It's hard to believe that almost a year has passed since my father died. As I start this post, I notice it's 5 a.m., Wednesday morning--I'm battling a bit of isomnia caused by the excessive rest of a recent illness--and I realize that on this very day last year...actually this very moment, I would be pulling into the hospital parking lot, having made the trek from San Antonio to Katy, TX after receiving a call from my sister that Dad had been transported by ambulance about 1 a.m. Truly, nothing good ever happens after midnight.
When I started this blog, I thought I would write more about my dad...as a means of healing and reflection, but I haven't found that to be the case. I have written a few Dad-centric posts but nothing consistently. Don't get me wrong, the act of writing about...well, everything...has been a cathartic process that has led to much reflection, clarity, and in some ways, healing. It's just my topic choices have been a bit...chaotic. But that's pretty representative of my life right now so I guess that suits me just fine.
Regardless of my disjointed focus, I did intend that in the week leading up to the anniversary of Dad's passing that I'd develop daily posts in his honor. But the universe had different plans in mind by afflicting me with the aforementioned illness--a revenge visit from a case of bronchitis that was only mocked and clearly irritated by the last round of antibiotics. So rest, not blogging, was in my future...until today.
I can't say anything profound will come out of me over the next few days. I prefer to reflect on happy times with my dad or reframe familial absurdities that I think the world just has to know. Come on, you know your life is more fulfilled now that you've read about the time my wife almost (not really), very nearly (not even close) stabbed me.
So, now that I've buried the lead (as I tend to do in all my posts), the actual reason I brought you all together today was to share an absurdity that arose on almost every family road trip that took us outside of Texas.
You see, if you're heading north from Houston, all roads appear to lead through Dallas, TX. And Dallas, my dear readers, is truly, the most terrifying city in all the world...or at least that's what my dad taught me as a child.
Now, we never had a formal sit down on the matter, but Dad was always very insistent that the land of Dallas was not to be taken lightly. Every time we approached the city limits, we were informed that not a word was to be spoken by any child of Newhouse descent lest those words be met with terrible consequences. I could never tell if said consequences would come from Dad or the minions of Dallas, but I truly believed that the outcome would be the end of me. And so trip after trip, the Newhouse clan sat in absolute silence until Dallas was nothing more than a speck in the rear view mirror of our station wagon.
Of course, now, I realize my dad was full of crap.
At best, Dad wanted to focus all his attention on the increased traffic and aggressive drivers..but these are the half-truths parents tell themselves to help them sleep at night.
In reality, Dad was using the first major city not named Houston to acquire some freakin' peace and quiet. You don't cram four kids and two adults into a station wagon without achieving decibel levels of a 90's metal band, recording such hits as Stop Touching Me!, What's That Smell?!, and my favorite, I Know You Are But What Am I? It's no wonder he chose a Metroplex for an extended, sanity-preserving respite.
Of course, he eventually pushed his luck too far. With each passing trip, Dallas got closer and closer to Houston. I mean, we were pretty smart kids, it only took us 10-12 trips before we caught on that Dallas was not spelled The Woodlands.
It's spelled C-O-N-R-O-E...thank you very much.
