{"id":3504,"date":"2015-07-03T05:25:47","date_gmt":"2015-07-03T12:25:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=3504"},"modified":"2015-07-03T21:54:52","modified_gmt":"2015-07-04T04:54:52","slug":"navigating-dad","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/07\/navigating-dad\/","title":{"rendered":"Navigating Dad"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by KristianneKoch.com<\/p><\/div>\n

The fairytale ending I\u2019d hoped would happen between me and Dad\u2014didn\u2019t. I matured. Dad mellowed into middle age. But we still muddled through life in the emotional ruts we\u2019d laid down long ago. The only thing that shifted in my teens was the balance of power. While I\u2019d always starve for Dad\u2019s approval, now, Dad craved my time and attention. Neither one of us did much in the way of delivering.<\/p>\n

The summer I graduated from New Smyrna Beach High School, I drove the family Duster seven hours north toward Lake Lanier, Georgia, to see Dad. He was staying with his lifelong friend, Cash Adams, who managed the waterfront for a resort.<\/p>\n

As I skirted Atlanta on I-285, warm, August afternoon blew through the car with the memory<\/a> of the last time I\u2019d visited Dad, five years earlier. I tilted my head into the wind as though the force of the air could wipe clean my last sight of the Annie Lee<\/em>. But the smell of rotting mangoes and mildew had lodged in me along with a boatload of pain. The taste fish and the nauseating sweetness of blackened bananas. Unwashed sheets gritty on my skin. Rigging rattling against the metal mast, relentless, rallying a perfect storm of self-pity that put me on a Greyhound bus back to Mom before the weekend really started.<\/p>\n

The guilt over ditching Dad made me say yes this time.<\/p>\n

I turned onto a tidy two-lane road lined with thick grass, and mature trees. Pine and cool evening air and dread filled my lungs.<\/p>\n

It\u2019ll be fun<\/em>, I mantraed as I pulled to a stop beside the lake, climbed out, fielded an awkward hug from Dad and a high-five from Cash. And then I discovered I\u2019d be unfurling my sleeping bag on the floor of the pump house where Dad and Cash were camped. I shrugged away my disappointment. The cement floor and jungle of pipes were still cleaner than the Annie Lee<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by KristianneKoch.com<\/p><\/div>\n

But Cash had other ideas. \u201cDick, I told you I have the keys to the empty cabins. Annie can have one of those.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Dad announced we\u2019d eat in, my vision of rotten bananas returned. But Cash\u2019s aging movie star face crinkled and he laughed. \u201cWe\u2019re going out. I\u2019ll buy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Relief snaked through me. I could get through the next two days.<\/p>\n

I fell asleep that night on the carpet of the furniture-less cabin, awash in gratitude that eddied around the rest of my stay. There were trips down the behemoth waterslide Cash fired up just for us. I ducked out for Cokes with my camp friend, Nora Connors in her two-toned Mustang. We canoed the quiet lake. And in between, beauty swathed great brush strokes across the wreckage of me and Dad.<\/p>\n

Cruising south on I-75 toward home, I congratulated myself on dodging eye contact with Dad, avoiding his pet topics, and keeping Cash in the mix. I\u2019d survived Dad without any new dings to my psyche.<\/p>\n

A small voice said, Yeah, but you didn\u2019t really connect either<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"Dad<\/a>

Dad and his Swedish girlfriend<\/p><\/div>\n

Neither did we connect a couple years later when he appeared on our New Smyrna Beach doorstep\u2026 with his 19-year-old Swedish girlfriend.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d sailed past the Florida drinking age two years earlier, voted in a presidential election and nearly completed my sophomore year of college. I was a year older than Dad\u2019s girl!<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t want Dad, but I didn\u2019t want to be replaced.<\/p>\n

If I\u2019d given her a chance, I probably would have liked the sweet-tempered blonde with blue eyes and freckles. I might have sucked up enough maturity to believe Dad deserved a relationship seven years after Mom divorced him. But I read \u201clittle girl\u201d between the lines when Dad spoke to me and \u201cwoman\u201d when he referred to her. My good will rose and evaporated with the steam from my ears.<\/p>\n

