{"id":3694,"date":"2015-07-31T09:52:20","date_gmt":"2015-07-31T16:52:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=3694"},"modified":"2015-07-31T09:52:20","modified_gmt":"2015-07-31T16:52:20","slug":"good-news-bad-news-weird","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/07\/good-news-bad-news-weird\/","title":{"rendered":"Good News, Bad News, Weird"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Dad’s camper in front of our Arizona house<\/p><\/div>\n

May 8, 2003, Gilbert AZ\u2014I idled down Loma Vista in our minivan\u2014unlike my usual Mrs.-Miller-gets-airborne-over-speed-bumps reputation from the neighbor kids. One block till home. Twelve-year-old Annie sat shotgun. The back end of the van was stuffed with our sleeping bags and duffles of dirty laundry from sixth grade science camp. My chest was stuffed with Jim\u2019s pique. I\u2019d forgotten to call for three days.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know Grandpa was coming to visit,\u201d Annie said.<\/p>\n

My gaze shot to our house at the end of the street as acid funneled into my stomach.<\/p>\n

Sure enough, Dad\u2019s rattletrap camper parked in our drive.<\/p>\n

Blood blanched from my face, then a thousand acupuncture pricks rolled south through my body\u2014the same physiological reaction I always had to Dad\u2019s arrival.<\/p>\n

He never called first\u2014just descended like a desert dust storm.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d spent the last two hours motoring down I-17, sorting out my collection of first world problems. Was my nineteen-year-old ready for marriage to a girl I hadn\u2019t met? Tomorrow I\u2019d hit craigslist to hunt a trailer for Mom and Ralph\u2019s relocation from Florida. I ticked off sixteen short-fused days of premenopausal PMS.<\/p>\n

Then bam. Dad. And a face full of dust\u2014blown from the boxes of baggage better left buried at the bottom of me.<\/p>\n

I rolled into the drive beside Dad\u2019s battered camper, instinctively holding my breath against a battalion of Dad smells\u2014BO, bad bananas, and unnamed bacteria.<\/p>\n

I gritted my teeth, opened the car door, and stepped onto our gravel front yard. Instead of stink, one hundred degree heat suffused me. I wanted to jump back into the car and re-climb the 4,000 feet from the East Valley of Phoenix to Prescott\u2019s perfect seventy six degrees, pine scent. Peace.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Logan Adermatt<\/p><\/div>\n

Jim hugged me on the porch. I clung to him\u2014always needing him a little more when Dad materialized. We\u2019d work things out. We always did.<\/p>\n

Annie scrambled out. Her tennis shoes hit cement an instant before her oversized T-shirt\u2014worn by all three of her older brothers\u2014floated down over her shorts in a soft cotton cloud. \u201cI wonder what Grandpa brought us!\u201d Singing \u201crocks (magnets) that whistled when thrown into the air, sheep fleeces\u2014it could be anything.<\/p>\n

But this time Dad dragged in a houseguest named John\u2014a Ph.D. in chemistry who had dug a vehicle-sized hole on the New Mexico-Mexico border, deposited his pop-up camper, and covered it with dirt.<\/p>\n

I yanked Dad onto the porch.<\/p>\n

\"David,<\/a>

David, Dad, Bryan, Annie, Luke in our Arizona house several years before this story<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cWhat are you thinking bringing in some strange man to sleep in my house where I have vulnerable children to consider?\u201d I shocked myself, raising my voice to Dad for the first time ever. Anger propelled me. \u201cWithout even checking with me first!\u201d<\/p>\n

Fear of Dad\u2019s reaction and indignation wrestled in my belly. Outside, I tapped my foot and stared Dad down.<\/p>\n

Silence pulsed between us. My nerves twisted taut as newspaper rubber bands.<\/p>\n

Dad met my gaze, gave me the wounded look I\u2019d memorized a lifetime ago. He looked away. Cleared his throat. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d That was the first and last time I ever heard those words from Dad.<\/p>\n

The air whooshed out of me. Well, okay then.<\/p>\n

That evening, Dad and John and Jim jawed in the family room, something about Dad\u2019s burning off skin cancer with a magnifying glass. I cleaned up the dishes from the chicken Jim had grilled for supper. The kids disappeared upstairs with Swiss army knives Dad had distributed.<\/p>\n

