cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
Leaving Dayton
"What time do you have to be at the airport?" Mom asked.
"I need to be there by 9."
Dad broke in, "Your mom's going to drop you off. I have to be in a big meeting first thing in the morning."
That blew me away. My dad had never put business before family. Little league games, band concerts, or parent - teacher conferences, he showed up. He even drove two hours to see a play I helped direct during student teaching. Now, the day I was to leave for war, and he was going to a meeting.
"OK," I said.
But it wasn't OK. I had left this house before: YMCA summer camps, senior trip to New York and DC, college and finally, just a year ago, to enter the army. Throughout those departures I had sought maturity, manhood. Each time I came back older, but still not fully a man. This time would change all of that. I knew I could never re-enter this house as a boy, their boy, again. Caught between two ages, I had a need for his presence. Dad didn?t seem to understand that. I left the table and spent the next hour packing my jungle fatigues into my duffel bag and getting my khakis ready. I took one last look at all my civilian clothes hanging in my closet.
I came back to the living room and sat down to watch TV with them. We sat in a strained silence, the ticking of the Grandfather clock counting off our final moments as family, pretending that we were interested in the shows. The news came on and Mom excused herself. Dad and I continued to watch. Some footage of a small combat action along the DMZ and bits of campaign speeches by Nixon and Humphrey left no doubt that the country was focused on Vietnam. Johnny Carson began his monologue, but could evoke little more than a weak chuckle or two from us.
As I watched, I thought about all of our differences. Since the middle of high school I had been chaffing under Dad's rule. Scared by his size and temper, my rebellion against him was covert. Most of my secrets held, but I quaked whenever one fell into his possession. In college I grew to the point that I no longer physically feared him. I made a point of paying most of my own way and put as much distance between campus and home as I could. It had worked. I felt like my own person, especially my senior year. Why then, did I suddenly feel swept up in my feelings of love and respect for him?
What was he thinking as we sat together that night? Was he recalling his own last night at home in '44 before he shipped out for the Aleutians? What could he tell me about getting through this experience? Did everyone feel scared? Did everyone get swept up in their emotions? We sat in silence, neither one of us able to reach out and tell the other of our love and understanding.
The next morning I donned my khakis, ate a silent breakfast with both parents, then tossed my luggage into the trunk of the white Corvair convertible and let Mom do the driving. I rode along, lost in silent reverie, seeing the familiar landmarks of my growing-up-years roll by, schools, playgrounds, the houses of friends. We neared downtown and I picked out the red tile roof and yellow brick facade of the YMCA where I had spent Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays playing ping pong, basketball, running relay races and learning how to swim. Then came the Dayton Art Museum, the scene of several grade school field trips. I remembered the time in fifth grade when the girls had stood and gawked at the penis on a statue of Zeus, wondering, perhaps, how such a thing worked. Ed Rupert and I watched them, nudging each other in the ribs, as if we knew everything there was to know about sex. Next came the massive gray columns of the Masonic Temple where I had gone to formal dances decked out in white dinner jacket, cummerbund and tie, anxiously holding some sweet perfumed classmate in a slow dance to Kathy O.
We arrived at the airport and Mom wheeled into a parking spot. I jumped out and retrieved my bags from the trunk. I trudged over to the ticket window and purchased my one-way ticket, Dayton to San Francisco. I surrendered my bags to the red cap, holding onto a briefcase containing my orders, military records and a book to read during the long flight.
Mom and I started down the long corridor toward the departure gate, our footsteps echoing off the terrazzo floor. Along the way we picked up coffee and then continued walking as we sipped from our steamy paper cups. I could think of nothing to say. My mind swirled with images of my childhood and family events, but none of them provoked a good sentence from me.
We reached the gate still locked in awkward silence. Mom's gentle voice broke the spell. "You?ll have to forgive your father, Woody. She turned her face so that her warm hazel eyes could make contact with mine. "He just couldn't do it. He was afraid he would break down and embarrass both of you."
I nodded as if I understood. But, damn it, I didn't understand.
"He loves you, we both love you, and we're proud of you and proud of what you're doing for our country." She paused for a second, "We know you don't want to go. That's OK. I wouldn't want you to feel differently. But we're still glad you decided to stick it out." She paused again, "Dad just couldn't say it or be here today."
My mom; the tough guy in our family. She was the one with the courage to say what was in her heart. Here she was, doing the difficult, while Dad hid in his office and I swooned in thoughts of the past.
I squeaked out an answer from my burning throat, "I love you guys too." But I couldn't go beyond that simple declaration.
"Ladies and gentlemen, United flight 473, Dayton to Denver and San Francisco, is now boarding."
Saved by the bell I thought. I turned to give and receive a hug and a kiss. I felt my mom shudder in my arms as I held her. I pulled back in time to see her give me a last wistful look, perhaps the same one she gave Dad in '44, then the first tears squeezed out from under the frames of her glasses and slid down her lightly rouged and powdered cheeks.
"Now you take care of yourself young man. Write as soon as you get there and let us know that you're OK or I'll come over there and give you 'what for' right in front of your men."
"I will Mom, and Mom, thanks. Not just for today, but for everything. I love you."
She nodded and began to rummage through her purse looking for a Kleenex, stopping to shoo me away with her right hand at the same time. I turned, headed through the gate, boarding the plane and leaving Dayton.
