Jennifer drove the kids to school today. I usually do that on days I work from home, but she did it this morning. The large benefit to that was that I didn’t have to drive in all the snow that parked on our city overnight. Staying home also fit squarely with another of my New Year’s resolutions-goals.
Not that I stayed home all day. I ventured into the monochrome wilderness in the mid-afternoon to pick up the oldest two from school. They attend the same school which is an appreciably positive alteration from last school year.
On the drive-slide to their school, I phoned my dad. As a testament to my unyielding good judgement, I somehow figured being on the phone would be a smart thing to do while driving on slippery boulevards.
Sunday was my dad and stepmom’s anniversary. I always call them on their anniversary, and I usually have a gift arriving in their mailbox within a day or so of the eighth. This is upsettlingly difficult to remember. In my defense, I spend most of December thinking, “Oh, dad’s anniversary? That’s not ’til next year.” And since I don’t emerge from my cave until the second or third of January, I have to prove competent enough on that day to buy them a gift, buy them a card, fill out the card, and get it to the post office right then. Otherwise, it’s already too late. There’s something about the US mail once it hits the Floridian frontier: it begins to go as slow as its residents.
Also in my defense, I spent the day of their 16th anniversary in the chaotic environment of a Lego League competition, followed directly by the low of consoling a son whose team should’ve moved on to state, all on a day in which I never once wrote down the date.
Yesterday, at work, when I wrote “09Jan17,” my mind spun: I missed my dad’s anniversary. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I’m the person who tells my wife, “It was 8 years ago today that we left for our trip to Prince Edward Island,” and “As of today, Isla is the exact age that Owen was on the day she was born.” And I remember dates of public significance, too. I spend at least some part of every December 8th thinking about John Lennon, and recalling a 45-second conversation my kindergarten teacher had with the class the following morning. And I tell people things like, “As of today, this is the longest our nation has gone without a vacancy in the vice presidency.” Or, at least, I used to tell people things like that. After forty years, I noticed such statements fell on apathetic ears.
So I called my dad yesterday – while I was at work – as soon as I was made aware of my gross gaffe. He didn’t answer. So I called him again, three hours and four minutes later, while I was driving home. Again, no answer. So I left him a message. But he didn’t call back.
So I called my dad today – while driving to my kids’ school – and this time he answered. Despite it being 4:00 in Florida, he sounded half asleep, and complained he was tired. He sounded surprised I had called him, as if I’d caught him in the middle of some clandestine act. He cleared his throat more often than used to, but what bugged me was the way he finished each sentence like he was trying to end the call. After four sentences, he asked why I was calling, and I told him I was calling to wish him happy anniversary. “Well, thanks for calling, he said,” and left his words hanging, as if trying to corral me into saying goodbye.
Then I asked him if him and Bonnie did anything special for their anniversary, and he sullenly said they’re too old for anything like that. As if a guy in his mid-sixties and a woman in her fifties can’t even go out to dinner. “But I appreciate you calling,” he added.
So then I just decided to tell him about Lego League, just so there was something to discuss. He knows Owen the best – Owen’s been to his house – so I assume of all my kids, he’s most interested in Owen. Certainly it wouldn’t be Isla, who he hardly knows, or Emmett, who he hasn’t even met. “Oh, that’s interesting,” my dad said at the tail end of my two-minute monologue about the competition, “Well, thanks for calling.”
Lately, I feel I can hardly maintain my end of a conversation even when both parties are desirous of its continuation, so I assuredly couldn’t keep this up much longer. So I said goodbye, and as I hung up, I found myself hoping I’m more the grandparent like the Home Depot patron who jump starts strangers cars, rather than the the kind who lives across country from my children’s children and don’t even know of the procession of their lives.
This evening, I sat lengthwise on the couch, with the honeycomb blinds drawn up only on the window that faces my little free library. I love watching snow quietly fall in the dark and lilt over the Xmas lights on the library until each bulb is a blurry glow of blue, and the library’s roof becomes a monochromatic canopy of white – perfectly domes with sloping sides. As I stared outside, Jennifer told me I should stay home from work tomorrow instead of risking the roads on a treacherous morning. I don’t want to miss my Toastmasters meeting at work, but I had to concede that staying home would assist me in achieving my resolution for the new year. My resolution of being lazy.