Traveling With Parents; A True Test of Sanity

I’d hoped the tone of the day was set as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the Denver airport near a pillar with an outlet, waiting for my iPhone to charge. As I read my new book about Joseph Jaworski's early life as the son of the renowned Watergate prosecutor and rub the inside of my right big toe to stave off a sore throat (an acupressure technique Dad taught us when we were kids), a passerby remarks in a playful voice, "Your thong is showing, Dandelion."

As I look up, cringing at the certainty that she was directing her comment to me, I see a beautiful Black woman peering over her shoulder down at me as she strolls by me with her roller bag. With a wink and a big, generous smile, she points to my backside where my black thong panty is peeking out above my jeans. This sassy Samaritan proceeds to make her way down the endless corridor of B-gates, holding my gaze until she has to turn to dodge a fast-approaching oversized golf cart shuttle carrying two obese men.  

When she turns to look back at me, her smile returning, I mouth a silent "Thank you" and get another wink from her as I stand and adjust my jeans before sitting again. This would be the best, most slightly awkward moment of today. I figure that in 3.5 hours when I land in Madison, Wisconsin, the slightly awkward moments will entail a very different charm.

I am right.

Sleepy-eyed from my in-flight nap yet excited to see my parents, I ramble down the lobby stairs of the Madison airport to two smiley-faced familiar people. One waving enthusiastically and looking as though he is refraining from jumping up and down.  

As I've mentioned before, my father is a 5-year-old little boy trapped in an aging man's body, and there's nothing more exciting to him than the sight of the fruit of his loins. Even I have to admit, it's pretty adorable. I was waiting to hear his customary resounding, "There's my baby girl!" To no avail. He continues smiling like a crazed chimpanzee and keeps waving. I silently chuckle and make my way around a chubby dude who is taking up too much room on the staircase.

It's been a challenging couple of months, and it's been admittedly difficult to not be in the presence of my family while my heart has been sad. As I approach Mom and Dad and feel four of the most loving arms collectively envelop me, tears well up in my eyes, and my heart expands inside my ribcage. I love these crazy people who brought me into the world, and there's no moment in life that I question their love for me.  

I sink into my daddy's arms and finally hear the anticipated "There's my baby girl."
Suddenly, all is right with the world again. At least for the time being.

I am seated comfortably in the backseat of the rental car as we make our way north down cornfield-laden highways, listening to Mom and Dad discuss the vastly different aspects of their very same model of iPhone. It's beyond hilarious to hear Mom attempt to convince Dad that she has a completely different maps app than he, despite the fact that hers also entails Siri's voice commands and looks identical to Dad's. This is the woman if you will recall, who worries that cars might explode if you insert the iPhone USB into the stereo system. Dad throws me an impish glance in the rearview mirror, and I shake my head and turn to stare out into the vast Midwest nothingness.

Mom interrupts my calm alone time with my own thoughts to inform me that her co-worker Ann's husband has just passed away. As serendipity would have it, the funeral is in Green Bay while we are here. The funeral sounds more like a roast for Jerry Lewis: 3900 people are attending, and 27 speakers are giving eulogies. Mom drops this on me like it's another possibly over-the-top, fun-filled activity in our already gripping itinerary. She even assures me that the funeral reception will be quite lovely, as her co-worker Ann (the widow) is cooking for all those in attendance (???), but that we won't be able to visit long afterward because Ann has to rush off to a Packers stock-holder meeting (????).

I decide this is a good time to take a nap.

When I wake from my 20-minute power nap, Dad greets me as though I've been asleep for years.

"Hey, Née, you get to shave the back of my neck since I still don't have full range of motion in my arm."

Wondering if I'm still asleep (hoping), I respond, "Isn't that one of the lovely privileges you should grant my mother, your wife?  I'm not shaving your neck, Dad."

"Honey, your mom won't do it. She's afraid she'll cut me."

"Yeah, well, I hope you two find a way to work that out. I'm not married to a man, nor do I live with a man for a litany of reasons. Not having to shave any part of their body sounds like a pretty good one to add to the list." I make a throwing-up-in-my-mouth noise as if I am 13 years old.