The doorbell rang.<\/p>\n

What now?<\/p>\n

\"Carol<\/a>

Carol Rivers<\/p><\/div>\n

I let in Carol Rivers. She, along with Susan Westhouse, had seen me through every crisis from a toxic church lady to a pregnancy scare for the past five years since we moved to Arizona.<\/p>\n

\u201cI missed you!\u201d Carol gave me a hug, and I felt strangely touched. I\u2019d only been gone a few days. The reason our triumvirate, all born in 1957, worked so well was that we skimmed by on the barest bits of time shaved from our busy lives\u2014diving zero to deep in seconds.<\/p>\n

I slid onto the soft nap of our green corduroy couch across from Carol near the front door.<\/p>\n

My Dad tale spilled out in low tones between us and Carol blotted it up with, \u201cYou\u2019re kidding me!\u201d and \u201cYou really did have a crappy day.\u201d Gratitude fanned through me\u2014to Carol and God for getting her to my house when I didn\u2019t know I needed her. What would she say if I told her I thought God motivated her to walk over to my house tonight?<\/p>\n

\"Susan<\/a>

Susan Westhouse<\/p><\/div>\n

When the three of us met at our kids\u2019 school bus stop, Carol had only been to church for weddings and funerals since jumping out of the Catholic nest of her large farm family decades earlier. And Susan hadn\u2019t been to church in 17 years. A week or two after our first cup of coffee that became a daily ritual, I told them Jim was a pastor.<\/p>\n

Susan sputtered. \u201cBut you\u2019re so normal!\u201d<\/p>\n

That was my favorite compliment ever.<\/p>\n

The first Christmas after we met, Carol and Susan dreamed up a Christmas gift for me\u2014attending my church\u2019s candlelight service\u2014a huge deal for Susan who was terrified of fire. The next Christmas they did the same. Eventually, they joined their kids at church whenever they could.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d prayed for them when they hit their own crises. Susan said I had a holy voice just for praying. Not true, I still contend. I told them my story about folding my life into Jesus at 19. But we didn\u2019t talk religion much.<\/p>\n

Carol shifted on the sofa and changed the subject. \u201cHey, I have a question for you.\u201d She leaned toward me, eyes bright. \u201cHow can I help my kids catch faith?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Aaron Burden<\/p><\/div>\n

I was stupefied. What Carol told me\u2014without knowing she told me\u2014was that she had connected emotionally with Jesus. And now she wanted to pass it on to her children.<\/p>\n

How like God to skywrite good news through my no-good-rotten day.<\/p>\n

As Carol and I talked, my cells guzzled great gulps of good news serotonin. All the aggravation of the day gave way to joy.<\/p>\n

The men\u2019s voices carried from the family room through the archway, talking about next summer\u2019s Olympics\u2014when Dad would camp on my couch for the duration, his one concession to the \u201cboob tube.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carol glanced warily through the doorway and stood. Picturing, no doubt, an earlier visit when Dad hit on her\u2014adding an item to the short list of things he had in common with my stepfather. And the long list of ways he embarrassed me.<\/p>\n

Carol made her escape. Dad hauled John off for a weekend of camping. Jim and I kissed and made up. And the good news buoyed me through the rest of Dad\u2019s visit\u2014and into meeting the pretty girlfriend Bryan brought home from Canada a couple weeks later.<\/p>\n

Bryan introduced his future fianc\u00e9 to the family as Dad stood outside the sliding glass door wrestling out of his shirt.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by By Demi DeHerrera<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cAnd that would be my grandfather.\u201d Bryan shrugged a what-can-you-do shrug and slid open the door.<\/p>\n

Dad\u2014in ratty cutoffs and boots, seventy-five-year old skin sagging over his ribs\u2014smiled his brightest smile. \u201cHidey Hi!\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad stood there in all his nearly naked glory, grinning like a garden gnome.<\/p>\n

And I wondered if this caliber of mortification could ever be cured.<\/p>\n

Ten years later, when I started writing memoir, my storehouse of mortifying Dad material spun into pure gold. Now I wish he\u2019d been a little weirder\u2014just a couple chapter\u2019s worth, so I could finish this book!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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If you enjoyed this post, please click on the Facebook share button below.<\/div><\/div>\n
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Did your parents ever embarrass you? Comment below.<\/div><\/div>\n
\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Rick Waalders<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

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

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