dinner with the folks

note: two dinners, one set of folks

The first time my parents came to Portland was the summer of 2005 and I had been living here for three years. I had been asking them to come visit for some time but their other vacations always got in the way of coming to see their last born in her new city. I wasn't shocked or surprised by this. They only lived an hour and a half away from me in Boston and trying to get them to drive up there was like asking them to solve world hunger. They knew that it was important but they had no idea to go about going about it. "you just drive north and then east," I would argue my mom over the phone. She was the one who never wanted to make the trek. My dad was much easier to convince. In fact, we had a standing date on a Tuesday every six months which included breakfast, CAT scans, and talking over cafeteria coffee. My mother never came to CAT scan Tuesdays, that was just a Bill and Sue activity for the four years between his surgery and the day I began my travels across country.

I was more than a little surprised when my mom called me one day announcing that they were coming to Portland to see where I lived and meet my friends and make sure that I was really happy with Brian. They had met him earlier in the year when we all went to Reno for a long weekend. I pointed out that if they could travel to Reno for fun, they could continue the flight to the next coast.

They arrived without incident and I could not wait for all of my friends to meet them. As much as I complain about them, we really do have a fantastic relationship and they are pretty fun to hang out with in a group setting. Once my dad thanked me for treating him like a buddy when we're in a group setting. "Your sister and her husband and her friends just ignore the old folks in the corner but you and your friends actually care about us and what we have to say."

I decided that we all meet at my then go-to joint: Hobo's on NW 3rd to be followed up with karaoke at the Boiler Room. My main mission was to get one of them to inebriated and sing something embarrassing, sadly the inebriation happened but not the singing. About ten of my friends plus Brian and I met them at Hobo's for dinner and cocktails. They all wanted to hear stories about my youth, what I was like, how much trouble I got in, the dirt on me. They laughed and assured them that my childhood was boring and normal and other than getting arrested in college, there wasn't much going on. "Your sister, however..." my dad started. My sister? The perfect one? The one who's never had a cavity or detention and blessed them with a grandchild? She's the difficult one?

"Yeah, I don't know if you've ever heard this story," my mom began.

I was all ears. It's so rare that I get dirt on Kathy. "She had just left college (code for dropped out) and wanted to move in with some friends of hers."

"Male friends," my dad interjected. The thing with my folks is that as liberal as they are they still hold on to some old fashioned beliefs. One of the big ones is that males and females don’t coexist until they’ve exchanged rings. Or well on their way of getting there. Brian and I exchanged a quick but guilty look. We had moved in together the summer before and, though Ma and Pa haven’t said anything outwardly, I think that they were still apprehensive of this stranger sharing a bed with their youngest every evening.

“Your father said absolutely not. Even though she was 20, we were still helping her with rent and offered to pay her tuition if she stayed in the dorm but she wanted to leave school and get her own place. Your father agreed that she could move in with these friends under one condition.”

We were all on the edges of our seats. “And that was…?” I prodded.

“Sunday dinner with me. Alone..” my dad finally answered. They had this story down. This was a comic routine that they could have taken on the road to sold-out audiences of concerned parents.

“So, your dad had these two friends over to dinner and everything was fine. They were really nice, they had nothing but respect for us. But as we were sitting down to eat your dad made a toast”

We all turned our attention to the loud Italian in the middle of the table. “I raised my wine glass, I thanked them for coming to our home, and I told them that I had no problem with my daughter moving in with them but if I found out that either of them lays a hand on her, I wouldn’t be going to the cops, I’d be fucking killing them myself,” he took a sip of his Southern Comfort on the rocks for emphasis.

All of my friends gulped at the same time and then looked at me. Brian, whose arm was around my shoulder, let it fall into his own lap. We were all catatonic for a moment. This was the first time I’d heard my dad say the F word knowing that I was listening. It hit me in the chest and it was a shock to say the least.

My dad finished the story with “it took her two years after to find a boyfriend, everyone at URI was scared of her. And her psycho dad,” he smiled.

He then lifted his glass to Brian’s and said “salute”