My earlier, whiney post (see page one, I think) was written before I went to bed; this, to me, now counts as "tomorrow," which does come in spite of what some people say.
VISIT FROM A TALLER MAN, Part One:One part of moving to Delaware that der Brucer and I have known we'd have to deal with is a visit with my father. Traveling north to visit him and my stepmother has always been problematic for der Brucer, as the Interstate from Long Beach to Sonora, CA, is a traffic monster and wears him to a frazzle. On the other hand, Dad has always been quite aware of what moving from one coast to the other can be like, having asked his first wife, my mother, to travel from the East Coast to the West circa 1950. It's an adventure, sure, but everything becomes so different. Paulann, my stepmother, was glad to send Dad down to see us for a couple of days this week. She knew his peace of mind was worth spending those days alone in their house.
It was going to be the last chance for him to visit, as well. The movers had been scheduled to pack us up on Thursday, leaving nothing but the two beds we'd decided were replaceable, giving us some cushioning for a last night before following the mover's truck Friday morning. Or at least that was the plan. Therefore, Dad had asked us to find him a motel room for Monday and Tuesday nights, so that he could help us with our packing.
We got his arrival call from the motel late Monday afternoon; crossing through Los Angeles County post-work traffic was much heavier than he remembered, and had put him behind schedule. A good dinner was clearly in order. Der Brucer and I had already plotted a few ideas, deciding on a number of restaurants where we are known to choose from that would vector nicely with what Dad doesn't get to eat at home with his vegetarian wife. As it happens, Paulann has been eating some meat lately, as part of her low-carb diet, but she cannot bring herself to eat fish, so
King's Fish House fit the bill quite well.
Over dinner, der Brucer outlined all the problems we've had getting the new house built, with an occasional "Oh, sheesh!" comment from Dad. That's about as strong a swear word as he uses. He's taller than me by a couple of inches, and I stand a handy six foot two, but we both weigh about the same now, in the low 200s. Come to think of it, we both gained weight at about the same time in life, in our late 30s, quitting the smoking that had stunted our horizontal growth and until then kept us beanpole thin. A man of eighty-two, he looks and acts more like someone in their early sixties. He's become good friends with der Brucer, dating from when they discovered they both speak a common language, that of technical engineers. That friendship has helped heal the wounds my sister caused when she repeatedly told me never to discuss my being gay with Dad, as he "would never understand." The catch was, not being able to discuss something as central about who I am made it next to impossible for us to talk about anything else. Dad has never discussed what she was telling him during the years he and I were unable to speak to each other, and I've had to learn to let that go.
Dad made only one mistake during dinner, and that was to mention his desire to find a keyboard for Paulann for her birthday. We try to hide it, but there must be a shopping gene associated with the gay gene, because der Brucer shivered with excitement, thinking of how we could help Dad find exactly what she wanted. "Yep, she wants one with all the bells and whistles, if I can find one." This didn't make much sense to me, since a keyboard is a keyboard, and how many bells and whistles can one of those have. "Oh, no," Dad explained, "She wants this for Church." It finally became clear that she wanted a musical keyboard, for use with a synthesizer, not a new computer keyboard.
We were able to get some comparison pricing done with Dad, without making an actual purchace, before returning to his motel room. He'd brought a scrapbook of pictures, ranging from shots of my mother, who he always loved, to some of himself and Paulann, a few of my sister and her family, some of the family he's inherited from Paulann's first marriage. There was one shot of his own father, taken during the last year of his life, relaxing in an easy chair listening to cowboy songs on a portable record player. Another was of some of the badges Grandpa wore as a police officer and later coroner of Riverside County. "I think you should have these," Dad said as he took them from the book. We agreed that Dad would come to our house "at about nineish" the following morning. There were loads of boxes that he had promised to help us with.
To be continued...