The tone of the day is reset. Here we go.

My first day with Mom and Dad ends after our long drive north, some delicious food from the hotel restaurant, and my passing out in the hotel bed.

In the middle of the night, I wake to Dad slamming dresser drawers. "Dad, what in the hell are you doing?" I ask, slightly annoyed.

"I'm trying to find a blanket."

"Just take the comforter off my bed," I reply.

"No, Née, I'll just use a towel," he responds. I'm too exhausted even to attempt to figure out or to ask what purpose this towel will serve when he was originally seeking a blanket. I sigh and roll over, praying I can go back to sleep.

I wake later to the sound of oddly strained but steady breathing. From the dim light of the television, I can see human limbs moving up and down below the foot of my parents' hotel bed. Thankfully my mom is still sleeping soundly. Dad has decided that the middle of the night is a good time to engage in some shoulder therapy. This would further explain why, earlier in the evening, he left the hotel room and returned with one of his golf putters. Mom shrieked in laughter as he walked through the door. Her outburst was enough to make me decide not to ask about the purpose of this putter.

Its purpose just became apparent here in the middle of the night.  

Dad looks like a male version of Jane Fonda, using his golf putter as support to rhythmically thrust his right arm at various angles as part of his rehab from rotator cuff surgery. I'd be the last person to ever accuse this man of being anything less than fully committed to everything he does, but his late-night rituals make sharing a hotel room with him and Mom something to reconsider in the future. I put a pillow over my head, hoping to God he has already taken that damn pill he swallows so loudly and will soon return to slumber.

This morning began with a text from my sister, Julie, "Good morning! Have fun with Mom and Dad today. No fighting!!!" She must have intuited the breakfast conversation, during which we discussed who would finally inherit my Grandma Arthur's engagement ring, which still resides in Mom and Dad's safe deposit box.

As we returned to our room after breakfast, I witnessed Mom and Dad's pronunciation war about the correct articulation of the word spelled e-g-g. Yes, 'egg.’  There are apparently various ways to say this very small, one-syllable, three-letter word. My mother makes a strong case for her pronunciation. Dad doesn't have a leg to stand on. No one does when arguing with Joyce about grammar or anything associated with the English language. 

After their debate, they fall into each other on the bed and laugh uncontrollably. I mutter, "Oh, brother," and prepare to argue my own case that a Green Bay Packers Lambeau Field tour falls into the same category of "No thank you" as a walk-through of a cheese factory.

Obviously, my argument fell on deaf ears.

Dad’s so happy to be at Lambeau Field that he reverse-hugs the Greenbay Packers ‘G’ for a photo opp. None of us look like we’ve had any sleep.

Just before the incredibly unflattering photo of us is snapped, I realize that the trunk of the rental car is not locking; the trunk that was to hold all of our valuable belongings as we stroll through an ungodly long tour of a stadium neither I nor my mother could give five shits about.

I call Dad back to the car to help me figure out what was wrong, and after much speculation, he shouts across the parking lot to my mother, "Joycie, the trunk won't lock!"

I drop my head in disbelief that he has just announced to the packed parking lot that our car is unsecured. I hear Mom laugh in the distance as she reads my body language. "Gene! Shush!" she exclaims. I drop my head further and begin strategizing the best ways to position my bags so that I can endure an hour-long tour while carrying them. I've decided I'd rather be touring a cheese factory.

We have to wait over an hour for our tour to begin because apparently, this tour is extremely popular. There are tons of people who have been waiting in line since the crack of dawn to walk the grounds of a stadium where prospective season ticket holders actually stay on a waiting list for so long that they end up passing down their position on the waiting list to their heirs. This seems utterly sad to me on so many levels.  

Waiting gives us way too much downtime, which makes me a little nervous that Dad might want us to say the rosary together again. Thankfully, the 5-year-old in him is in full force, and he's too distracted to sit still for five decades of Hail Marys.

