For Better or For Worse

My parents eloped almost thirty years ago. They said their I Do's in a small, private ceremony with a Justice of the Peace, escaping the disapproval of family and friends that didn't support their interracial union. Although they separated some fifteen years later, I may have learned more about the true meaning of those sacred vows in their divorce than I can take from any number of happy marriages around me.

Though I haven't mentioned her much in this blog about my dad's visits, my mom is the invisible force that makes all of his travel possible. She goes about the business of purchasing his tickets, prepping his pills and suitcase, and even goes as far as taking him to the airport. I'd gamble to say most women don't put themselves out this much, if at all, for their former husbands.

My parents didn't have a messy divorce. There were no custody disputes or alimony arguments; we didn't even have to juggle visitation schedules since dad didn't move out. My mom sacrificed a lot to keep our family under one roof, and dad lived in the spare bedroom of our rented home. Just as in marriage, my parents may not have always gotten along in divorce; there was, however, always a shared thread of loving respect between them.

Irrespective of that fact, it was a scary time for my adolescent self; it was hard to wrap my brain around the "D" word and what that would really mean for all of us. I remember thinking, "Why did they even get married!?" and being angry with them for breaking that promise to be together forever. Even in my youth it was clear to me that my parents were opposites, shouldn't they have known it wouldn't last? Does real love even exist?

My mom's commitment to my father in sickness teaches me repeatedly, though, that the simple truth of the matter is that true love does exist; it often means more hard work and sacrifice than most people are willing to realize. It transcends romantic love, and even divorce. You can't just take someone out of your heart once you've given it to them. This fact reminds me to be cautious and to give my heart to friends and partners with care, because like my mother- when I love, it is forever. It's not a love that scares me, but it's a love that people should be worthy of. Giving all that you can is not only rewarding, it can be exhausting.

Dad says every day that I'm just like my mother; I know that the subtext of this statement is that I'm a pain in his ass (it often comes when I try to stop him from doing something I feel is bad for his health). My mom loves fiercely and unconditionally. This isn't a blind love; sometimes the people that mean the most to us will let us down or will need to hear some hard truths. But we keep them in our hearts nonetheless. If I'm capable of giving love like my mother, then growing up to be more and more like her is fine by me! I can only hope that at my wedding ceremony, when I say "... for better or for worse" I'll live up to that part of the bargain as well as she has.

Thank you, mom!

Wordless Wednesday: A Warm Up

Donald's recent illness left me wordless. Not speechless, mind you. I've had plenty of talks with friends, family and my oh so patient therapist; but, I've been unable to write. So, trying out this Wordless Wednesday business seems a poignant way to ease back into writing/blogging about my dad and his winter in RI.

Donald Does RI: Winter Addition

As 2010 comes to a close, Donald has made an unprecedented second visit to Rhode Island. In October, he suffered some major health complications that had us questioning whether he'd even see another Halloween. He's made a slow and steady recovery over the last month and a half, while focused on the one goal of cooking Christmas dinner for his girls. Though we offered to fly to Bermuda, hoping to save his body the stress of travel to the frigid cold of New England in the winter, he insisted on making the trek to us.

Much has changed in the last six months, perhaps not least of which includes my moving out of the house on Vineland Avenue. Donald is having to make himself at home in my cozy one bedroom apartment in Riverside. I do fear that he'll find the solitude of this little life I'm building dull compared to the buzz of my old home. But, two days into his visit we're settling into a happy new routine. I must admit that the looming prospect of sleeping on my couch for three weeks makes me miss Vineland's guest room!

The faint sound of Donald's snoring is drifting down the hallway as snow gathers on the windowsill. Sipping on a glass of eggnog and enjoying the soft glow of white twinkle lights on the Christmas tree, I'm feeling truly blessed this holiday season.

One Week To Go

Dad's month-long stay always seems like this massive amount of time looming in the distance when we're preparing for his arrival. We've all lived on our own for so long that a month with a parent in the house now seems an alien concept. The time always passes much faster than we anticipate, though, and we're now entering dad's last week here.

