One afternoon when I was maybe four years old, my mom took my toddler brother and me to run some errands. We were in a car wreck; I got a bump on the head and the Chevrolet Nova was really banged up but all was otherwise OK. My mom, brother and I waited in a police squad for the tow truck and a ride. My dad came, of course, but was so distracted, out of his mind I imagine with worry, that he ended up getting in a minor crash himself on the way to the scene.
A couple years later, just as I was about to begin first grade, I woke one morning to find my father sitting on the sofa in tears. When I asked what was wrong, Mom explained that Dad’s mom had gotten very sick during the night and may die. She would surrender her life later that day, but not before my parents packed up three children including my four-month-old sister and drove the two hours so my dad could be with his siblings at their mother’s bedside.
As a tween, I remember once waking in the middle of the night with a stomach bug. I lifted my head from the bathroom floor to my mom leaning against the door jam sighing, “Thank you for making it to the toilet.” My mama is the most wonderful in so many ways but she does not have a mastery of vomit (a trait I inherited and so much appreciate.) It was ironic, though, because during those same years my dad went through a series of ear surgeries. The usual post-op effects combined with messing with the inner ear is a recipe for dizzy, barfy times. We were kids; we hid. But his wife was by his bedside, soldiering through the messes and smells and delivering the care.
My parents helped Todd and me and my siblings and their spouses build houses and landscape yards and move, again and again, long after they had sworn to hire people to do this work for them in their own home, their own lives. They slept on an air mattress in my sister’s basement and cared for her children so many nights and days while my sister was hospitalized trying to hold onto a baby or saying goodbye to a baby or in the neonatal intensive care unit caring for a tiny baby. Mom and Dad come to every grandchild’s soccer game, choir concert, basketball tournament, church reading, play performance, school program, and any other event in which the kids can possibly partake, and they bring cards and gifts.
Today is my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Wow. I remember when my grandparents celebrated that golden milestone with a big party. I remember being a kid when other couples would honor the day with a blessing during mass and I thought, Wow, that’s a long time and, wow, those people are old. Dad and Mom did that, too, even though they’re clearly super-youthful and my childhood mind was clearly mistaken.
Prior to the blessing mass and now this actual, blessed day, my parents decided to mark the big occasion by taking their family— all 21 of us— on a weeklong, all-inclusive, Caribbean vacation. It was a year in planning, spun with pandemic concerns, and can you imagine the price tag?! It was the greatest gift. Sure, I mean, I’ll never turn up my nose at luxurious accommodations, gourmet meals, 24-hour espresso, unlimited mojitos, sunshine and sand, hours to read, and so many laughs with my loves. Yet, the gift was TIME together, to enjoy one another, to appreciate our beloved family and all we’ve weathered and all we mean to each other.
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