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.