Tonight he made a large dinner, but retired to his room with a plate of pasta and garlic bread. He can't miss his favorite show while he's here, "'cause it comes on for a full hour- [he doesn't] get that at home!" We listened to him roar with laughter from behind his closed door as he watched "Two and a Half Men" from 7:00- 8:00 pm.

When he eventually emerged from his room, he was pleased to see that the dishes were done and hobbled into the living room to check on the score of the Celtics game. Watching sports reminded him that he hadn't yet placed his bets on this week's golf tournaments and he told me to fetch the laptop and look up who would be playing. Unfortunately for dad, I was in no mood to search the Internet for golf odds and player line ups. I'd been frantically searching through boxes of remnants from my upended apartment looking for my missing USB drives.

Dad doesn't quite understand how the Internet works- he thinks that you can type in "PGA" and find exactly what he wants instantly. Also, his eyesight is poor so as he strains his eyes trying to see what I'm looking at he asks for constant updates on what I've found. Today was my first day back in the office after an extended weekend, so I was already a little moody, and this mood just grew worse as I tried to find what he was looking for.

"See! You got what I wanted and it wasn't that hard," he said after we bounced around between golf websites for half an hour and as I continued to search every drawer for my missing drive.

As he was going to bed I was going through boxes in his room, testing every random drive hoping to find the files I am missing. As I left his room, frustrated beyond belief and heading out for my fifth cigarette on the porch, he said softly, "I really hope you find it, baby doll," and my mood momentarily softened as I kissed him on the forehead before closing the door.

"Ain't that somethin'?"

Dinner with Tracy is something my dad likes to fit in at least once during his visits. She nannied for my sister and I while we were young, and catching up with her always provides dad with yet another chance for deep belly laughter and reminiscing. He spends the evening re-telling stories of the old days, and we all hang on every word.

On Tuesday night Tracy and Steve had Danielle, dad and I over for a ham dinner, and we spent hours chatting around the dining room table. We feasted on each others' stories and positive energies as we enjoyed second and third helpings of a delicious meal (there's no dieting with Donald in town). Somehow sexuality made its way into the conversation. From his prominent seat at the head of the table Donald said, "Well my grandfather always told me you can never have any love for a woman that loves other women." After a few uncomfortable moments of silence and awkward glances across the table, dad continued, "But my daughter showed me different, 'cuz I have to love her... Ain't that somethin'?"

It really was "somethin'" to hear my dad declare a reserved acceptance of homosexuality. (Short lived though it was, since he told me this afternoon that I need to "find [myself] a man and straighten up.") I can't count the number of disparaging remarks I grew up hearing my dad spew about "faggots", "sissies" and "dykes". I have guardedly accepted his homophobia as something so deeply ingrained in his 70-year-old island consciousness that, at this point, it is too late to expect much to change.

I've come out at least a dozen times to my dad over the last five years. Three years ago, Donald was at the first "Swizzle In, Swagger Out" birthday party at Vineland. He enjoyed the afternoon of BBQ and dominoes without reserve. As Luke and I took him home in the early evening, dad decided he was going to ask "that lady" to go to the movies with him.

"Which lady?!" I asked, leaning into the front seats of the car.

"The older one," he declared.

"Oh! Well, dad, she has a girlfriend. Actually, she's dating my ex-girlfriend," Luke turned his i-Pod mix down. "Most of those women there today were lesbians."

"Oh, Lord! What's wrong with you girls? You need Jesus, we're going to church in the mornin'," Donald cried out from the front seat. And that was that. I joined him at church, hungover, that Sunday.

He's been staying at Heather and Tawn's house for the last two visits. I've often wondered if he realizes he's living with two happily coupled women- they share one room and one bed. As Ashley pointed out during one of our porch sessions this week, "Donald is sharp... He knows." How hard is that for him to conceive of? Over a half century of blaming the gays for the world's ills must be chipping away as his love for these beautiful women continues to grow. Does he consider himself lucky, as I think he should, for witnessing a love he has always considered not only foreign, but morally wrong? Is he proud of us?

