 menu was the standard go-to when mom was away. She did a lot of overnight trips, so this worked out perfectly. Recently, I was talking to some friends about it and trying to describe how it took 2 skillets and 3 sauce pans to make and yet in the end... it was turkey (or chicken, or steak - depending on the leftovers in the fridge) sliced thick, set on top of toast, and then smothered in canned gravy. "Just like my mother used to make," he would beam at me. Clearly, he was a child of WWII, when people recycled their bacon grease and ate everything 'chipped' on toast in a glucky sauce. My friend piped up to say "At least it wasn't always spaghetti with jar sauce - that's all my dad could make" and Ryan topped us all with his father's "college recipe" of ketchup on Wonder Bread - the ultimate budget meal.
posted by giddy girlie @ 11:15 AM
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