Robert Frost Was Right—Part Three

I drove the rest of the way to Houston. Crossing the New Mexico border into Texas, we saw a sign outside a small west Texas border town—Texico—that read “Welcome to the Lone Star State. Home to the 43rd President of the United States—George W. Bush.” I looked around the nondescript town, sprinkled with single-wide mobile homes and expansive cattle ranches and wondered why they couldn’t come up with something more legendary than birthplace to the worst president in modern-day history.

The drive through Texas was beautiful. I had forgotten how much I missed this part of the country. Southern hospitality. Biscuits and gravy. Men who took their hats off when they entered an establishment, and held doors for perfect strangers. Cattle country as far as the eye could see. Texas deserved to be proud of itself. Except for George.

I left my anger and disappointment somewhere around of Dalhart. Mom and I had a couple of really good conversations. We stuck to issues that were safe—parenting and the latest gossip about friends and family. My mother is a wonderful woman. The older I get, the more respect I have for the sacrifices she made as a divorced mother—when divorce was social suicide and sexual harassment was the price you paid for working outside the home. I’m convinced she’s a closet liberal. My money is on the fact that she married a man who is an ex-cop and is selfish in his views about the world—and she has had to adopt most of his truths to keep domestic peace. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The moment we entered the outer city limits of Houston, the unreserved quiet of the Texas prairie seemed like a dream. Like some extreme video game, cars, SUVs and pick-up trucks on steroids—lots of them—whizzed by at lighting speed, weaving in and out of traffic, in a balls-to-the-wall race to the finish. Urban guerillas steering 2,000 pounds of steel with cell phones in their ears and Big Gulps in their dashboard cup holders blew past me—oblivious to anyone outside their fabricated, leather-clad bubbles.

I suddenly remembered why I left this town. Living in Houston is like living in Chicago or L.A.—but with attitude. Bigger is better. And if you ain’t first—you’re last.

Mom and dad were white-knuckling it. Everything I had remembered about driving in a big city came back to me—but this time, I was a few years older and more afraid of dying. I kept it under 80 and reminded mom to breathe—and found my happy place, thinking about the pristine pine trees and slow pace of northern Minnesota.

The minute I saw her face—I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. She will never realize how beautiful she is—or how loved. I suppose none of us will. She is a long, tall glass of water with big, beautiful blue eyes—and now she is sporting a paunch. I have to stand on my tiptoes to hug her. And I squeezed her as hard as I could and fought back tears.

She filled me in on her morning sickness, her first visit to the doctor—and Bob. His name is Robert, but I call him Bob because I don’t like him. It’s my sinister way of reminding her that she can do better. He is nineteen and a colossal idiot. He drives his truck like he stole it and treats my daughter like she’s disposable.

Half-way to Texas, she called me in tears. He’d lost his temper again, broke all of her hangars, threw her clothes all over their room—and kicked her out of their apartment. This visit was killing me.

It wasn’t too long ago that I was in her shoes. Young, self-depricating and in love with a man who showered me with crazy, passionate, leave-me-and-I’ll-kill-you affection. And now karma has come back and bitten me in the ass.

So I took her shopping. And bought her the maternity clothes he had refused to provide her. And a comforter and sheets for the bed he’d promised to buy her, because her back was killing her sleeping on a cheap mattress on the floor.

I bit my tongue the entire afternoon, trying to be cool and listen and offer up “girlfriend” advice, instead of motherly. My stomach knotted up inside every time she told me about one of their fights. I sat on my hands while she told me about her failed attempt to apply for Medicare and WIC, because he was bored, and didn’t want to have to wait in the long lines.

I was meeting Bob for the first time that evening. We—Diana, Bob, my parents and I—were all going out to dinner. I had visions of launching myself across the table and wrapping my hands around his throat, while the restaurant staff tried in vain to pull me off of him. She said he was really nervous.

Bob had no idea.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Two

My mom drove the first leg, navigating the steady stream of traffic from Denver to Colorado Springs. She white-knuckled it as cars sped past her, on cement-barricaded-under-construction highways that seemed to go on forever. She didn’t want to talk. She was too nervous. Fine by me. I was in the back seat medicating myself with strong, black coffee—wishing I could just hook the to-go cup to my vein and relax while the Columbian nectar did its magic.

