Tea With Dad

by Nancie Laird Young

  My father always called before dropping by. That gave me enough time to get dressed, clean the house, and appear to be a highly functioning human being rather than the hermetic, perpetually pajama-clad, movie-bingeing, chardonnay-chugging insomniac I had become when I wasn’t working.

  My innate talent for spin hid the truth—if not from my family and friends, then certainly from myself. It would take me another few years after leaving the beach house and moving in with Dad to admit that my move to the Eastern Shore had not only been motivated by wanting to be closer to him.

  I had run away from, but not escaped, the pain and stress related to the end of my second marriage, Mom’s death, and every other unresolved issue in my life. I’d merely packed things neatly away and brought them with me to the beach.

  CHAPTER 2

  Packing Up and Moving Out

  DURING my father’s military career, we moved on average every eighteen months. We became expert at breaking camp, packing up, and relocating, and I carried those skills with me after I left home. Though I know I apply them differently than others in my family, those skills and experiences were invaluable when I moved from apartment to apartment while single, out of two marital abodes when my first and second marriages dissolved, and then out to the Eastern Shore.

  Still, I’d forgotten what a move with Dad in charge involved, and he’d certainly forgotten what moving with me was like. It had been a long time since he’d tried to herd me through a move. While I tend to focus on the “tell me when we need to be there and I’ll be there” approach, Dad attacks a move with the detailed precision and logistical skill of Hannibal planning a crossing of the Alps on African elephants. There’s a lot of detail work involved. This time, despite the lessons woven throughout our mutual history, we both entered a state of mind that Samuel Johnson described as “the triumph of hope over experience.”

  I moved out of my parents’ home and into my first apartment when I was twenty. I don’t count the move into the dorm my freshman year of college as a “move out” since it was only for the school year. The move to an apartment was different. It signaled adulthood and, finally, independence. At least in my mind.

  Like every move I’d made before, that one was precipitated by military orders. My father had been reassigned from Fort Carson, Colorado, to the Pentagon in Washington, DC. It was not that I couldn’t travel with them or that they didn’t want me to. But I was twenty. I had a job. I had friends. I had a Studebaker of my very own worth $250. I did not want to go. I handled the prospect of another move by avoiding the hell out of it.

  I developed avoidance as a superpower defense mechanism early in childhood, but no one could top my younger brother in that area of expertise back then. When he was a toddler, that kid had been able to self-hypnotize and fall asleep on command. For instance, whenever we were required to receive inoculations, which seemed like all the time, he’d climb up on the exam table at the Post Dispensary and proceed to fall asleep immediately only to wake up just after the doctor withdrew the last needle from his arm or behind when all his shots had been administered. As I stared wide-eyed, both jealous and frightened and on the verge of hysteria, my mother would say, “Oh, Nancie. Stop that, your little brother didn’t cry.”

  No shots were necessary for the move into my first apartment, but when I heard the words, “We’ve got orders!” I resorted to my arsenal of the move-related, stress-fighting weapons I’d collected over the course of my life.

  The announcement of a move when I was a child initiated specific maneuvers. I started the process of readying myself for the changes. I began to pack all my things as well as feelings and anxieties. I walked through the weeks and days before a move ignoring the dread I felt. I would miss my friends, so I distanced myself from them. Who would remember me if we moved all the time? I would have to start over and meet new people. I’d have to start a new school in the middle of the year.

  I prayed. A lot. I prayed that someone at the Pentagon had been in a rush and typed my father’s name on someone else’s orders. But, really, I knew that wouldn’t work.

  I moved on to asking God to make Mom say she wouldn’t move until after the school year ended. It would only delay the move, but it would mean that in February I wouldn’t find myself standing in front a class of kids who had been together since at least September as the teacher announced, “Class, we have a new student. I’d like you to meet the new girl, Nancie. That’s N-a-nc-I-E., not Y. Her family just moved here from Timbuktu. Let’s welcome her.”

  My mother tried to help. I was about ten when moving began to affect me.

  “I don’t want to move,” I told my mother one day while she stirred a pot of boiling something she was experimenting with—I think it was oxtail soup because there were round, purplish pieces of meat piled high on a platter. The kitchen in our Fort Monmouth, New Jersey quarters was hot. Strands of Mom’s hair stuck to her forehead and the sides of her face. Her cheeks were flushed. I remember her expression, which I interpreted then as one of annoyance directed at me, but realize now with my experience as a mother and grandmother as more likely to have been, “Really? And you think I want to move again? Get over it.”

  Instead, she turned to me, her left hand on the big pot, a wooden spoon in the other, and said, “Why not?”

  I wanted to say that I didn’t want to leave my grandparents again—they were just across the Verrazzano Bridge in Brooklyn, and we’d been away from them so long while in Germany, but even at that young age I was aware of the tensions and dislike that existed between my mother and her in-laws. I wanted to say that I didn’t know where Georgia was and that what I saw at night on Walter Cronkite’s newscasts about the civil rights tensions in the South frightened me. I wanted to say that the most frightening thing in my life was having to go to a new school in the middle of the year. Instead, I said, “I will miss my friends, and they will miss me.”

