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Oct. 11th, 2011 10:26 pm
Sombre coda
It's a damn shame that the worst three hours of the weekend getaway came at the very end. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu can testify to what a mood I was in when I walked through the door. I'd hardly said a word to my father for two hours of stop-and-go highway driving except to give directions.
Playing navigator for Dad, incidentally, is particularly exhausting because you can't give him directions like a normal person. Saying, "When you come to the interchange, you want to take 43 southbound" does you no good, because by the time you get there, he'll have forgotten the highway designation or the direction or both. You end up having to do you best imitation of a GPS. When it came time to exit 94, I didn't even bother telling him "Take "Touhy". I just read the signs and translated them: "Your exit is in two-and-a-half miles." "You're exit is in a quarter of a mile." "This is your exit."
Unfortunately, it took missing our turn for STH 42 to remind me of this. Cutting back on a rural route would have been pretty simple--if we'd had a decent map handy. (Of course the last thing I wanted to do is take a chance on a unknown road and ending up losing an hour on back roads and dead ends.) It meant missing out on Cherry Lane, where I'd hope to by some dried or frozen Montmorencies formonshu, and on a lakeside route through some picturesque towns. Annoying, but not a big deal.
No, what cemented my bad mood was inexplicably missing the turn for 43 southbound outside Green Bay and not realising this until we were well on our way toward the city centre. I plead the effects of sleep deprivation coupled with a killer combination of Norwegian labskaus, lefse, and bock beer at the Sister Bay Café for lunch. That left me with no choice but to sort through Dad's disaster of a map drawer ("Is there any order to these?" "There was at one time.") until I found a Wisconsin map with a pathetic inset for Green Bay.
Given the aforementioned challenges, simple trumps speedy when it comes to course changes, so I had us stay on Dousman clear through to the other side of town where we could catch 41 south and then backtrack on the beltway. So that was at least half and hour pissed away, guaranteeing we'd arrive at Milwaukee in the middle of rush hour--on a game day--which meant no hope of making it home in time for dinner. I prepared for this eventuality, so we had food in the back of the truck. But Dad was dismissive when I tried to explain why I needed to eat before we got home, so out of spite I refused to ask him to stop so we could go get it.
If nothing else, the silence allowed to reflect on how much I have and haven't changed in thirty some years. When I was a snotty teenager, the silent treatment was a way to punish someone for not showing me due consideration. But yesterday it was just a sense of calm futility that kept me from speaking. Even with full rest and goodwill, I don't know that I could've explained exactly why I was in the funk I was.
Thinking about it, it was probably the cumulative effect of Dad's puzzling and sporadic incommunicativeness. I'm okay with flying seat-of-my-pants for some things, but not others. If I wait too late to eat dinner or eat the wrong things, I will be up all night; this is a fact I know about my body and which I am frankly exasperated with having to explain over again to people who have known me for a long time. If I miss sleep, I will be slow on the uptake and emotionally oversensitive; I don't mind getting up early for good reason, but rushing to leave only to be forced to kill an hour because we just missed the 10 a.m. ferry isn't sufficient. I was probably exaggerating when I told Dad I'd asked him "four or five times" whether it was his plan to get an early start; but I had asked at least three.
We chatted again just tonight--he blew out a tire on the way back to St Louis and I had to see he was all right--but about everything except the recent unpleasantness. As I said, I don't know that it would have helped. At 69, he's the man he's going to be until the end. Either I'm willing to learn to work around his foibles in order to enjoy those aspects of him which are truly extraordinary or I'm too inflexible and shortsided.
monshu can testify to what a mood I was in when I walked through the door. I'd hardly said a word to my father for two hours of stop-and-go highway driving except to give directions.Playing navigator for Dad, incidentally, is particularly exhausting because you can't give him directions like a normal person. Saying, "When you come to the interchange, you want to take 43 southbound" does you no good, because by the time you get there, he'll have forgotten the highway designation or the direction or both. You end up having to do you best imitation of a GPS. When it came time to exit 94, I didn't even bother telling him "Take "Touhy". I just read the signs and translated them: "Your exit is in two-and-a-half miles." "You're exit is in a quarter of a mile." "This is your exit."
Unfortunately, it took missing our turn for STH 42 to remind me of this. Cutting back on a rural route would have been pretty simple--if we'd had a decent map handy. (Of course the last thing I wanted to do is take a chance on a unknown road and ending up losing an hour on back roads and dead ends.) It meant missing out on Cherry Lane, where I'd hope to by some dried or frozen Montmorencies for
monshu, and on a lakeside route through some picturesque towns. Annoying, but not a big deal.No, what cemented my bad mood was inexplicably missing the turn for 43 southbound outside Green Bay and not realising this until we were well on our way toward the city centre. I plead the effects of sleep deprivation coupled with a killer combination of Norwegian labskaus, lefse, and bock beer at the Sister Bay Café for lunch. That left me with no choice but to sort through Dad's disaster of a map drawer ("Is there any order to these?" "There was at one time.") until I found a Wisconsin map with a pathetic inset for Green Bay.
Given the aforementioned challenges, simple trumps speedy when it comes to course changes, so I had us stay on Dousman clear through to the other side of town where we could catch 41 south and then backtrack on the beltway. So that was at least half and hour pissed away, guaranteeing we'd arrive at Milwaukee in the middle of rush hour--on a game day--which meant no hope of making it home in time for dinner. I prepared for this eventuality, so we had food in the back of the truck. But Dad was dismissive when I tried to explain why I needed to eat before we got home, so out of spite I refused to ask him to stop so we could go get it.
If nothing else, the silence allowed to reflect on how much I have and haven't changed in thirty some years. When I was a snotty teenager, the silent treatment was a way to punish someone for not showing me due consideration. But yesterday it was just a sense of calm futility that kept me from speaking. Even with full rest and goodwill, I don't know that I could've explained exactly why I was in the funk I was.
Thinking about it, it was probably the cumulative effect of Dad's puzzling and sporadic incommunicativeness. I'm okay with flying seat-of-my-pants for some things, but not others. If I wait too late to eat dinner or eat the wrong things, I will be up all night; this is a fact I know about my body and which I am frankly exasperated with having to explain over again to people who have known me for a long time. If I miss sleep, I will be slow on the uptake and emotionally oversensitive; I don't mind getting up early for good reason, but rushing to leave only to be forced to kill an hour because we just missed the 10 a.m. ferry isn't sufficient. I was probably exaggerating when I told Dad I'd asked him "four or five times" whether it was his plan to get an early start; but I had asked at least three.
We chatted again just tonight--he blew out a tire on the way back to St Louis and I had to see he was all right--but about everything except the recent unpleasantness. As I said, I don't know that it would have helped. At 69, he's the man he's going to be until the end. Either I'm willing to learn to work around his foibles in order to enjoy those aspects of him which are truly extraordinary or I'm too inflexible and shortsided.