I can see Mom's dream house so clearly, the white picket fence freshly painted and reflecting the sunlight. Growing up in a working-class family, I understood that vivid symbol of middle-class aspiration. But while my father loved Mom, he didn't appear to see or share her dream. What he longed for didn't include a house or a picket fence, even though my mother wanted it so badly. Who needed a house, home ownership, when apartment life would do? And no mowing the grass!
And so, when they began to argue about finances, even at age fourteen, I began to understand why. I began to notice how easygoing my mother wasn't, and how ill-suited Dad was to working as a cement contractor, pouring asphalt, a man who loved books and crossword puzzles and his children. (When he died in 1990, as I sorted through his belongings I discovered his wallet held a portrait photo of me from kindergarten. Glancing back at the picture of a smiling and snaggle-toothed five year old with whisps of errant hair peeking out of my hair ribbon, I thought for a moment that I finally understood how my father felt about me and I started weeping uncontrollably.)
And so, when they began to argue about finances, even at age fourteen, I began to understand why. I began to notice how easygoing my mother wasn't, and how ill-suited Dad was to working as a cement contractor, pouring asphalt, a man who loved books and crossword puzzles and his children. (When he died in 1990, as I sorted through his belongings I discovered his wallet held a portrait photo of me from kindergarten. Glancing back at the picture of a smiling and snaggle-toothed five year old with whisps of errant hair peeking out of my hair ribbon, I thought for a moment that I finally understood how my father felt about me and I started weeping uncontrollably.)
My mother probably felt disappointment when Dad bought the car, but no real surprise. She was always a pretty practical person, managing however she could, and had always known the effect a sleek car had on my father, particularly as he entered middle age. Mom may have even figured a way to justify it in her mind, to recognize that Dad’s winnings at the gambling table were extra, a
kind of unexpected windfall. Fun money. And because she loved him, maybe she would
understand this one self-indulgence.
But when it turned out that Dad hadn't really bought the car outright, that the winnings hadn’t really paid for his dream, only a down payment (with a hefty premium straining an already tight budget each month), she probably went ballistic. That's when the arguments began, borne of frustration. Can't you see me, after all these years of marriage? Can't you see what I desperately need from you?
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/75174448@N00/3472703132">The Lake House</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">(license)</a>
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