Work in Progress
I lost someone dear to me at the end of last year. He was the lifelong partner of one of my closest friends. Each time I arrived at their home, he had one of two greetings for me: “Where ya been?” or “You again?”
Much the same could be said of my recent return to print journalism after an eight-year hiatus. Where I’ve been is, well, complicated, so let’s save that for another time. But the You again? That was the question I wrestled with before deciding to come back.
This internal conflict brought to mind an incident from my youth, when I felt I needed to justify my fledgling writing career. It started with the dreaded: “Your mother and I have been talking…”
Now, these are words no one ever wants to hear, especially not an aimless, 24-year-old would-be poet. I’d just driven from Portland to my parents’ house in Bath to do laundry, raid the liquor cabinet, and maybe get in a round of golf with my dad.
I’d found him out back messing with the mower. He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “I’ve made an appointment for you with Al Ferguson at the credit union to talk about getting your foot in the door. It’s time you settle down and find a job.”
Now wait a minute. This was Mom’s territory. She was the one who got after me. She was the one who constantly told me to do something with my hair, and by that she didn’t mean the bright-pink mullet I was sporting.
But my father? My dad was my pal, the one who taught me to drive a stick and fix a flat, to play poker and do crosswords, and to say things like, “Are you impugning my veracity?” He was the fun one.
“Dad, I have a job.” He glanced up at me. OK, so waiting tables and thrashing at the crappy play I started writing in college was not exactly the career path he had in mind. But I was following my dream, right? That my dream was largely underwritten by my parents was immaterial to me.
My father explained how great a life in the credit union would be. While he worked as an upper-level civilian at the Brunswick Naval Air Station – a job he couldn’t retire from fast enough – he had for years served on the board of the Maine Credit Union League and its insurance trust. There were all those perks: travel, meals, hotels, free keychains and potholders — all on the League. Dad added, “With my connections, you could practically write your own ticket.”
I felt sabotaged. I know it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in me. My father was a one-woman feminist. He thought I could do anything. But he was also a child of the Depression. His father was a barber, and his mother took in laundry and baked bread. They moved around, supporting various family members. He wanted me to have a future that was secure. Comfortable. With lots of free stuff.
But I wasn’t going to be trapped in a job I hated, like he’d been. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m going to be a writer.”
This was the first real disagreement we’d ever had. I know he was disappointed, but he said nothing. He flipped the mower back over, gave a tug on the cord, and in a roar of exhaust and spraying grass took off toward the street.
A year later, he suffered a fatal heart attack.
My dad never got to see any other adult version of me beyond the reckless, snotty punk who was too good for a day job. Didn’t see the tenacity it took to pursue a career filled with nos and rejections. Never saw the articles and books published. The awards won. The standing ovations. The travel, the accolades, and, yes, the perks — not to mention a shopping bag filled with event name tags that read: Elizabeth Peavey, Author. Nor did he see the courage it took to return to that career after those things foundered.
Parents always worry about how their kids will fare. The next generation is supposed to do “better” than the last. Make more, have more. I wonder if, as he lay dying, that was a last concern for my dad. How was his little girl going to make her way without him – or the credit union?
If I could’ve told him one thing, it would’ve been this:
It’s OK, Dad. I chose the right path. No, the way hasn’t always been easy, but there are things more important than being comfortable. Instead, I have security of a more lasting kind: a sense of purpose in this life.
So, yes, it’s me again. And where I’ve been matters less than where we’re going in this new wobbly world. Our time here is fleeting. Our real job is to make the most of it.
Elizabeth Peavey dedicates this column to the loving memory of L. Wherever his gentle spirit resides, I hope there’s pizza in the oven, vodka over ice, and John Prine on the jukebox.