To calm her nerves, she turned on the radio. A Limbaugh-esque conservative talk show host was bashing the Democrats—something about destroying al-Qaeda and supporting your troops by spending money at your local Wal-Mart this Memorial Day weekend.

Out came the iPod and in went the headphones. And the anger rising up in my throat was soothed by Elton John serenading me with “Tiny Dancer.” I stared out the window and wondered when it was going to happen. My meltdown.

My step-father sat in the passenger’s seat, reading one of his James Patterson novels and occasionally looking up to make sure mother was remembering to breathe. Mom listened to the radio, nodding her head in agreement and clenching her jaw.

I love my parents. But it is hard for me to understand how they can be so indifferent now. My entire young life, my mother preached to me about love and tolerance. Turn the other cheek. Cheer for the underdog. Help the less fortunate. Be kind to your neighbor. Cherish our differences. Work hard. Be honest. Stand up for what’s right. All the stuff we’re supposed to teach through example as parents.

And now she listens to morons who are at their core bitter, angry, intolerant, maligned and misinformed. She watches them on TV. She votes them into office.

It is heartbreaking.

Because I heard every word my mother ever said. Every lesson ever taught. And I passed these values on to my children.

My kids are amazing. Yes, I’m a bit biased. But ask anyone who has shared the pleasure of their company. They are polite. Respectful. Helpful. Courteous. Compassionate. Genuinely good kids. My kids have never thrown a fit in a store. Or disrespected an adult. And they know when I say ‘no’ I mean it. And I have to believe it’s because I have instilled in them the same values my parents gave me.

I cannot have a normal conversation with my mother. We don’t agree on anything. Suddenly she sees the world as “every man for himself.” This woman told me to share with my brother—and now she won’t share with hers.

I could feel my jaw starting to clench as we pulled into a Country Kitchen in Trinidad, just north of the New Mexico border. My shift was next.

We sat in the restaurant, attached to a worn-out La Quinta and waited patiently for bad service and even worse food. My mother tried to hide her disgust at the waitress’ less-than-stellar work ethic and the wilted lettuce on her $8 salad. But at one point she couldn’t contain her disdain and whispered that “those people”—a reference to the young woman’s age and ethnicity—don’t know how lucky they are to have a job. I bit my tongue.

While we finished our coffee and waited for the check, the conversation somehow steered toward the issue of global warming—an issue my parents are convinced is a big conspiracy and a ruse to revive some sort of communist takeover. I listened to them complain about the inconvenience of recycling and the high cost of their electric bill since summer came early this year.

But the most disturbing moment came when my step-father said, “That’s the good thing about getting old—we won’t be around long enough to see the outcome [of global warming].”

My eyes filled with tears. I grabbed the check, took the keys and waited outside for them to finish their coffee.

I stood in the parking lot and called Diana. I needed to hear her voice.

I felt like the curtain had been stripped away and I had seen them for who they really were. Self-absorbed. Hypocritical. Bitter.

I didn’t want to see my mother that way. I wanted to feel the love and the nurturing side of her that had comforted me through pregnancies, kids with high fevers, cheating husbands and deployments to Iraq.

At least it was my turn to drive.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part One

The trip from Minnesota to Houston was a long one.

It wasn’t about the physical distance. Long car rides never bother me—I find a great deal of pleasure staring out a car window at the great expanse of my homeland. I love being on a long stretch of road, seeing the beautiful landscape dotted with small towns and houses and yards with clotheslines and swing sets—and every once in awhile, seeing people moving about. Road trips make me contemplative, reflecting on my own life and wondering about the lives of others and their level of satisfaction relative to my own.

This long journey was about the company I kept, the people I would see when I reached my destination, and the past that I was finally able to leave behind.

I headed down to Houston to watch my girl graduate high school. There was a lot of logistical planning—the flight from Minnesota to Denver… the rendezvous with the parental unit in Denver, and then the long drive to Houston, piloting their every-bell-and-whistle-known-to-man minivan—with a radio that was programmed to play only mind-numbing, conservative talk radio.