We ran out of the hotel room so fast to make it to this damn tour I didn't have time to brush my teeth. I mention this out loud, wishing I had some gum or a mint. Neither of my parents has either. Dad disappears. I figure he's heading to the men's room. Mom and I later see him asking questions of random strangers. This is nothing new for my father, so we think little of it until he finally saunters up to a table of cheeseheads and proceeds to take something from a woman after she scrounges through her purse. Dad returns with three slices of spearmint gum and that chimpanzee grin plastered on his face. He's always been my hero (regardless of how often I want to strangle him), even in these small and seemingly insignificant moments. 

Before our tour begins, and thankfully after Dad has gifted me with a piece of hijacked gum, I find solidarity with a clan of folks who are also forced to take the Packers stadium tour. I approach them and ask if I may get a picture of them and their adorable family reunion shirts, as I, too, am here in Lambeau Field against my will. They agreed as long as I was in the photo with them while offering me one of their Forced Family Fun tees, which originally clothed the cardboard head of the brother/son who couldn't join them. Midwest kindness has never been lost on me. 

When I ask Dad when he began caring about the Packers, he tells me about the time Vince Lombardi walked off the field at halftime just before the Packers' Super Bowl win over the Chiefs. Dad loved that when Lombardi was asked by reporters what inspired his unmistakable smile at the start of halftime, Lombardi responded that he had finally figured out the Chiefs' offense and that he knew all he needed to know for his strong Packers defense to win the Super Bowl.

"Good story, Dad, but seriously, that's what made you a Packers fan?!" I ask.

"I'm not a Packers fan," Dad whips back.

"Then why the hell are we here?" I respond.

"Because when my Packers friends back in KC gloat about their team, I can ask them if they've ever been to Lambeau Field. When they say they haven't, I can say I have."

OMG. Seriously?! I should have asked more questions this morning. I'll never get these three hours of my life back.  

As we drive north to our resort, the Lambeau tour finally over and the stadium in our rearview mirror, a surreal conversation transpires.  

"Née Née, do you still wipe your bottom the way I taught you to wipe it when you were a little girl?"

Wide-eyed, I am jarred from my daydreaming into a conversation I'm certain I’d rather not enter. I take a quick mental inventory to check that no blood relative has yet been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. If I had been drinking something, it would surely have projectile spewed out my nose and all over the back of my mother's head. This may be the first time I voluntarily leap from a moving vehicle.

"Um, Dad, do I want to know why you are asking me this question?" I inquire cautiously.

"Just 'cause I want to know, Née."

Wondering if he is somehow assessing his parenting skills or trying to determine his overall effect as a father, I feel strangely compelled to respond with a straight answer.

"Well, I may not remember how to change the oil in my car because I wasn't really paying attention that day– but wiping my butt is an entirely different story. A girl doesn't forget a thing like that, Dad. Wipe until there is no more brown. That’s what you taught me."

"That's my girl," Dad proudly gloats.

"Okay, dear God, can we please change the subject?" I retort, as Mom snickers.

We pull over to gas up the car, and I excuse myself to the restroom, where I am blessed with the opportunity to test my physical skills alongside my verbal passing of the wiping test.

Thankfully, today's Cana Island Lighthouse was a Mom-favorite, and somehow, it gave her her fill of lighthouses without having to galavant around to tour all 10 as originally intended.

Truth be told, after further investigation, we couldn't get into all 10. But the Cana house, apparently iconic in the world of lighthouses and the most photographed of them all, was enough to sate Mom's fascination– for now. I think it might have helped that a few years ago, I sketched for Mom a lighthouse I'd seen online that I knew she would love.

As we approached Cana, Mom and I both recognized the lighthouse as the one in my sketch, which now graces a wall in our basement recreation room. Mom ended her lighthouse extravaganza on a nostalgic note—the way she enjoys all her best memories. Thank goodness. A girl can only take so much education about Fresnel lenses.

My father, on the other hand, is as tenacious as a beaver and as focused as an entranced cobra. He can stick with a task for longer than Mom and I care to endure.  