The gift of unconditional understanding is a hard promise to make a day out, but I was enveloped in warmth by my dad's momentary acceptance on Tuesday evening whilst dining with old friends. Parents want the easiest and best possible life for their children. My parents are still coming to terms with the fact that for me, that best possible life involves finding the woman with whom I want to build a future with. That’s my path to happiness. I guess I'll take fleeting parental acceptance where I can.

Bermuda Shorts #2

Dad and I went shopping today. He's been to the grocery store almost every day since he arrived- we can only think of one day that no one was able to take him. Low American prices and motorized shopping carts make the normally banal chore a daily adventure for Donald. I have a few days off from work to compensate for last weekend's killer hours, and when I finally rolled out of bed this morning and asked him what he wanted to do today he said, "Let's go to Shaws, I gotta get stuff for the party!"

This weekend I'll be celebrating my birthday with a small party at the house. The original plan was to have a cookout and drinks on the porch, but the forecast calls for showers so we might be forced to move the festivities inside. This will be my third annual birthday bash at Vineland, and the crowning feature each year is Donald's rum swizzle. It's a delicious, and deceivingly lethal, combination of juices, Gosling's dark rum, Meyers light rum and apricot brandy. In his thirties Donald was a chef and a self proclaimed professional partier (half his stories end with, "I used to love a drink!"), so he's all kinds of excited to entertain people at the house on Saturday; he doesn't talk about much else, and at random times throughout our day of shopping he'd yell out, "They're gonna LOVE my swizzle!"

We've now been to three liquor stores and made two special trips to the grocery market picking up his desired ingredients... Swizzle in, swagger out!

It Takes a Vineland Village

I've had little reason to blog over the last few days because, frankly, I've spent very little time with my dad. Before Donald decided to visit, I warned him that I had a large conference to work during his proposed stay. "Don't worry 'bout me," came his booming response over the phone. In truth, I wasn't worried about him so much as my roommates and the friends that he'd be troubling for daily rides to Stop and Shop (he's somewhat obsessed with grocery shopping); Donald doesn't drive and hates to be housebound for too long, so if I'm not around that means it falls to someone else to keep him entertained.

In the nights leading up to Friday's plenary session I spent a lot of time (and Institute money) preparing for the worst case conference scenario. My evenings were consumed with running errands between the occasional dinner at home. On top of a 45 hour Monday to Friday work week, I spent an additional 35 hours this past weekend running around with a walkie talkie between buildings on campus trying to ensure that sessions were executed flawlessly: "Come in Fine Whine, what's the status of the A/V in Wilson?" Dad could have endured a terribly boring week, but my sister, roommates and friends were fantastic. "What's she named? The little one? She took me church!" Heather earned extra brownie points with Donald for that one, especially considering I got him to church as the final hymn was being sung the week before. Everyone stepped in and picked up the slack.

Sounds like they had some fun with him, too. Tawn halfheartedly complained that Donald got her wasted by making them add more rum to the piña colada mix on Saturday afternoon as they enjoyed cocktails on the sun-soaked porch. They did some party planning for my upcoming birthday celebrations- rum swizzles will be served by the gallon. And, of course, they went grocery shopping. Besides sneaking in one or two quick phone calls, my contact with dad consisted of brief, sleepy conversations when I'd wake him up before leaving for work and when I got home. When the conference ended tonight, I was pleased to get home to sit around the porch table and ease into lazy conversation with four smiling faces as they talked about their weekend.

Thank you to those that kept Donald smiling over the last week; and please forgive the tired ramblings above. I'm still trying to catch up on some sleep.

Bermuda Shorts #1

*"Bermuda Shorts" entries will be a space for shorter posts and amusing anecdotes

I've been feeling a little guilty about something. Dad's first dinner in RI was at Twin Oaks on the way home from the airport. His flight didn't land until 8:00 pm, so he was famished by the time we made it to the restaurant. When his steak dinner arrived, Donald dug right in; and on his second bite, he choked. I saw his eyes grow wide as he pointed to his throat... and I bolted from the table, searching frantically for my exit from the dining room. In my defense, as I was fleeing the scene I did call back, "Dani, help him!"

