The Arrival

 July 28th, 2024

We arrive at night. It’s about 10PM. We’ve been driving all day and have just pulled into Dad’s driveway. The exterior lights are on, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I know he’s in bed. He told me he would be by the time we arrived. I wonder if he even remembers I am coming. 

I start to unload the back of the truck. My brother in law has been driving all day, and he’s exhausted. He leans against the truck, smoking a cigarette, surveying my progress. I start to hoist the collection of boxes and suitcases out onto the sidewalk. It’s dark, but I can see the overgrown yard. The light above the back porch burns through the darkness, illuminating the tall, dry grass. It’s almost 3 feet tall in most places. Dad has always preferred the natural approach to lawn maintenance, but this looks unkempt. Random tufts of weeds have erupted from the seams in the concrete path. They flutter in the hot breeze. I don’t remember Wyoming being this hot at night, even at the peak of summer. Some sort of shrub or tree has been generously seeding itself for a few seasons and small branches sprawl amongst the patches of grass creating a tangle of green and brown. I estimate it’s been at least 3 years since he’s mowed. Suddenly I am paranoid of ticks. My bout of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever last summer has left me a bit wary. I’m regretting having worn shorts. 

I start stacking my belongings on the back porch. Most of my stuff is still in storage in Colorado. I had to narrow it down to the essentials as space in the back of the truck was limited. My clothes, some books, and several boxes of kitchen stuff is all I’ve brought. Dad is not a cook by any stretch of the imagination. I like to eat well and I’m an avid baker. I know the kitchen gear I’ve packed will come in handy. My sister has gone into the house to pee. Her dogs are on their leashes, being wrangled by my brother in law. They start to whine and huff as she disappears into the dark house. I’m in task mode. I’m tired and want to get everything unloaded so I can go to bed. I’m half hoping that Dad won’t hear us so I can slip in without any fanfare. 

I hear my sister in the house talking to someone, and my hope is dashed. Dad is up. As I turn from the truck, with a box in my arms I see his silhouette. He grips a cane in his right hand. He looks much leaner than the last time I saw him; though he still stands tall and erect. Age hasn’t affected his posture. As I move closer, details come into focus. His once red hair is silvery white. His beard and mustache make him look like a cross between Colonel Sanders and Santa Claus. He’s dressed to the nines, as usual. White pants, an expensive plaid shirt, and wool vest. I wonder if he’s hot in his get up. He’s adorned with several gold rings and a watch band studded with large turquoise stones. I’m struck by how his hands look like those of an old man. He’ll be 80 in a couple of weeks, so I guess he is an old man.  An antique bolo tie circles his neck. It’s a typical Dad outfit. Very pricy and wildly unique. I set the box down and reach to embrace him. It’s a cursory hug. All business.  He pulls back quickly and immediately begins to instruct me that the boxes need to go on the other porch inside the fence. He gestures with his cane towards another part of the large yard. Having just carted 85% of the load to his doorstep, I suppress my frustration and oblige him. “Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “Why not move them all again?” My sister grabs a suitcase and follows me to the fence. I can sense she has  something to tell me. I open the gate and proceed to the large covered porch on the west side of the house. Overgrown trees and another field of grass surround the small concrete pad at the foot of the steps. “Oh my God!” She exclaims in a whisper. “Wait until you see the inside of his house!” Her large eyes are wide with shock. Clearly she’s taken aback by what she’s just seen. I immediately dread going in. 

Dad has always been a collector. Though the last time I was here 4 years ago, it had started to border on hoarding. His compulsive shopping habits were inherited from his Mother. She never had a whim she didn’t indulge. In their family, money and possessions were a substitute for love and affection. Money was shared or withheld as punishment or reward. My grandfather was a very successful doctor, so nobody in their family ever went without. When he died, he left a considerable estate to the surviving family; Dad, his brother, and their Mother. She was spoiled by my Grandfather and after his death continued to lavish herself with expensive jewelry, clothes, and artwork. She was really good with money, and even though she spent quite a bit, she also invested well. 

We finish unloading the truck, stacking boxes and suitcases on the porch. I don’t have the energy to move them inside. Dad explains that he doesn’t think it’ll rain tonight, so they should be O.K. until morning. It takes far longer for him to complete his sentence than it should. Dad is an abstract thinker. He’s also a kinesthetic learner. This means that by nature he’s going to circle the airport a few times before making a point. As a kid this used to drive me crazy. My communication style is generally quick and efficient. I don’t like to beat around the bush. Dad on the other hand leaves no stone unturned when coming to a conclusion. Tonight, I am reminded of this, and I breathe deeply as he shares his thoughts. My frustration shifts to worry as he struggles to find his words. “Maybe he’s just tired.” I think to myself. Another voice immediately chimes in “No, it’s more than that.” 