For starters, I hate to fly. I’m a bit of a control-freak. I like to be in the driver’s seat—on so many levels. However, my fear of flying is quelled by my love of the airport 24-hour lounge. Half a Valium and a couple of Crown and 7s at 10 a.m., and suddenly flying at 30,000 feet isn’t so bad.

I landed in Denver mid-afternoon, numb and half-tanked. I hate DIA. It’s the Hollywood starlet of airports. Pretty on the outside. F*cked up and confused on the inside. I navigated my way through the terminal to the train, which whisked me to baggage claim. The first stop on my journey back to the future.

The same scenario has played out since the first time I left home and came back. I see my mom and my aunt Connie in the distance, and pray that I can sneak up on them before they notice me—and summarily embarrass me in front of thousands of strangers. But alas, it never happens the way I hope it does.

My aunt Connie notices me first. She’s not my aunt by blood—I’ve just known her my whole life because she’s my mother’s best friend. And I love her to pieces. But she’s loud—with bleach-streaked hair, a red silk bowling jacket and a nasal voice that cuts through the crowd, screaming, “There she is!” And every head in the airport whips around in my direction. And my mother, whose mind hasn’t told her legs she’s not as young as she used to be—throws her arms up in the air and comes “running” toward me, shouting “My baby! Would you just look at her?”

I’m 38 years old, and the minute I see my mother coming at me like a spider monkey hopped up on happy pills, tears of joy streaming down her face—I am sucked back into my childhood. Red-faced and mortified. I’m seventeen again. This is going to be the longest five days of my life.

I’m so different from my family in so many ways. I’m not better or worse. Just different. I come from a family rooted in the Catholic faith—the branch that believes it’s okay to skip Mass on Sunday because the Broncos are playing. As long as you confess on Wednesday for having a little too much hooch and shouting expletives at the TV screen in earshot of your children and your mother-in-law—all is forgiven. My family, mostly my mother’s side, is also ultra-conservative. Except for the swearing and the hooch. In that arena, they suddenly become a bunch of flaming liberals—slurring something about freedom of expression.

Anyway. I’m different. My political views are different. My religious views are different. My social views are different. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart. I don’t eat at chain restaurants. The list is long.

We drove from the airport to my old neighborhood and I was amazed how much everything had changed. Wide open fields where groundhogs used to run free, and kids would play kickball—gone. The mom-and-pop sandwich shop where I used to hang out with my friends—gone. The streets my friends and I would cruise on Friday nights—belting out the words to “Sister Christian,” rebelling against itchy uniforms and teenage oppression—now made me feel claustrophobic. This place was now filled with trendy shopping centers, over-landscaped apartment complexes and outback-applebees-chilis-texas-roadhouse-macaroni-grill-brightly-colored-everything-tastes-the-same restaurants—as far as the blinded-by-neon eye could see.

My nostalgia was gone too. The familiarity of my youth was bulldozed and replaced by something out of a weird sci-fi movie. This wasn’t home anymore.

I spent the evening having dinner at TGI Friday’s with my parents, my aunt Connie and her son, Joe. Joe is thirty-three and just moved out of my aunt Connie’s basement—and the only thing he can talk about is his new truck and the ins and outs of workman’s comp. Just before my last cocktail arrives—my brother, who I haven’t seen in five years, walks through the door, loaded. Some things never change.

Sitting there watching my baby brother, now in his thirties, still struggle to cope with what I accepted a long time ago was painful. We did not choose the paths our parents had envisioned. I did not become an Ivy League attorney. He did not follow in my father’s military-career shoes. We both took Frost’s advice.

I revel in my separateness. My brother wallows in it.

I sat out on the porch with my mom and my aunt Connie that night, and enjoyed the cool Rocky Mountain air. I politely sat in the porch swing as these women lectured me about motherhood and raising kids and how I need to treat this “situation” with my daughter. Connie does love to give speeches.

I rocked back and forth, my feet not quite touching the ground—just like when I was a kid. And I looked up at the starry sky and thought of Diana. Her sweet face. How much she had become my friend. How cool it would be to hang out with her again. I missed her. And I sent her a message by way of the heavens.

“I promise. I will never make you feel like you’re seventeen—ever again.”

To be continued.