It's no great secret that I'm not the woman you want around in case of an emergency. My fight-or-flight response can be more accurately characterized as fright-and-flight. It was pretty crummy to realize that I wouldn't even stick around to help my own father! In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not the woman you want around when you're ailing in any way either. So, when dad's feet were aching tonight and he yelled to me from his room, "Diiii?! Come rub my feet," I immediately texted my sister to see if she'd come do it. "Not tonight," she responded.

Feeling bad about deserting Donald in his time of need at the restaurant, I gulped down the last of my wine and reluctantly agreed to rub arthritis cream into his swollen feet. "It's a bitch gettin' up in age, isn't it?" he said as I removed his socks for him. Pushing away my anxiety, I squeezed a line of white medicated cream onto his foot and hesitantly rubbed it in. I didn't even wear the gloves I had begged off of Tawn a few moments earlier. Now, if that ain't love...

Double Twelves!

We've been hosting communal dinners at Vineland for a few months now; we started with "Taco Tuesdays" and added "Pasta Wednesdays" when Blondie's softball season prevented her from making it to the Tuesday night festivities. Dinners always end with boardgames, and the time shared with friends helps to break up the monotony of the work week. Dad's favorite game is Dominoes, so that's become our post-dinner pastime.

Dad is adjusting to this new tradition somewhat reluctantly. He assured us last night that we "don't have to worry about [him] eating this shit Tuesdays in Bermuda." Tacos aren't quite his speed. He did, however, make a pasta sauce tonight; and my sister and Blondie were the welcome guests. Dad is loud and demanding throughout the meals, but I think we all agree that he's a lovable nuisance.

I had to run some work errands after dinner, but returned home to the jubilant sound of a competitive round of dominoes in play. Tawn and Blondie were new to the game, but Heather had learned how to play last night with Ashley, Donald and I. Dad sing-songs his way through each game, starting every round by crying out "Double Twelves!" He proves to be a pretty sore loser and immodest winner, but I dare you not to have fun sitting around the table playing a round with him!

Table for Four

Dad's 70th birthday was last Friday. I have a hard time comprehending his age: will I live that long? what's it like to feel your bones and muscles grow heavy under the weight of seven decades on Earth; to remember that only fifteen years ago you walked without a limp? how does he look back upon over a half century of memories and choose which stories to tell? To commemorate the event Danielle, Ashley and I joined him for dinner at his favorite local restaurant- The Old Grist Mill Tavern. I generally find it hard to rally to do much of anything on Friday evenings, tired from the week and longing for the simplicity of enjoying an ice cold beer on the porch; Dad's enthusiasm for his celebration was contagious, though.

All in all it was a truly enjoyable evening; a table full of Bermudians sat overlooking the river in dim Tavern lighting, enjoying good food and genuine laughter. We had reserved Donald's favorite table, number 22, and were waited on by the same gentleman that had served dad and his "lady friend" only a day earlier. Dad ordered appetizers for the table and relished his entree of Maine lobster. I tried all the while not to be the nagging daughter that worries over her aging father eating too much.

The highlight of the evening came after we had blown out the candles on the Shaw's Bakery cake Donald had special ordered days earlier. The ladies at the table next to us, three sisters, had insisted on singing "Happy Birthday" despite Dad's insistence that he's "too old for all'a that." They sang, the table behind them joined in, and we all applauded. Over cake, dad opened his gift from Ashley. From under layers of blue tissue paper, he uncovered a box of his favorite tea, P.G. Tips, and erupted into cries of, "Oh Boy! My tea! Thank you, baby doll! Haaaaaa!" To say that he caused a stir in the generally subdued restaurant would be an understatement; to describe the gift as thoughtful would fail to do justice to Ashley's beautiful gesture. As dad hurriedly opened the box, anxious to share a few tea bags with our new friends a table over, I fought back tears. Overwhelmed with pride to be seated next to this amazing man, my father, I cried.

Donald loves life. This joy for the world around him is unbridled; it bubbles over in ways that are often unexpected and rarely seen. In our fast-paced society, surrounded by the impersonal, it's not always easy to hold on to his kind of enthusiasm. It's even harder to maintain the freedom and strength to express our emotions openly. That evening, however, Donald reminded all of us in that restaurant that a joyful spirit should be shared. He's living proof that it's okay to laugh the hardest, sing the loudest, and play the longest, because in the twilight of our lives we should all be so lucky to ring in our 70th birthday looking forward to "seventy more."

