|
Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
October 16, 2005
Published as Family History
in a Gramma Letter dated October 22, 1996.
© 1996 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
|
| | |
’60 VW in San Francisco, 1969
© 1969 by Bud Grossmann
|
A DRIVE OUT WEST
Tuesday, October 22, 1996
Dear Gramma,
My dad is my dad, and I am his son. A few years have gone by since the last time my father raised his voice to scold me (if we don’t count discussions involving politics), but it’s been only a few years. Without going into the circumstances of that most recent incident; I’ll just say I mostly deserved Dad’s wrath.
Sometimes when I speak irritably to my own children, I hear my father’s voice. I hear him in my menacing growl, in the breath whistling past my clenched teeth, and in my words of exasperation and disappointment. When I get past the moment and can reflect upon the powerful sensation of my father’s presence, I often feel profoundly grateful to Mom and Dad for being as patient as they were while bringing up four “strong-willed” children.
My parents scolded, sure, but Dad usually relied heavily on logic and persuasion to guide us kids as we were growing up. Sometimes he barked orders at us; sometimes he bluntly and clearly stated his wishes or opinions. More often, however, he used a quiet and indirect approach.
When I was a college junior attending school in Indiana, I had plans for spending Christmas at your Wisconsin farm. Our whole family would be gathering there. At the last minute, though, I changed my mind. I called home and told my dad I’d decided to drive to California, where I had spent my freshman and sophomore years. “I want to see some friends” was the reason I gave for the trip; but I’m sure my dad understood that I needed to check on—and try to rejuvenate—a romantic relationship I had left behind.
The weather forecast called for snow—lots of it—and I was proposing to make the journey in my ’60 VW, a less than entirely reliable vehicle. I had expected an argument when I told Dad what I planned to do. I thought he might even forbid me to go—I was not yet an adult, and the car was registered in Dad’s name. Maybe I wanted
him to say No. But all he told me was, “Bud, that doesn’t sound like a very good idea.”
“Dad, I’ll see you at the farm before the year is gone.”
“Have a safe trip, then,” he said. “Call us on Christmas.”
I did have a safe trip, just like Dad told me to. And the trip
was a good idea, after all, I would say, looking back at it from this distant viewpoint today. On Christmas Eve I saw the girl I’d driven all that way to see. We shared five minutes face-to-face, and for four of the five we simply stood silent, searching unsuccessfully for something to say. She had realized in an instant the flame I’d once kindled in her was gone. We shook hands and said our last goodbye.
Yes, it was a good trip and a good idea. I can’t measure the pleasure of the drive by the destination alone. In crossing the continent that winter, I made memories with college buddies and beer, snow-slick highways and 29¢-a-gallon gasoline, a broken accelerator cable and a quick-fix in the cold. I saw majestic mountains and frozen prairies as I’d never seen them before. And I greeted the New Year with you.
I am my father’s son. I hear Dad’s voice when I scold, but I hear it also in my silences. And I hear it when I say to my kids, “Here’s what I think, but the choice is yours. Have a safe trip, and be sure to call home.”
I love you, Gramma.
Love,
Buddy
|