  Mom put down her wooden spoon on the table and said, “Nancie. Come here.”

  She filled up the sink with water. When it was filled almost to the top, she turned off the water, looked at me, and said, “Stick your arm in that sink of water. Wait a while then pull it out.”

  I did, and she asked, “What happened?”

  I stared at the sink. “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Think,” she said.

  “I stuck my arm in and it made a hole in the water,” I said.

  “What happened when you pulled your arm out?” My mother looked at me.

  “The water filled the hole where my arm was,” I responded. “Yes. And that is what will happen when we move. You will leave a hole that gets filled in by new people, so your friends won’t be lonely. And in Georgia, you’ll make a new space and make new friends. You won’t miss your old ones.”

  I heard the entire conversation. I was there. But despite my poor mother’s attempt to assuage my concerns, my ten-year-old self heard only part of the lesson she was trying to teach me. I heard that when we moved to Georgia, no one would miss me. Someone else would take my place, and I’d be forgotten. I said nothing to her, but I promised I’d hate moving for the rest of my life. I also promised myself that my children would never move, that they’d never change schools, and, if they absolutely had to, it would not be in the middle of the year.

  The news of the move to Washington, DC, provoked a new reaction from me. Of course, I didn’t tell my parents that. I allowed them to assume I’d fall into line as usual, get my room and all my belongings sorted and ready to pack according to Dad’s timeline for moving out. I let them believe that on the date of departure, I would join my two brothers, our dog, and our cat, pile into our two cars, one with a U-Haul attached, and head across the country as we had so many times before.

  I never mentioned the upcoming move to my friends or the people at work as I formulated a plan to stay in Colorado Springs because I was not going to move. Not this time.

  About three weeks before the movers were scheduled to come, I walk
ed into my place of work and asked everyone, “Does anyone need a roommate or want to get an apartment with me?”

  I do not remember what precipitated that action, but desperation and anger at something, or someone, typically propelled me when I needed transport from a current zone of comfort into the unknown. I was relieved when my friend Rosemary said, “I do!”

  We began to look for apartments, and soon after, we found a relatively new, two-bedroom, fully furnished apartment in a small, two-story building not far from work. It was managed by a retired couple. It had an indoor pool, and, if I remember correctly, a small gym area where people could lift weights or do floor exercises, though Rosemary and I never used it. I began to draw up a plan for breaking the news to my parents, but before I could, my father forced the issue.

  In the evening on the day Rosemary and I signed the lease on the apartment, my father met me at the door when I got home from work. He was angered and frustrated by my procrastination. I had done nothing to get ready for the move.

  “Just when do you think you’ll get your things ready for the movers? They’ll be here in two weeks. You’ve done nothing to prepare. If you don’t handle this, I will.”

  I summoned up all my courage and tried to look cool and collected. “Oh, I’m not going,” I said. “I have rented an apartment.” I heard my mother gasp.

  “What are you talking about? Are you crazy?” she asked. “Lowen!” she cried as she started toward my father and me. “Talk to her. She can’t do this.”

  My mood was mixed. On one hand, I was in charge. On the other, my mother’s reaction made me wonder if I’d made a horrible mistake.

  Dad took control of the escalating situation. He slowly held his hand up and said quietly, “Suzanne. Calm down.”

  Mom stopped, then sat back down on the couch and stared at us. Dad looked at me and said, “What’s your plan?”

  I tried to anticipate any questions they might have.

  “I have a roommate. She’s a little older than I am. She was a teacher. She works with me. You’ll like her. She and her family are from here. The rent is very reasonable, it’s furnished, and we can afford it together.”

  “When do you move in? You know what date we have to be out of here, right?”

  “We move in this weekend,” I said.

  “Okay, then.” He looked at my mother. “It will be fine.” Then back at me. “Good for you.” Then my parents went into their bedroom. I went into mine and began to pack.

  Over the next few days, my mother did not try to change my mind, but I heard the worry in her questions. I was so young. I was inexperienced. I had no idea what it would be like to be alone, away from family. They would be across the country, and it would take days to get to me in case of emergency. I was unmoved. We’d lived continents away from family my whole life.

  “Not our family, Nancie. We’re your family,” Mom replied.

  “Mom, you were twenty when you married Dad,” I reminded her. My mother looked at me and said nothing. After that we did not discuss the move.

  Rosemary and I moved in on that weekend. There was not much to bring. Some books, my stereo and record albums, a few photos, and our clothes. A couple of times during the last weeks before my parents left Fort Carson, they came to drop off boxes filled with cleaning products, household items my mother couldn’t take but didn’t want to give up, and even a box filled with cordials and liquor. I felt very grown up, although I was more into beer than hard liquor at the time. Somehow, I translated the alcohol as their final admission that I was an adult.

