Hi Nichole,
Well Annie Rose, Bryan, the amazing Kaz, and the two very furry dogs are settling into life in Tucson with its dry 106 degree temps. This seems like a brutality to most folks but it’s important to note that they just came from Sacramento with its very humid 106 degree temps. So, you know, there’s that. Ben and Sylvia are gasping through the Phoenix summer with its 114 degree temps. Dry or humid at 114 degrees what the fuck’s the difference it’s fuckin’ hot! I think summer in the Arizona desert actually helps families get along.
“What’s for dinner?” might be posed by the body lying prostrate under an evap cooling vent.
“Shit, I don’t know. I’m too hot to think about it. Probably something, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe later when it cools off I’ll start thinking about it or whatever.” This could be answered by the body sitting on the sofa, wearing only a flimsy cotton dress, arms and legs spread open as far and wide as possible. This posture, by the way, is designed to allow air to flow to the maximum amount of skin surface, not to invite sexual activity.
“K.” Would be the response coming from the body lying prostrate under the evap cooling vent.
Nothing is contested. Any activity beyond breathing is excessive and finally superfluous. This certainly includes sexual activity. I mean Jesus, could you imagine?
“So let’s go to San Diego and visit my dad.” Kathy and I agree. “78 degrees, ocean breeze!”
The last time I saw dad he was having his 80th birthday celebration. There was me, from marriage number 1. Steve and Cindy from marriage number 2. Tamara and Cindy, step daughters from marriages number 3, 5 & 6. Several grand children and two great grand children. Then of course all of Joann’s kids and their kids showed up as well. Joann is marriage # 8 if my count is correct. I really liked wife number 4. Wife number 7 was so vile that it’s best not to speak of her and on this point we are all in agreement. Joann is by far the best of the batch when considering dad’s emotional well being. So let’s see, that’s six wives spread over eight marriages. I wonder what would have happened if he had lived in the Arizona desert rather than costal California?
Dad was especially nice to me on this particular weekend. Very complimentary to you as well, Nichole. Now, as you know, dad and I have maintained a rather volatile relationship over the past, oh I don’t know, forty five years or so. He, I think, has wanted to correct his own foibles and follies through my life somehow. Like, if I would simply follow his rigorous instruction each step of the way I could be the person he wished he was, I could live the life he had wished for himself. He could fix himself through me. I, on the other hand, had to prove that my vision of myself in the world and my intuition as how to best live an emotionally and spiritually successful life were in fact the superior tacks to follow.
These needs, his requirements for resolution and my requirements for recognition, were of course mutually incompatible. The continuous arm wrestling was spirited and sometimes battering yet we always respectfully nodded to one another at the end of each round. On this most recent visit however the armor was not donned, the sword was not drawn, the face to face stance was not taken, we would not enter into the breech once again, we would not enter the valley of death. Finally in our old age my father had found his resolution and I my recognition, the location of each illuminated, at least in some measure, by the light of our fiery passion. After all, he only wanted me to be happy and fulfilled and I only wanted my life to exemplify something in which he could point to with pride. So, you know, it’s a win-win situation.
I was taking a morning walk down by the harbor while we were in San Diego and noticed some sort of dust-up going on out in front of me. As I approached the fracas it became apparent that the discussion was political in nature. Dad and I had buried our political hatchets just the night before so with this new “pax familia” mental environment in which I was basking I walked among the various combatants as if I were an alien from a far away world. I could hear their accusatory remarks being slung at each other from opposite sides of the street. I could read and understand the bumper sticker philosophies and proclamations scrawled in magic marker on their respective placards. I could feel the rancor in their hearts clogging the avenue of reason, yet I could muster no visceral attachment to either side of the debate. The clarity was redemptive. At about this moment I noticed that, as each of the opposing groups were on opposing sides of a major traffic artery jammed with speeding vehicles, there was no safe haven for those of us holding a middle ground.
Love, dad
This is such a great post! You have the Arizona summer pegged and boxed up with a neat little bow. And I love the recap of grandpa’s 80th b-day celebration. You finally made it to the sidelines instead of being in the front lines of battle! Let’s see if it holds
You’ve got that whole family-political-feud element down. I made an agreement with my dad at age 19 that went something like this. “Dad, don’t talk at me with your politics anymore because I am seriously not listening.” He concurred and we have never spoken of it since. Before that it was exactly like that traffic jam you so eloquently described. SOOOOO well written, Scott. Keep going!
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