VISIT FROM A TALLER MAN, Part Three (Conclusion):By the time we were finished at the Post Office, it was too late to bother with lunch, so Dad excused himself and went back to his motel room for a well-deserved nap. He figured he’d return to our house at about five in the afternoon, at which time we’d load his truck with more boxes that he’d take home with him for shipping later. After that, we’d all drive up to Burbank, to see what had become of the house where he and Mom had raised me, and then go to dinner.
Der Brucer and I, meanwhile, had more books to pack and an appointment to keep. Several years ago, a car der Brucer owned refused to run any longer, so we pushed it into the driveway behind the gate and promised ourselves to get it towed on the proverbial someday. Up until now, the only use the car had was as a perch for Marty, who would jump up on the hood and then the roof of the car and observe the neighborhood from his own special perch. However, with the move to Delaware imminent, der Brucer had decided to donate the remains of the vehicle to charity, and the tow truck was supposed to arrive sometime between three and four in.
I spent the waiting time repacking boxes of books, which der Brucer had earlier tried to consolidate into one. Strange thing, when combining three boxes that weigh fifty pounds each, the total weight doesn’t magically lower itself to less than seventy pounds, the highest weight the Post Office would consider shipping. I might as well have taken my time, however, because the man with the tow truck didn’t show up at three, or at four, and by four-thirty der Brucer was getting frustrated. A call to the charity revealed that the driver had simply gotten lost. He finally showed by five-thirty, and by six the old car was gone.
Dad had overslept a bit, but had rejoined us and backed his truck into our driveway by that time, so we started loading his truck again. “Having the back of the truck loaded with something should make it run better,” was his comment, and since his step-son would be handy for unloading the boxes when Dad got home, he didn’t have any problems dealing with the weight. However, by the time we were finished, the light had gone and I’d decided the trip up to Burbank wouldn’t be worth the effort. “Since we aren’t moving on schedule, maybe we can get up there soon and take some pictures,” was der Brucer’s suggestion.
Dinner was still scheduled for the
Tam O’Shanter, one of the oldest restaurants in the county, so we all got cleaned up and headed north for the Glendale/Atwater area. It seemed a long way to travel for a meal, now that the visit to the old home had been cancelled, but the Tam was one of the restaurants my father had liked back when I was growing up, and the food is better there than at the other old favorite, the Smoke House in Burbank.
There’s a lot to be said for older restaurants, especially if they’ve managed to keep up the quality. They serve what can best be called comfort food, the stuff memories both make and are made of. The Tam is owned by Lawry’s, the same company behind the Seasoned Salt and other flavorful items, and predates Lawry’s Prime Rib on La Cienega by several years. It had been the haunt of studio workers, particularly from Disney, and aircraft people, like my father. Der Brucer and I had been there several times, before I retired and was working in Glendale, so we knew what to expect. As for Dad, he looked as if struck by double vision, seeing the place as it was and new again at the same time.
The food was excellent, of course. Dad clearly had a jones going for fish, ordering the salmon wrapped in potato slices, while der Brucer ordered duck and I ended up the traditionalist with roast beef. “If you like horseradish, that’s fine, but I don’t care for the stuff,” Dad joshed. He loved the two appetizers we shared, however, Welsh rarebit and mushrooms sautéed in garlic. It turned out he had never seen oyster mushrooms before, and was fascinated by them.
I really don’t remember what we discussed, other than that our backs were going to be sore the next day, but we all had a good time. Dad had a friend he wanted to look up the next morning, and then had to get back for Paulann’s birthday dinner. What was more important to me was how wrong my sister had been proven, that Dad was more than accepting of myself and der Brucer as a couple. That’s not something that comes out in words, but shows itself in postures and inflections, things that are much harder to fake.
We drove back to his motel, a checked the tarp that covered the boxes in the back of his truck. Saying good-bye doesn’t come easily in my family, so we settled for a quick but firm hug and promises to stay in touch. When der Brucer and I get settled in Delaware, I think we can expect a visit from Dad and Paulann, and perhaps an introduction to der Brucer’s grandkids will be in order then. Dad can tell them all about airplanes. I think they’ll like that.
