The long goodbyes

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on July 13, 2012


The other day, my friend Rose was frantically waving to me from a car I didn’t recognize. (Hi, Rose!) I don’t associate her with that new car, so I wasn’t really looking for her. I don’t know why it’s so exciting to see your friend in a car on the road, but it is. You might just have wished each other goodbye from where you last were, but as you ride off in our little traveling capsules, you’ll feel compelled to wave vigorously to each other. And you will be genuinely happy about it.


My husband has always attributed this clinginess of mine to some genetic deficiency on my side of the family, because we can’t just say goodbye once. It’s what he calls “separation anxiety.” It’s similar to the trauma that two-year-olds experience (and inflict) when leaving their parents, only now in my mid-forties, it’s just a little more sophisticated. When I’m leaving my parents, I no longer cling to their thighs and shriek. I’m taller now, so I cling to their necks.


The farewell scene in my home takes about half the time of the visit itself. We have stages of goodbyes. Just like at the airport, there are different stages of departure; you can’t just hop on the plane and go.


“All right, then – thanks for coming over.” These are the kitchen goodbyes. The kitchen is the center of the home, so naturally, we have been buzzing around there.


Out in the foyer, there will be another round of hugs, because they’re about to leave your house, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, please don’t – at this age, some sniffling and a little eye-welling are sufficient. Besides, mascara streaks are unbecoming. Mascara? Oh, wait – we didn’t take a picture!


We have to have the picture, because what if we don’t see each other again for a really, really long time. What if, and there is always that underlying fear as your parents age – what if, this is the last time? No, no. Don’t think like that, because then you will be sobbing before you know it. You will think of the times you were a teen and downright evil to your parents. You will think of all the sacrifices they have made for you. Don’t let your mind wander.


Run and get the camera. Shoot the Look of Death at anyone who dares to roll his or her eyes about taking pictures – spouse, children, or the dog. Only your parents are insulated from this look, because they, like you, love taking pictures - lots of them. A genetic trait, perhaps?


Line everyone up in that one spot the realtor had billed as “the dramatic entryway.” Jackie, you have no idea the drama that goes on in this entryway every time people leave.


Pose in different permutations and combinations. All the kids with the grandparents. Just the kids. Now just me with my mom and dad. Now add back the kids. Hey, we forgot the dog! Do a remote visual check on husband’s patience and blood pressure. Okay, it looks safe to get that one last shot, but no more. Exasperated children and an annoyed photographer do not make for good pictures.


Then, in traditional fashion, my dad pulls out one of those bank envelopes. He always gives the children money. In my parents’ eyes, my husband and I are children too. Out comes a $20 for each of us. We protest feebly, but it’s no use. It’s never any use. They always give everyone money, even if they know they will see you next weekend. Everybody gets the same bills – sometimes tens or fives, but mostly twenties, and that makes me feel guilty. It’s expensive to leave this house.


Then commences another round of hugs and goodbyes. Oh, wait! Where is that little bag of the leftover goodies we were sending with them? (It is only about a fifth of the goodies that my mom still makes to bring over.) More hugs and then we all wander out because we can’t just ship them out of the house like strangers, can we? They’re family, and we have to see them to the car. Hugs before getting in the car, of course.


And then, they get themselves settled in, and the windows come down so we can say goodbye again. Quick, reach your head in for another hug around the neck and run around to the other side of the car. Your dad gets out of the car to hug you, and you know your mom would have done the same, except for her knee problem and that cane.


Even as they drive off, we are waving frantically. So, here it is, I start my goodbye to you. But don’t worry, it’s just the kitchen goodbye for now. If you’re lucky, I won’t have forgotten something and have to come back to start the process anew.


The editor has graciously asked me to write once a month when the school year begins. I’ll see if I can’t keep up with a column every other week once August and the school year kick in. For now, know that the first round of hugs has been initiated.