House Rules

During my senior year of college I lived with five of my closest friends. To maintain a copacetic relationship with each other, it was quickly determined that we'd need some house rules: Cathie's mom shouldn't call the house phone at 5:00 am, the toilet paper should roll over, parties should be approved by everyone before invites were emailed, and we should strictly abide by the chore wheel. I'm not sure how many of our friendships could have remained intact after that year without such rules.

When I moved in with Heather and Tawn, we seemed to settle into an effortless and natural rhythm of communal living . We haven't had to establish such codes here at Vineland, and we often marvel at how easy our transition from friends to roommates has been. When dishes pile up over the weekend, someone eventually peels themselves off of the couch to clean them; grocery lists are coordinated throughout the week; and taking the trash out on Monday nights is a group effort between cigs. We're not the types to sweat the small stuff, and this works well for all of us.

Last year we discovered that living with an extended house guest creates the need to establish a few ground rules. We hadn't thought much about the rules again until Donald's recent return, and I was sure to remind him of them on the way home from the airport.

Rule #1: Stay in bed until 7:00am
Tawn is the first to rise in the house. Her morning routine consists of getting dressed and ready for work, feeding Izzy (Heather and Tawn's golden), making lunch, and stolen conversation with a sleeping Heather. She has a quiet routine, and for most of the year doesn't run into anyone eager to talk to her. My dad's an early bird, though, and would try to engage Tawn in conversation heavily laden with a Bermudian accent. "I have a hard enough time understanding him when I'm fully awake- I feel bad asking him to repeat himself ten times while I'm making a sandwich," Tawn confessed two weeks into his stay last year. So, we instituted a 7:00 am breakfast rule for Donald on the grounds that Tawn isn't a morning person.

Rule #2: House guests must wear pants
I grew up in a "clothing optional" home. My parents were big on strolling around in their underwear- we did, after all, live in an often unbearably warm climate without central air conditioning; it was natural for them to walk around in various states of undress most times. The trouble is that Donald is still pretty big on wearing scant clothing around the house (quite unabashedly). Last year Heather and Tawn both stumbled upon him in his drawers at the kitchen table, and we quickly decided to declare that pants are mandatory in common spaces!

Dad's having some trouble readjusting to the first house rule. As soon as Donald hears the jiggle of Tawn's door opening in the morning, he's up and at 'em. I overheard him chatting with her eagerly while enjoying his oatmeal and banana yesterday morning. I rolled over to check the clock and, tsk-tsk, it was only 6:15 am.

I'm happy to report that so far this year we're at a 100% success rate for abiding by rule #2.

Meet Donald

Donald's a big bear of a man. Partially crippled after suffering two strokes and three heart attacks over the last twenty years, he walks slowly but lives fully. His bellowing voice and soulful laughter fills rooms. His toothless grin lights up faces across dinner tables and supermarket aisles. And once a year, he embarks upon a month-long visit to Rhode Island to spend time with his two girls.

I'm his oldest daughter, and my dad started these visits four years ago when I lived in a two bedroom apartment on my own. That empty bedroom was his ticket to an extended vacation from Bermuda, and it's become a highly anticipated tradition ever since. Unable to afford the rent in that apartment on my own, and after failed attempts at finding a roommate my dog wouldn't attack, I moved into the basement apartment here at Vineland. It's a happy home owned by my friends Heather and Tawn. This year marks my dad's second stay at Vineland, and after recent flooding we almost postponed his visit. We lost the basement apartment, and I've moved into the guest room until we rebuild. Heather and Tawn insisted, however, that we stick with tradition and have turned their office into a second guest room. Donald arrived safe and sound last night, and while he misses his Red Sox themed guest room, he's settling into the new room quite contently.

Donald coincides these visits to overlap his birthday and mine. This Friday he'll celebrate his 70th birthday. He'll celebrate the momentous occasion for the next four weeks here in Rhode Island, and we'll chronicle the stories in this blog.