Worth Waiting For

Thanks again to the Friday morning writing group for some great advice.  It's a stronger story because of those thoughtful contributions.

I spent my youth being late for any event which required a ride from my father.

I loved my dad a lot. He died 13 years ago, and I still miss him, miss having him work with me on household and garden projects, miss the time he would take to teach me, talk to me, listen to me, and help me with a task, I particularly miss rides with him, the quiet conversations we'd have when we would both forget the time, focused on each other instead of the clock on the dash.

I remember riding home from town with him once, when we were stopped by two pheasants strolling down the middle of the road. Dad stopped the car, hopped out, and ran at the pheasants to chase them out of the road. He was in good physical shape, a skier, a swimmer and gentleman farmer, but that day, he was in a shapeless lab coat from work, spectacles on for driving, the bald dome of his head red with exertion, and that brilliant smile/turning to laugh on his face. He could have just driven at the birds, I suppose, but this seemed like a less frightening way to get them to leave the dangers of the road, and we weren't in a rush.

Dad always took time, often trying to pack a little more into the hours of a day than would actually fit.

He'd try to repair a fence the day we were to leave on vacation, delaying the trip by hours. We'd eat Mom's picnic in our own yard. Once on the road, we would reach our camp site late, sometimes maneuvering our airstream trailer into a tight camping spot in the dark.

As a dentist, he'd take his time, finding out about his patient's family life, making sure the procedure he was about to embark on was clear; slowly, slowly pushing the syringe in, administering anesthetic almost painlessly in his willingness to take time. As his assistant through my high school and college years, I would join him, wolfing down a 15 minute sandwich in the basement of his office instead of going home for what should have been a 1 hour lunch break. For patients with appointments late in the day it sometimes meant 45 minutes in the waiting room, but then they got the same polite, gentle, thorough treatment, and would travel for miles to see him, figuring he was worth waiting for.

My mother always claimed she married Dad to find out what took him so long in the bathroom in the morning. She never learned, and he never moved any more quickly, so I was always late for school

Miss Bee, my 7th grade math teacher, who ran her classes, and my home room, like a drill Sergeant, was not too understanding. Dad was my ride to school, and most mornings of my 7th grade year, I was subjected to Miss Bee's acid tongue. I was wickedly embarrassed at first, urging Dad to hurry, describing Miss Bee's comments, imitating her fog horn voice "Well Miss Reid, Late again?!" I didn't make headway, and eventually learned to ignore the fog horn.. After all, there wasn't much I could do about it.

People who had lived in our small town for a while usually cut me more slack.

Those who knew my family and my circumstances, knew that it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't drive, and never would. They also knew that I was a "good, responsible child." I over-reacted predictably to Dad's tardiness, and turned in homework early, walked from school to music lessons and baby sitting briskly, always on time, often early.

And people loved my dad, even though he ran late. He was seen as a just, thoughtful, kind person, by his patients, on the school board, in church and in his dealings with local merchants and tradespeople. He so obviously enjoyed other people, from "Spot Cash" the trash man, my teachers, the editor of the local paper, to the head of the Randolph National Bank. Being late wasn't much of an issue stacked up against such warmth.

Dad had a beautiful bass voice, and could read music. He was a very popular member of our community chorus, and brought me along to Randolph Singers as soon as I could read the music and be trusted to behave. Because Dad brought me, I was welcomed immediately into the group, although we were a few minutes late to many rehearsals.

When I was 15, I joined the cast of a Randolph Singer's production of Finian's Rainbow, for the first time without Dad. He wasn't as interested in Broadway musicals, nor could he manage the heavy rehearsal schedule that theater requires. To save trips in town, we'd arranged rides with a neighbor who was also in the play. On rehearsal nights Dick picked me up at the end of our driveway on his way into town. All that spring I was punctual.

Then my family and I went on a two week vacation down south. The director, a fierce, humorless and business-like woman from "down country." hadn't liked my plans, but had grudgingly said I could still be in the show, since I'd proved myself reliable, learning music, lines, and stage directions.

We got back into town on the night of a rehearsal, and I hadn't been able to let Dick know that I was back, and in need of a ride. So Dad brought me into town, late, of course, As I came into the darkened theater as quietly as I could, I heard the director complaining to the whole cast about how I'd been gone for two weeks, and was missing yet another rehearsal.

She wasn't making much headway with the cast though.

"I heard Susan explaining that she'd be on vacation." said Diane

"I know they were due back today. Maybe there was a travel delay." said Betsy

"She knows her music, and her blocking better than most of us old fogies do." said Red.

Unnoticed by the cast on the brightly lit stage, with a teenager's embarrassment at being such a focus of attention, I slunk quickly back stage. Once she realized that she was not getting much traction with her criticism, the director decided to rehearse "When the Idle Poor Become the Idle Rich."

In this big chorus number, I played a star-struck young woman, running out from back stage, and doing a very stagy faint into Bill Arnold's arms. I got a kick out of the part. Bill was a friend of my parents. From my 15 year old vantage point, I definitely thought of him as old but also found him to be a grand combination of fun and safe. I waited for my cue. When it came, I raced out on stage, just playing my part. Without a thought, I let myself fall backwards in my stage faint.

Bill, bless his heart, caught me as required, about two feet from the floor, a little low, but he made it.

There was a collective gasp from the chorus. They had all seen the flash of fear as Bill lunged forward to catch me. The director hesitated, then went on with rehearsal, knowing that I was not vulnerable in this place where my roots ran deep. They were looking out for me, whether I was late, or right on time.