A Christmas journey home

 Christmas 1971

We were on a marathon cross country drive. Orlando, Florida to Palmdale, California. Driving straight through it can be done in a bit under three days. Coffee helps, but of course my dad was not sticking to coffee, nor was he quiet about not wanting to make the trip. His greatest hits, with the recurring chorus, “What did she mean by all expenses paid?”

Nearly two years after we moved to Florida, my grandma wrote that she was going to sell the house and move into a retirement community. She wanted all her kids back home for Christmas. I was 16 and excited for the chance to visit family and old friends.  But when you live with a brilliant, probably bi-polar, alcoholic father the ride is always unpredictable. 

So the four siblings all made it, with spouses and most of the kids. My aunt and uncle came down from Washington with five of their seven rowdy farm kids. My childless aunt and uncle, my divorced uncle, and my brother with his wife were all more local and came in for the day. When we pulled the table into the living room, put in all the of leaves, wrangled all the of chairs, there were 17 of us sitting elbow to elbow for the feast. 

My dad had been using his most charming manners all day. He smiled and laughed, teased and joked. He was the merriest of merry. But also, a drink had never been far from his hand. 

As we were beginning to pick at second helpings my dad called everyone to attention. He said “I think we should go around the table and each person can say something about how happy we are to be here today.” He turned to my mom on his left and asked her to start. 

There were so many nice things said.  There were feelings of joy for seeing each other, thankfulness for the safe trips and beautiful day, praise for the food and skilled cooking. The good words and good feelings built, person by person, back around to my grinning dear old instigator dad. 

He started with “I didn’t want to even drive out here, because you are all a bunch of phonies.”  It went downhill from there. I tried to melt into my chair at the far end of the table. He talked about being manipulated into driving out, mentioning expenses again.  He called Aunt Eunice stuck up and jealous because she couldn’t have children. He called Aunt Pauline fat and lazy, and something about her becoming Catholic and having so many kids.

When he ran down, the table sat in silence, no one moving, an image of shock frozen in time.  Then someone asked, “Who’s ready for pie?”  Dishes began to be cleared.  The day went on, nothing said, as if he had never even spoken.

There are three basic rules in every dysfunctional family: don’t talk, don’t tell, and don’t feel.  I was never really good at keeping the rules, but it was at least a decade before I told this story. There were many things that happened during this trip that felt like some final goodbyes to my childhood.  There was amazement two days later, when we had a rare desert snow. There was a visit with some old best friends and learning how little I now shared with them. There were a lot of emotions and stories I told my new friends back in Florida. But this one story, being so embarrassed and how helpless other adults in the room were, I wasn't able to tell.  When I finally did, fully understanding my dad’s genius level of manipulation in setting the whole thing up, I laughed. Because really, what else can you do? 

After all that, my grandma decided not to move. But that is a longer story.

Note 1: I have decided to take a break from telling the older family stories to tell some Christmas stories. Think of it as my season greetings to you, as I don't send cards anymore.

Note 2: For a year and a bit I have been part of a Memoir Writing class through The Janet Goeske Center and Inlandia Institute. I joined the class with the intention of beginning to write these stories to share. I'm grateful for my fellow Writing Warrior friends for listening to my stories helping give me the courage to share them.