The two of them biked around America and eventually, she returned to Sweden to become a nurse. Dad spoke fondly of her for the rest of his life. And I can\u2019t even remember her name.<\/p>\n

The summer I was 22, I hugged Dad\u2014sharp elbows and pointy chins\u2014on the front porch of my uncle\u2019s jewelry and watch repair shop and home in Canton, Ohio. I breathed in the lingering scent of Dad\u2019s sweat from his bicycle trek from California and my childhood swam through my veins.<\/p>\n

The iconic Milk and Honey ice cream shop lights blinked on across Cleveland Avenue.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d forgiven Dad<\/a>\u2014finally, a few months ago\u2014for a lifetime of infractions I\u2019d ferreted down into the fabric of who I was. This visit would mark a turning point in our relationship.<\/p>\n

Chagrin puddled in my midsection as I took in his customary Willie Nelson hair and flannel-shirt-in-June he\u2019d probably \u201cfound\u201d on someone\u2019s clothesline. I squared my shoulders and turned to introduce the two men who would always be the most significant people in my life. One broke me. The other rebuilt.<\/p>\n

\"Dad<\/a>

Dad and Jim the night they met, June 1980<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cDad, this is Jim,\u201d who would become my husband in four days.<\/p>\n

Twenty minutes later my shoulder blades relaxed against the back of my chair. Relatives milled around the house and talk turned to Saturday Night Live<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I imitated the high pitched voice of the clay clown made famous on the show. \u201cOh no, Mr. Bill!\u201d<\/p>\n

Everyone laughed but Dad. He sighed, shook his head at me like I\u2019d deeply disappointed him. \u201cI can\u2019t believe you watch that idiot box.\u201d<\/p>\n

I expected Dad\u2019s dig to knife me. Then I\u2019d toss it onto the heap of other hurts piled up like the scrap lumber we used to store in the aft cabin of the Annie Lee<\/em>. But forgiveness had swept my cache of bitterness clean. And in the transaction, God threw in thick skin that protected me from Dad\u2019s barbs for the rest of my life.<\/p>\n

A year later, Jim and I\u2014with Dad in tow\u2014spotted one of my fellow creative writing majors from Ashland (OH) University in the lobby of the Ashland Movie Theater as we waited for the early show to let out.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Sergey Zolkin<\/p><\/div>\n

I spun away, certain Dad\u2019s hippie chic would kill any modicum of cool I\u2019d eked out cohabiting four semesters of Writer\u2019s Workshop with Jon Dallas. I cherished and feared Jon\u2019s terse comments on my work almost as much as our professor Dr. Richard Snyder\u2019s. I pegged Jon, a broody poet and musician, as Ashland\u2019s best shot at producing the Thoreau or E.E. Cummings of our generation. And he, no doubt, saw me as na\u00efve, Christian, and hopelessly white bread.<\/p>\n

Giving Jon my back proved pointless when he pulled Jim aside to ask who \u201cthat guy\u201d was.<\/p>\n

To my shock, Dad\u2019s Bohemia registered cool with Jon. Years later, Jon remembered me as bright. A coup I thank Dad for\u2014passing on the smarts to become a fair writer. But more for the cool-by-association to be remembered at all.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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If you enjoyed this post, please click on the Facebook \u201cshare\u201d button below.<\/div><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t
If my post evoked any of your stories, do comment below. \ud83d\ude42<\/div><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by KristianneKoch.com<\/p><\/div>\n

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 <\/p>\n

Check out my New Smyrna Beach novels by clicking on the covers.<\/p>\n

\"Avra's<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Tattered<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Kicking<\/a> \u00a0\u00a0 \"The<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The fairytale ending I\u2019d hoped would happen between me and Dad\u2014didn\u2019t. I matured. Dad mellowed into middle age. But we still muddled through life in the emotional ruts we\u2019d laid down long ago. The only thing that shifted in my teens was the balance of power. While I\u2019d always starve for Dad\u2019s approval, now, Dad […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3505,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[338,2,66,326,322],"tags":[356,353,354,355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nNavigating Dad - Ann Lee Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/07\/navigating-dad\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Navigating Dad - Ann Lee Miller\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The fairytale ending I\u2019d hoped would happen between me and Dad\u2014didn\u2019t. 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