  My nomadic life continued after I left Colorado. I moved to Maryland, and then, over the next twenty-five years, touched down for a short while at various exits on the beltways around Baltimore and Washington, DC, with my husbands and children during and after two marriages that ended.

  The process of moving out of the beach house and into my father’s home was even more difficult than either of us anticipated. I had a lot of stuff. And I didn’t want to get rid of any of it, though I knew I’d have to. I was used to the moving allowances military families received. Only so many pounds of belongings could be moved at no charge. The rest had to be stored or gotten rid of because any excess cost money. I learned to sort, ask if an item sparked joy, and toss those that did not long before the recent trend. If I didn’t do it, my parents did it.

  This time it was not about how much we could afford to move. It was about where we would put it all.

  When my second marriage ended, my three girls and I moved from a large home to a townhouse about half the size. Despite garage sales, donations, the furnishing of my husband’s new home, and a storage unit, the townhouse was full. When the girls left for college and their own apartments, they took things with them. Still, as Dad and I took inventory of what I had left, we knew I could not take it all.

  Dad’s house was full of items accumulated over the course of his fifty-six years of marriage. Even the two outbuildings were filled with overflow from the house.

  During their years together, Mom purchased things in lots of three. She believed in being equitable and wanted each of her children to have one of everything she and Dad owned once they were gone. “That’s a beautiful camel saddle. We’ll take three.”

  Luckily, my brother has a piano of his own because there are only two in my Dad’s house right now. And only two of the three cuckoo clocks they brought home from Germany now hang in my father’s den. Dad gave Sharon the one Mom designated as mine, which is a good thing because there is no wall space left due to the ninety pieces of marquetry that adorn the den walls. I’m not sure how many German beer steins sit on the fireplace, but I’m certain the number is divisible by three.

  Packing would not be a problem. I’d grown up on Dad’s “pack three boxes a day” approach. I could do that. I could do more than three boxes a day, though he wasn’t happy when, in typical fashion, I didn’t follow the plan and packed ten boxes in one day, figuring I’d take some time off because I was so far ahead, only to fall behind schedule on my packed box quota.

  Then there were the timelines. His were shorter than mine even when he thought to tell me what they were. And we can’t forget the scheduling snafus. I was still working full-time during the day, which meant Dad and I had to coordinate any appointments for real estate agents, carpenters, plumbers, painters, and landscapers around my work schedule—if he told me about them in advance. Often they just showed up. Given that my work often involved crisis management, things sometimes got sticky.

  I think Dad came closest to losing it over what we’d do with all my furniture and when it would finally be moved out of the house. He was trying to schedule cleaners, painters, and the installation of new carpet.

  I tried my best. I threw things away. I donated to charities. I offered as much as I could to Rachel, Sharon, and Jane. They were not enthused. They had their own homes and space issues. Finally, I begged Rachel to take my dining room set and the entertainment center. I preferred to give things to my children for free rather than sell them for almost nothing. I insisted on keeping two wingback chairs, some end tables and a camelback sofa that fit nicely into Dad’s large living room. Furniture that had not been given away to the girls or stored in the two sheds at Dad’s house sat stacked in the middle of the beach house great room.

  “Everything is out of the house,” Dad said one day after returning from a meeting with the landscaper.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I gave it all to the guys working on the house. They were delighted!”

  I thought about my beautiful bedroom suite, the one I’d saved for and bought with my own money, after the divorce. And every other piece of furniture in that pile representing my past. I could not believe that he would just give away my belongings without asking me first, but then, I could. It was as it has always been. If I’d handled it, he would not have had to. Relief that this phase and related tension of the move was over replaced any indignity at his having decided to give my things to
strangers without asking.

  With the beach house empty, I entered the next stage of my life. But I was still unsettled by the timing and the reasons for the move.

  The day I left probably the last house I’d live in alone, I walked around inside and out. I locked the doors. I carried my deaf and blind cat, Devon, and my incontinent dog, Cricket, out to the car. I threw my suitcases in the trunk and took one last look, then headed home to Dad’s. After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs to put my things away. I felt welcomed, but it would take some time before I felt comfortable.

  CHAPTER 3

  The New Kid

  I THOUGHT I’d fall into step quickly once I moved in with my father. There had always been an “order of the day” when I was growing up. We rose early, made our beds, showered, dressed, the kids ate breakfast, adults drank coffee, then everyone headed off to school or work. Most of that routine remained in place for Dad after Mom’s death, although he had made a few adjustments.

  He still rose early, at about six o’clock each morning, but now he came down in his pajamas, had his coffee as he watched the news, made himself some cinnamon raisin toast, and mixed Metamucil in orange juice before going upstairs to make his bed, shower, and dress. Instead of work, of course, he drove to the golf course to play eighteen holes of golf, whenever weather allowed, or to the gym to walk the track and lift weights. When he returned home, he made his own lunch.

  There was no order to my day. I rose at some point, sometimes only fifteen minutes before grabbing coffee and sitting down to begin work in “my home office” in his home. I might get dressed before 5:00 P.M., but most of the time, I thought, “Why bother this late in the day?”