Walk Beside Me

(Bandit post #2 "My Dad is a Dapper  Man.")

I can still remember the day we found out that we would be leaving our beachy paradise in Southern Florida and heading "half way across the world" to Arizona, the land of- well, dirt. It was quite a shock. My dad had the opportunity to pursue his passion of language and education at Thunderbird Graduate School and that meant packing up and heading out west. When I relayed the news to my friends at school the next day they came at me with a barrage of questions and comments.


"Will you have to live in a tee-pee?"

"I heard it never rains.......EVER."

"What about the beach?! How will you get to the beach??"




I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had the exact same thoughts.





I could count on my pre-teen hand the few things I knew about our home-to-be:

1.The movie "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure" was filmed there.

2. Arizona was home to several Indian reservations.

3. It never rained.......EVER.


It was hard to say goodbye to the jagged rocks that jetted out from the surf where we nicked our toes and sat for hours observing sea creatures as the tide came in. We would miss the marshy fields that welcomed our games of "Ghost in the Graveyard" and "Sardines". We were all a little anxious as we watched the bright greens, brilliant oranges, and hot pinks of our tropical life swirl together in the rear view mirror as we made our way to a new home.

My parents have to be the bravest people to ever walk the planet because they opted to drive the entire family cross country, 4 kids, a minivan and giant moving van in tow. The hijinks that ensued were sitcom worthy but we managed to make it to Arizona in one piece. It was actually pretty fun for an 11 year old. (But I break out into hives just thinking about the nightmare it must've been for my poor parentals.)

It was during the last leg of our trip when I really began to take notice of the drastic change of scenery. Gone was the lush green growth that covered every inch of our Florida neighborhood. There wasn't a swamp or boardwalk in sight.  But there was brown.

Miles and miles of brown.


We had stopped to stretch our legs and refuel on the outskirts of Phoenix, when I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Dust filled my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. The salty, moist sea air I had come to expect was long gone. This place smelled like...


brown.

It was about this time that I began imagining my new life in an adobe hut, tapping cacti for drinking water.

But as we drew closer to our destination, I began to notice clusters of cheerful (non- mud) houses, brightly painted playgrounds and even a few palm trees to remind me of our southern homestead. I had a strange and sudden peace come over me.


This place with it's many layers of  clay colored dirt and alarmingly dry heat, would be home.

It was quite amazing how quickly we all acclimated to our new life in the desert. In a flash my siblings and I  found our place with friends and activities. There was no time to be homesick. It was as if they had been holding a place for us here all along. We thrived.

My parents jumped into their new life with just as much gusto. Unfortunately, I was just a kid and  didn't notice the extreme sacrifices that were made to give our family this new start.


My father was going from a full time job to being a full time student. My mom was going from a part time student-aid to a full time teacher. Their income was cut considerably (as most of you teachers can imagine) and their time together practically nonexistent. But this is the beauty of my parents.

We didn't feel a thing.


My mom spent 10-12 hours a day wrestling 7th graders, doing anything and everything she could to spark some interest in our nation's history (up to and including staging a "sit in" in the principals office) and then came home to a heap of adolescent drama under her own roof. I'm not sure how she ever resisted the urge to pull a "Marie Osmond" and leave us kids to fend for ourselves, taking off in our minivan down the AZ highway and never looking back. If anything she did the opposite, never making us feel secondary to her pressing demands as a working mother. Whether it was helping us perfect an essay for a DAR scholarship or whipping up a fabulous, themed-out birthday party, we knew we were her number one priority.


And my dapper dad? He somehow managed to juggle school, work, church, husband and daddy duties without even so much as a study hall. He even included us in his education, convincing me to take freshman Japanese so that we could study together since he was taking Japaneses courses as well. (FYI- My dad has the gift of tongues-for reals! He can speak German, Portuguese, Japanese, French, Spanish, and bits and pieces of a whole slew of other languages. Have you heard of "Op Talk?" Yeah, well my dad has, and he can speak it!) It was fun having our own secret language. We could ask each other fun things like, "Where is your closest toilet?" and "Shall we go to karaoke together?" and the rest of the fam was none the wiser. I liked being a part of his world.


My dad worked hard and soaked up every ounce of school. He's one of the smartest men I know. I don't know how a giant corporation didn't scoop him up and put him to work immediately, but they didn't. A lesser man would've have dug his heels in and thrown a tantrum, scoffing at the sub par offers that came his way. He was worth so much more. We all knew it. Even the people offering the jobs knew it. But like my mom, who pushed through her exhaustion to make sure we all had the attention we needed,

my dad put us first.


And when it became apparent that student loans and everyday living expenses of a family of six were becoming a drain on our family budget, he got a second job. On Sunday evenings, after a full day of church responsibilities and helping kids with last minute homework assignments, my dad would kiss us goodbye and head off to work at the post office.

Every so often on my way home from a late night church activity I would see my dad walking home, suit coat draped over his arm, back lit by the flickering street lights. He made that walk alone, to and from work every Sunday all in the name of supporting his beloved family. I searched his face for some trace of bitterness or anger. I was always surprised at the genuine contentment he reflected back.


One day during a conversation with my mom I asked her if he regretted leaving his corporate job in Florida considering the trials they had faced in our new home.

"We've talked about that," she said, resting her hands thoughtfully on her hands. "You know what he always says? That he's certain the reason we came here was to give you guys a better life, and because of that he doesn't regret it for a second."

I thought about our blissful childhood filled with good friends and happy memories. I thought about my husband, who I never would've met if we had stayed in The Sunshine State. I thought about how content I am to be here, in the land of dirt, and how I don't even want to think about leaving.

Contrary to what I believed at the time of our move, my dad had so much more in mind for his family than just his career ambitions. The move was for us.


There's a line in one of my favorite "whenever it's on I have to stop and watch it" movies, Little Women. A fellow teacher, Mr. Mayer, had just complemented Jo March's keen debating skills, stating  that she "should've been a lawyer" to which she replied:

"I should've been a great many things, Mr. Mayer."

My dad should've been a great many things, but instead he chose to sacrifice the glory and splendor of chasing down a high profile career for the opportunity to be great at one thing:

A father.


He has walked down many a road alone without any hope of worldly recognition all in support of the family he cherishes. This was never more apparent to me than at the end of my 17 mile/28 hour relay race last summer.

I was running my last mile. It was raining. I was soaked to the bone and exhausted.

I slowed to a brisk walk, praying that I would find the strength to pick up my legs and continue running, but the only thing running quickly were the tears from the corner of my eyes down my already glistening face.

I couldn't go on.

I had reached a turn in the road leading to the final stretch, when I saw him.


My dad.


Our eyes met and a giant smile spread across his rain soaked face. "Alright Chris!!" he jogged over to meet me holding a "Go Christy" sign above his head. "You're almost there!"

"I-I'm so tired" I sputtered, my sobs swallowing most of my words. "I just need to walk a minute."


Without saying a thing, my dad slowed his pace and walked right beside me.

Though we walked in silence, his presence warmed my tired soul and filled up what I had lost along my grueling journey. He gave me the endurance I needed to finish the race. My feet picked up and his strength carried me across the finish line.

(Yes. I felt as bad as I looked.)

My dad has been down many a road, ready and waiting if we should ever turn the corner and find ourselves unable to run.

And he has walked beside us, cheering us on when we didn't believe we could take another step.

He moves quietly through life, making sacrifices that go unnoticed by many, so that his children will have the tools to finish the race.

He gave us so much.

He gave us a home.

He is home.

(PS. My Bandit topic for next week: "Touching on a Topic I Love". Hmmmm, is writing about cake appropriate?)