"What time do you have to be at the airport?" Mom asked.
"I need to be there by 9."
Dad broke in, "Your mom's going to drop you off. I have to be in a big meeting first thing in the morning."
That blew me away. My dad had never put business before family. Little league games, band concerts, or parent - teacher conferences, he showed up. He even drove two hours to see a play I helped direct during student teaching. Now, the day I was to leave for war, and he was going to a meeting.
"OK," I said.
But it wasn't OK. I had left this house before: YMCA summer camps, senior trip to New York and DC, college and finally, just a year ago, to enter the army. Throughout those departures I had sought maturity, manhood. Each time I came back older, but still not fully a man. This time would change all of that. I knew I could never re-enter this house as a boy, their boy, again. Caught between two ages, I had a need for his presence. Dad didn?t seem to understand that. I left the table and spent the next hour packing my jungle fatigues into my duffel bag and getting my khakis ready. I took one last look at all my civilian clothes hanging in my closet.
I came back to the living room and sat down to watch TV with them. We sat in a strained silence, the ticking of the Grandfather clock counting off our final moments as family, pretending that we were interested in the shows. The news came on and Mom excused herself. Dad and I continued to watch. Some footage of a small combat action along the DMZ and bits of campaign speeches by Nixon and Humphrey left no doubt that the country was focused on Vietnam. Johnny Carson began his monologue, but could evoke little more than a weak chuckle or two from us.
As I watched, I thought about all of our differences. Since the middle of high school I had been chaffing under Dad's rule. Scared by his size and temper, my rebellion against him was covert. Most of my secrets held, but I quaked whenever one fell into his possession. In college I grew to the point that I no longer physically feared him. I made a point of paying most of my own way and put as much distance between campus and home as I could. It had worked. I felt like my own person, especially my senior year. Why then, did I suddenly feel swept up in my feelings of love and respect for him?
What was he thinking as we sat together that night? Was he recalling his own last night at home in '44 before he shipped out for the Aleutians? What could he tell me about getting through this experience? Did everyone feel scared? Did everyone get swept up in their emotions? We sat in silence, neither one of us able to reach out and tell the other of our love and understanding.
The next morning I donned my khakis, ate a silent breakfast with both parents, then tossed my luggage into the trunk of the white Corvair convertible and let Mom do the driving. I rode along, lost in silent reverie, seeing the familiar landmarks of my growing-up-years roll by, schools, playgrounds, the houses of friends. We neared downtown and I picked out the red tile roof and yellow brick facade of the YMCA where I had spent Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays playing ping pong, basketball, running relay races and learning how to swim. Then came the Dayton Art Museum, the scene of several grade school field trips. I remembered the time in fifth grade when the girls had stood and gawked at the penis on a statue of Zeus, wondering, perhaps, how such a thing worked. Ed Rupert and I watched them, nudging each other in the ribs, as if we knew everything there was to know about sex. Next came the massive gray columns of the Masonic Temple where I had gone to formal dances decked out in white dinner jacket, cummerbund and tie, anxiously holding some sweet perfumed classmate in a slow dance to Kathy O.
We arrived at the airport and Mom wheeled into a parking spot. I jumped out and retrieved my bags from the trunk. I trudged over to the ticket window and purchased my one-way ticket, Dayton to San Francisco. I surrendered my bags to the red cap, holding onto a briefcase containing my orders, military records and a book to read during the long flight.
Mom and I started down the long corridor toward the departure gate, our footsteps echoing off the terrazzo floor. Along the way we picked up coffee and then continued walking as we sipped from our steamy paper cups. I could think of nothing to say. My mind swirled with images of my childhood and family events, but none of them provoked a good sentence from me.
We reached the gate still locked in awkward silence. Mom's gentle voice broke the spell. "You?ll have to forgive your father, Woody. She turned her face so that her warm hazel eyes could make contact with mine. "He just couldn't do it. He was afraid he would break down and embarrass both of you."
I nodded as if I understood. But, damn it, I didn't understand.
"He loves you, we both love you, and we're proud of you and proud of what you're doing for our country." She paused for a second, "We know you don't want to go. That's OK. I wouldn't want you to feel differently. But we're still glad you decided to stick it out." She paused again, "Dad just couldn't say it or be here today."
My mom; the tough guy in our family. She was the one with the courage to say what was in her heart. Here she was, doing the difficult, while Dad hid in his office and I swooned in thoughts of the past.
I squeaked out an answer from my burning throat, "I love you guys too." But I couldn't go beyond that simple declaration.
"Ladies and gentlemen, United flight 473, Dayton to Denver and San Francisco, is now boarding."
Saved by the bell I thought. I turned to give and receive a hug and a kiss. I felt my mom shudder in my arms as I held her. I pulled back in time to see her give me a last wistful look, perhaps the same one she gave Dad in '44, then the first tears squeezed out from under the frames of her glasses and slid down her lightly rouged and powdered cheeks.
"Now you take care of yourself young man. Write as soon as you get there and let us know that you're OK or I'll come over there and give you 'what for' right in front of your men."
"I will Mom, and Mom, thanks. Not just for today, but for everything. I love you."
She nodded and began to rummage through her purse looking for a Kleenex, stopping to shoo me away with her right hand at the same time. I turned, headed through the gate, boarding the plane and leaving Dayton.
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