While walking along a beach made of shell shards, Dad locates a fully intact shell and gives it to my mother with the enthusiasm of a little boy finding a caterpillar for the first time. He is so excited that he becomes insistent on finding one for me.

Insistent is putting it mildly. Once again, very much like when Dad decided to recite the nearly equivalent of an entire 9-day novena on his knees in Santa Fe basilica last year, Mom and I wait for him, famished and about to pass out. I haven't had a sip of coffee yet this morning, and each time I hear myself say out loud, "Dad, can we go now? Mom and I are starving." I worry that I will get his age-old response of, "Offer it up, Née Née" (as in, offer it up because Jesus hung from a cross all day, so you can surely hold out for food).

Growing up, my three siblings and I typically heard “Offer it up” anytime we complained. It would follow our whining about being too hot, or still being hungry after a meal, or, you know when we were writhing in pain after having our calf sliced open from a sharp protruding piece of metal on a neighbor's slide.

I'm certain it's why, as adults, the four of us kids rarely complain, can carry on daily functions like finishing mowing a lawn after applying a tourniquet to our own femoral artery, or endure natural childbirth with unwavering fortitude (only one of us has done this, for the record).

While other kids are motivating themselves by referring in their mind to The Little Engine That Could and repeating the "I think I can. I think I can" mantra, the Arthur kids are overcoming their own discomfort by envisioning Christ lifeless and bleeding on a cross.

After brunch, as we get ready to traverse north to catch a ferry to Washington Island, Dad slows the car down and exclaims, "Oh, Joycie, there's a hardware store!"

We pull over. I'm perplexed.

Curious, I ask, "Dad, what do you need at the hardware store?"

"Nothin', sweetie. I like to check 'em out."

"Check out the hardware store itself?" I ask, hoping I'm missing something.

"Yes, I'll be right back."

Mom, apparently quite used to this strange custom, doesn't say anything until she sees the befuddled look on my face, at which point she begins laughing as she realizes the perceived bizarreness of my father's sudden urge to leave us in the car as he peruses aisles of tools–while on vacation.

I shake my head and figure he has to use the restroom and doesn't want to tell us, which seems like extremely odd behavior for a man who has no inhibition about discussing bodily functions in any other circumstance.

As he walks from the car like a child making his way to the gates of Disney World, I begin to wonder if my entire life exists within the same constructs as the Truman Show.

Uneventfully, Dad returns to the car, ready to be on the road again. When I ask him what was so compelling about hardware stores, he responds, “Nothing really. I just like them.”

I think to myself how much I like pedicures, but I bet a detour to the nail salon would go over like a lead balloon.

On Washington Island, we fly by the seat of our pants, which isn't customary for my Meyers Briggs INFJ mother, who likes to plan the course of her day. Since Dad and I have personalities that prefer to surrender to the wonder of an exciting adventure into the unknown, we don't complain.

As Dad drives down the road to nowhere, Mom excitedly blurts, "How about we go to the lavender farm?"

"No, thank you!" Dad says decidedly.

Mom states cheerfully, "Oh, Genie", then she begins laughing. 

Something tells me her laugh entails more than just giving in to Dad, so I regretfully ask, "What's so funny?"

Mom composes herself and responds in all seriousness, "Your dad thinks his nipples will lactate if he's exposed to lavender."

What in the holy hell?!  

I begin lamenting today's footwear choice because if I had worn running shoes, I'd be getting out of this car at the next stop sign.

Instead, I bury my face in my hands and begin making a fake crying sound as I realize that until the next ferry arrives, I'm trapped on Washington Island with these crazies.

While on the island, and to dispel the boredom of driving on a water-surrounded mound of nothing but woods, Dad takes notice of the various trees that line the road. Dad then launches into his best impersonation of the character Harlan Pepper of Best in Show. Instead of naming nuts, Dad attempts to list every variety of tree he can think of.  

I sit in the backseat, rocking back and forth and silently repeating, "Offer it up, Née Née. Offer it up."