May I please have a Corona and some mild wings?” I said nicely to the girl behind the bar in Terminal F at the Philadelphia International Airport.
“You guys take cash?” The usual response I get is a chuckle along with something like: “Of course, everybody takes cash.” But tonight, on my first official day of being childless in 20 years, karma was ready to have the last laugh at my expense. “Sorry sir we don’t accept cash, only credit cards.” Having lost my lone credit card in Tallahassee earlier in the day, I was not amused. I didn’t have time for my “talk my way past the rules routine”. Hungry and parched, I limped off to catch my connecting flight to Newburgh, New York.
As I headed down the corridor I could see the long line of people. I looked to the left and there was the bad news posted on the monitor. Flight 621: 9:25 pm, “Philadelphia to Newburgh Cancelled”. Like a lost sheep, I stood on a line waiting for an opportunity to talk to some programmed representative of U.S. Air. “What’s the word?” I asked my fellow sheep standing in front of me. Someone answered, “We can get the 9:25 flight tomorrow; it’s the best they’re offering.” At this point my small amount of patience gave way to my primal arrogance and ego. “That’s nice, but what the fuck are we doing standing on this line for?” I asked loud and indignantly. Another passenger chimed in, “We’re hoping they can get a bus to take us back to Newburgh.” That ended my short moment living in the land of “the flock” mentality. “Yeah right, and Santa Claus is coming to get us in his sled. Raise your hand if you want to go rent a big utility vehicle and leave the “City of Brotherly Love” in the dust.” Four strays from the herd meekly put their hands half way up. “Great, you guys locate the luggage and I’ll get the car.”
It was a Sunday night in the middle of August, a time when most people are at the shore and hanging on to that last gasp of precious summer. For me it was the first night of something I had been looking forward to since a cold, December night back in 1995 when my daughter Laura dropped into my life. I made a pledge to myself that evening that I was going to be a fully committed parent. I was going to give my children all of me, in the same fashion my parents had for me and my brother. I also made another vow that night: I was willing to make family my priority — but not forever. In my mind, I signed an 18 year contract that after it’s expiration, I would become a free agent. A year later when Mary Kate was born I adjusted that to a 19 year lease. When both of my unexpected cherubs were off to seek a higher education I would be ready to start a new life — a selfish life with me as the focal point. There would be no more day-to-day parenting and no more building my schedule around my families’.
The day prior, me and my oldest daughter had arrived in Tallahassee to get her settled in for her second year at Florida State. After several hours and several thousand dollars left behind at Bed Bath and Beyond, Laura and I turned our rented Lincoln Navigator into the parking lot of what was to be her new digs for the coming year. I quickly became confused as to whether we were at her new college apartment or our favorite vacation spot in Turks and Caicos. The pool areas were moderately occupied with scantily clothed co-eds enjoying libations in the 90 degree Florida summer sun. The beach volleyball court had a hotly contested game in progress with mostly female participants. The young males were shirtless, sprinting up and down the full sized basketball court. Laura’s apartment looked brand new with a complete kitchen, living room, dining room, and a T.V. viewing area with a 50” flat screen hanging on the wall.
Each of her three roommates had their own rooms possessing individual baths and walk-in closets. Laura prepared her new quarters to her liking in the midst of greeting the arrivals of her partners in crime and their parents. A group of us parents, along with our scholars, went out on the town together to help launch these beautiful girls’ sophomore year. At dinner, eating my Quesadillas, I looked over to my oldest child whispering with her roomies. I was reassured of something I already knew: aside from my financial support, Laura did not need me anymore. I quietly took sips on my Corona and made small talk with the other parents. I felt confident it was Laura’s time now.
On the same day, much further north in Western New York, my younger daughter was getting acclimated to her new residence at Ithaca College. She had agonized long and hard as to her college of choice. She had reluctantly settled on Ithaca for its’ athletic training program and an opportunity to play field hockey. While Laura and I were getting comfortable by the pool in northern Florida, MK and my wife sweated the drudgery of moving into the freshman dorms. Mary Kate was about to begin the physical rigor of three-a-day practices along with experiencing the mental anguish of leaving her nest of the past 18 years. From all the way down south, I could feel my younger daughter’s determination to exhibit her independence and grit. It had not always been easy being the Laura’s little sister and now she was far away from her shadow.
In one weekend, the two most precious and important people in my life were leaving me. It was a time that in some ways I had looked forward to and an arrival I dreaded. I knew that on Monday night, the two girls whose diapers I had changed, formulas I mixed, and whose lives had been more of a priority than my own would be sleeping in strange beds on opposite ends of the east coast. I was aware there would be no more house full of kids on the weekends. There would be no more early morning wake up calls to come rescue my damsels from a party. The early morning drive and conversation on the way to school over the last 15 years were over forever. In my own way, I had been practicing the last few years for my girls’ departure. I’ve been preparing to find comfort in a vacant house. I’ve been preparing to fill an empty heart with some noise, and I’ve been readying myself to be selfish again after a 20 year hiatus.
The city of Philadelphia and its’ “no cash” bar had no chance of holding me for the night. I had secured a huge SUV and my new found traveling mates were waiting near the terminal with my luggage. I handed over the keys to one of the men and gave out instructions: “I’m paying for the ride, but you are driving and turning in the car, and I’m going to sleep in the back without being disturbed.” I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I wanted to contemplate my new life. I wanted to get home. Somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, around midnight, as Sunday, August 17th was turning into Monday, August 18th, I was awoken from a sound slumber. “Fly me to the moon and let me walk amongst the stars,” I could hear being sung in unison. My comrades had found an old Frank Sinatra tape and were singing along at the top of their lungs. Even old, cynical, reflective me cracked a smile and had a good shake of the head. Four wayward travelers and I were cruising past Hoboken crooning to Frank Sinatra with the windows open and the warm, summer wind blowing in.
It wasn’t until the large Expedition arrived at the Newburgh airport that I was sure I had not been lost in the twilight zone. The five strangers in the night dispersed through all doors of the ride and huddled together for a souvenir photo. It was three in the morning as I drove north on the New York State Thruway. My wife and Mary Kate were still adjusting to Ithaca, Laura was comfortably settled in Tallahassee. I was alone on what seemed to be a deserted highway heading home to an empty house. Unsure if my dreams were ahead of me, or already behind me, I whispered into the dusk, “I love you Laura. I love you Mary Kate. Be careful what you wish for.”
