"You can never go home again." These words, or variations thereof, have been penned by Wolfe and Agee, co-opted by Angelou, and quoted many times thereafter in film, song and stage. It's a phrase that's colored with equal measures nostalgia and realization. A simple yet powerful statement that will eventually resonate with such clarity and accuracy that it will take your breath away. For me, that moment of realization came just before Christmas.
One of my most treasured childhood memories is Christmas shopping with my Dad. He would typically pick a weeknight, sometime in early December, and announce to my Mom, sister and grandmother that "the boys were going shopping for the girls." I would grab my coat, what was left of my allowance after going to the comic book store, and dash to the car. My Dad, moving at a less frenzied pace, would eventually meet me in the driveway and in short order that massive Buick Riviera was set into motion.
One of the perks of living in the northern part of Massachusetts is that tax-free New Hampshire was literally just down the street, so we would invariably begin by hitting the shops along Route 28. We never really had a gameplan, no list of specific stores or must-have items, but somewhere between our driveway and the New Hampshire border we would have things worked out. Anne's Gift House was usually the first stop. Packed with country-style decor and random bic-a-brac from floor to rafter, it was a stalwart of the under-10 "getting a gift for Mom" crowd. From there we would head north — past Butcher Boy Meats which was part of my Dad's Saturday morning shopping routine, past Computer Town where I would eventually buy my first Apple computer, past Chris' Comics where my X-Men and Spider Man subscriptions were delivered — and bustle into other shops as needed. The evening would usually end at Friendly's in the Methuen Mall, a hot fudge sundae to celebrate yet another year of successful holiday shopping.
Upon returning home, I would shout that everyone needed to close their eyes while we carried our packages inside and tucked them into hiding spots. There was always snow on the ground. Christmas lights always glistened. "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was always on TV and the sounds of Vince Guaraldi always filled the air. Such is the stuff of perfect childhood memories.
As I grew older, the shopping trips with Dad evolved into shopping trips with Mom. I would drive. She would read every card in the Hallmark store. He would thank me profusely for sparing him the agony. And so it goes.
Over the years, I have tried to maintain the shopping trips with my Mom. My father has never been a big fan of shopping, particularly during the hustle-and-bustle of the holiday season. His preferred mode during this time of year is to stay home, extend an “open house” invitation to all friends and family and let the world come to him. As I grow older and raise a family of my own, I can truly appreciate the logic and beauty in this plan.
This year's shopping trip with Mom took place a few days before Christmas and although it has been an annual tradition since my teen years, this year's trip just felt different. Earlier this year, Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It's a real sonofabitch of a disease and, for those of you whose life hasn't been touched by this malady, I sincerely hope you never face its effects. It's a disease that hits the family of the patient particularly hard, so this year's shopping trip conversations centered around Dad.
As we rolled from store to store, my Mom detailed the day-to-day challenges both she and my Dad were facing. The light conversations we used to have – what was going on in the neighborhood, movies we wanted to see, music we wanted to buy – seemed to be as distant as those days of cruising through town in my Dad's Riviera.
Despite the fact that I'm in my (very) late 30s and have three amazing children of my own, I have always felt like a kid when around my parents. But things are different now. Just as all the warm and unique shops my Dad and I visited decades ago have been replaced by indistinct chain stores, that old familiar parent/child relationship is changing as well. Time marches on.
As we wrapped-up our last few errands, I realized that I hadn't eaten in 12 hours so we hit the Wendy's drive-thru. Mom was feeling a bit hungry as well so I bought a couple of meals for us and a frosty for my Dad. When we got home, I collected Mom's packages from the truck while she set the table with placemats, dishes and silverware. (Yes – she does this even when eating fast food.) I offered my Dad a french fry and, after staring at it for a few seconds, he asked if it was a cigarette. I reminded him that it's actually made from potatoes and it's something to eat. He rolled his eyes, gave a frustrated chuckle, then ate several more. And there we sat, the three of us, around the kitchen table – chatting, laughing and losing track of time.
I left the house at 11:00 and headed home. The hour-long drive seemed to pass in minutes, my mind occupied with thoughts of what the “new normal” was going to be like in my family, and before I knew it I was pulling in to my driveway. As instructed by my Dad, I called their house and let it ring once to signal I made it home safely.
After letting myself in through the front door – moving as slowly and as quietly as possible so not to wake the sleeping pups – I headed down to my office and tucked away the last few packages I needed to wrap. Heading upstairs, I quickly peeked in on each of the kids and found they were all sleeping soundly. The Christmas tree, in a Samwow-safe location, was twinkling brightly and I smiled as I thought about the chaos that would ensue around that tree in just a few days time.
On Christmas Eve we would find ourselves back in my parents' home, the house as full as ever with cousins, Aunts, Uncles and neighbors. My Dad, as always, was sitting in the middle of the swirl of activity. Things were different but, on some levels, things were still quite the same.
I guess the lesson learned from all of this is that life is a constant evolution. Kids get older and, sadly, parents get older as well. The best that any of us can do is just roll with the punches and find joy in all we do. Like most boys, I regard my Dad as Superman and it sucks to admit that he's just encountered a pretty sizable chunk of kryptonite. But Dad is still Dad and, for as long as possible, I'm going to enjoy every minute I'm blessed to have with him.
No one can predict the future but, each in our own way, we can make the best of even the most challenging of times.
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