All-Star Parent Conference

Sometimes, at the age of forty-three, I need my parents as much as I did when I was six. Here’s a humble homage to my mother, father, step-father, and step-mother. No matter what time I wake each day, I know that they’ve risen before me, and that the lights are on downstairs.

My Mother, C.: Artist Extraordinaire, Storyteller, Queen of Perseverance…

…who put her ceramics deadline aside last week when I asked if she’d sew me a wack Halloween costume. “That’s a can-do!” was her unquestioning response.  I’ve had a particularly stressful month, and Mom knew I needed a shot of “crazy” to stay sane. She nailed every detail of the outfit, down to the ruffle on the shirt. She even Lysol-ed the handbag she found at a thrift shop to complete the ensemble.  In the 1970’s, Mom used to put her four children on four separate buses to newly-desegregated schools scattered across the city. I remember my bus driver, Mr. Black, pulling open the squeaky bi-fold door on the cold, dark mornings. Every few weeks Mom would scale the bus steps behind me, bearing a loaf of homemade bread she’d made just for him. Mom and Mr. Black had lobbied the powers-that-be to change my bus stop from a busy intersection a half-mile away, to the bottom of our driveway. Mom would descend the bus steps and watch the orange tail lights disappear around the bend of our street. Then she’d go to work.

My Father, J.: Afficionado of Scenic Routes, American History, and Antiques…

..a man who knows the back roads of the Shenandoah Valley like the back of his hand.  Who’s so knowledgeable about the United States, he can correct mistakes on historic markers. He and I drove Route 11 several weeks ago, en route to Kentucky. “Look at that, Whitsie!” he said, pointing to an eighteenth-century stone barn hugging a hillside. “It’s one the few in the Valley that survived General Sherman’s raids.” Dad doesn’t drink coffee any more, but if he did, he’d pull over at a Waffle House, not a Starbucks. We filled the tank at a gas station, and I watched him fold soft bills into his wallet. It’s a scene I once watched from below his waist height.  Dad returned the leather bundle to a blanched rectangle on the back pocket of his jeans.  I checked the rear mirror as we pulled onto I-64.  The upturned legs of eight antique dining chairs punctuated the view out the back windshield.

My Step-Father, W.: Wordsmith, Walking Encyclopedia, Charmer of Strangers…

“Ah, yes, Orange City, Iowa,” W. says during chitchat over the fence with my elderly neighbor. Upon learning the name of anyone’s hometown, he morphs into a human Google. “The Sioux County Courthouse is in Orange City, is it not?  W.W. Beach was the architect—-it’s in the Romanesque style with those wonderful stone arches.” My neighbor’s quiet eyes light up with recognition. “There’s a picture of my father holding me as a baby under one of those arches!” she exclaims. “He worked as the court clerk for thirty years!”  My mother and I look at each other in disbelief. How does he do it? When I was a kid, the walls of our house shuddered late into the night from W. pounding the keys of his Hermes typewriter. These days he writes books and blogs on a Mac. W. encouraged me towards every major educational milestone I’ve ever reached. Each one began with “You might as well apply.”

My step-Mother, M.: Unflappable Companion, Gracious Host, Purveyor of New Yorker Cartoons…

“Eggs, over easy. And let’s not have a critique of my methodology.” In the cartoon with this caption, a husband cooks at the stove while his wife looks over his shoulder disapprovingly. This New Yorker clipping has remained in the same spot on M.’s refrigerator for over a decade. When she opens the fridge door, I see that for my family’s visit, she’s stocked up on all my favorite foods from high school: dill pickles, cheddar cheese, cherry yogurts, cokes.  During the other fifty-one weeks of the year, her pantry reflects the dietary needs of my father, for whom she cares lovingly. In her job as a collegiate academic advisor, she’s eternally patient with her students. Just as she’s always been with her four boisterous step-kids. To this day we sabotage the shopping list she keeps on the kitchen counter.  M. plows through four novels a week.  Her library books are never overdue. Sometimes I ask her the name of her college just so I can hear her beautiful enunciation.  “An-ti-och,” she’ll say, handing me a Triscuit.