I enter the dark house and survey the interior. I’m currently standing in the addition he had built several years ago. There are two skylights in the vaulted ceiling. A large gas fireplace with a stately oak mantle anchors the wall to the north. Big windows on either side flank the room. I look up at the stars that twinkle through the portals in the roof doing my best to ignore the unbelievable amount of stuff in here. This room is seldom used as best I can tell. It seems more like a museum or staging area than a space for functional living. It’s really nice and open, or would be without the maze of furniture currently shoved in here. By my count, including the extra dining room set, there are currently 11 chairs in here. I’m too tired to take it all in, so I turn and follow him into the older part of the house. We move through a sea of artwork and furniture. As I cross the threshold into the hallway leading towards the dining room, the pungent smell of cat urine smacks me in the face. I wonder when he last emptied the litter box? 

We continue to the dining room and now I see what my sister was talking about. From the dining room to the living room there’s a barricade of coats lining one wall. The dining table seats 8, but it’s piled about 2 feet high with papers, boxes, and coats. Lots and lots of coats. The reef of outerwear continues into the living room. From the floor to its summit, the mound of clothes is about 4 feet high. They are towering atop an exercise bike and antique barber’s chair. The wingback chair that belonged to his mother is currently suffocating under jackets and hats and random garments. It’s a mountain of belongings that threatens to become an avalanche at any moment. 

A path about 18 inches wide cuts a swathe to the living room. Here is yet another collection of furniture and artwork. The walls are covered by at least 50 paintings of all shapes and sizes. They fight for space on the crowded walls. The sofa, which could easily accommodate 4 people is rendered useless by 15 throw pillows and twice as many stuffed animals. “When did he start collecting stuffed animals?” I wonder. 

Within this small room there are 2 coffee tables, 5 end tables and several heavy, antique bookcases. Each of them crammed to the limit with extra layers of stuff. There’s a large grandfather clock, a small set of bongo drums, and 3 barstools of various styles. An artificial Christmas tree adorned with ornaments and glowing multi colored lights gasps for air amidst the sea of furniture. I do a quick count and notice about 8 bronze statues dotted throughout the living room. Each one perched on its own large stand. A massive roll top desk, choked with papers, is shoved in a corner. A pair of floor lamps offer dim pools of light amongst the forest of possessions. Even more throw pillows occupy the spaces between the pieces of furniture. I have no idea when the carpet last saw the light of day. Especially since two large folding screens draped with even more Christmas lights and patriotic bunting block the windows and french doors to the outside deck. “Where are people supposed to sit?” I wonder incredulously. It dawns on me that this living room is smaller than some apartments I’ve lived in yet it holds about 5 times more stuff than I own in total. Two reclining chairs are currently available to sit in, but that’s about it. I stand in the middle of the living room temporarily stunned and frozen.

My sister is eager to leave. They still have a 20 minute drive to their hotel, and she’s anxious to depart. We agree on a loose schedule for tomorrow and several goodbyes are offered as they pile in their truck to go. I know she is relieved to be out of here. I secretly wish I could go with them. Dad points me to the guest room and says there will be coffee in the morning. After a polite exchange, he retreats to his bedroom leaving me alone in the dark, overcrowded house. 

In order to enter what will be my room for the foreseeable future, I have to position my body sideways. There’s a very large antique walnut table that blocks 50% of the doorway. I turn and sidle into the room, letting out a heavy sigh. The small room offers another cacophony of items and objects. More artwork is hung on the wall. Some of it I recognize from our house when I was a kid. The small bed is an island amongst a bookcase, an end table, a steamer trunk, and more folding screens in front of the 2 windows. A broken mantle clock in a dusty cardboard box jockeys for space next to a cane backed chair. Another small table on wheels holds various decorative items. A Christmas sweater, a fleece hoodie, and a Kansas City Chiefs pullover hang on one of the privacy screens. Oddly, they seem hung with deliberate care. More like decorations or a display than items of clothing. I step towards the bed and kick over a wicker wastebasket. I reach down to set it upright. I notice 5 or 6 paintings are on the floor leaning against the wall next to a driftwood lamp. I pull back the purple patchwork quilt that covers the antique bed. I notice it’s dressed with flannel sheets. Flannel sheets in summer heat. Ugh. I realize I don’t know how to turn on the AC. I pull the cord on the ceiling fan, but it’s unresponsive. Broken. 

Another heavy sigh escapes me as I open one of the windows to let some air into the tight, stuffy, room. At least the sheets are clean. Probably because nobody has slept on them since I did when visiting 4 years ago. I breathe through the tightness in my chest, exhaling forcefully. I'm exhausted so I decide to brush my teeth and call it a night.

The bed is comfortable, I'm grateful for that. 

I have a feeling my ability to find gratitude in even the bleakest of situations will serve me well in the months to come. 

Good lord, grant me patience.