First Tuesday with Dad

After a long day of driving, Dad and I settled into our room at the Motel 6 just outside Indianapolis.  I could feel the tiring after-effects of the steak dinner we had just enjoyed together.  But it was too early to sleep.  So I propped up the extra pillows behind me on the bed and flipped on the TV in search of nothing in particular.  But somehow I landed in the middle of something most significant.

It was a Tuesday.

And as it turned out the movie I “randomly” landed in was about a very meaningful series of Tuesdays.  Tuesdays with Morrie is a movie based on a book of the same title by Mitch Albom.  In it, Mitch tells the true story of his special relationship with his college professor Morrie Schwartz.  They’d had a close relationship in college, and Mitch had promised to keep in touch after graduation.  But that promise had mostly drowned in the subsequent busyness of Mitch’s life and career as a successful sports-writer. 

Then one day, years later, Mitch heard that Morrie was very sick.  So he decided to make a long-overdue journey to see his old friend and mentor.  That would be the first of a series of Tuesdays wherein the two got reacquainted.  In time, Mitch began to appreciate anew the goldmine of Morrie’s wisdom.  Knowing Morrie’s days were now numbered as his lungs gradually failed, Mitch asked permission to start to record their weekly chats.

As the plot unfolded, I began to see parallels with my current reality.  Mitch was dealing with the tension between his busy career and his key relationships.  So was I.  A few months earlier I had stepped away from an all-consuming, travel-heavy job, and now I was using the time off to rethink my life direction and explore new career options.  Meanwhile, I also had more time to spend with the people in my life.  As I did, I began to realize that my life had become a dry desert relationally.  I wanted to change that, but I didn’t know how. 

With the help of a counselor, I learned that I needed to work at being more real with people, and especially with the people I cared most about.  He encouraged me to be more intentional about spending time being fully present with others. 

To do that, he helped me begin to share more openly with people and to draw them out more and listen well as they shared.

One day during this time off from work I was on the phone with my father who lived a day’s drive away.  He mentioned that he was planning a cross-country drive to visit some horse racetracks.  He was working toward a “bucket-list” goal of visiting one hundred tracks around the country.  Over the years, I had enjoyed going to see horse races with him a number of times, and I found myself wishing I could accompany him on his next adventure. 

I knew Dad was kind of particular about how he traveled, and so I figured he might be uncomfortable with the idea.  But, fueled by my own goal of making time to be with people and to be more real and vulnerable, I took the plunge and asked, “Dad, could I come along?” He must have hesitated inwardly, but soon a plan was hatched.  About a month later, on July 1, 2001, he and I climbed into his minivan in the driveway of my boyhood homestead on Long Island, New York and we set out for points west.

Driving together as a twosome in a car day after day turned out to be a recipe for lots of good conversation.  We had over 3,000 miles to cover on our 10-day trip, and there was not much else to do besides talking.  It was just the two of us in that van, taking turns driving, and taking turns telling stories.

Knowing I was trying to grow in my ability to connect with others, my counselor friend had suggested before the trip some ways I could frame questions that might lead to more meaningful conversations.  For example I could ask, “What was it like when such-and-such happened when you were little?”  And then I should listen well, and ask a couple natural follow-up questions like “How did you feel about _____?” or “Why did you choose to _____?” or whatever other curiosities I might have about what he shared.

Just before the trip began, I also happened to find a website that similarly recommended ways of drawing an older person out by gently asking detail-curious questions to try to venture with them back into their early-life experiences in visceral ways.  “What was it like when you came home from school?”  “What was your childhood room like?” "What were you afraid of?" “Who was your best friend, and what was he/she like?”  Apparently, questions about sounds and smells and everyday things and feelings can help people access memories that they might not otherwise remember or tell about. 

I wasn’t trying to manipulate Dad — I just wanted to get to know him better.  Such questions could feel intrusive or unnatural if strung together too coldly.  But over the course of our daily drives, woven into the natural paths of conversational meanderings, I started asking questions to draw Dad out.  And boy did it open up a flood of stories from Dad’s boyhood!  He even remarked a few times that he hadn’t thought about or told some of these stories in many, many years. 

For example, I learned about Dad’s secret 80-mile bike trip from Long Island through New York City and over into New Jersey!  Imagine a 10-year-old boy trying to make such a ride today!  Then there were stories of his bike-repair shop where he fixed friends’ bikes in his garage.  Sadly, he also shared painful memories of growing up in the Great Depression with parents who both struggled with alcohol.  One story led to another, and our journey across the country ended up also being a tour across eight decades of memories.  It felt wonderful!

Meanwhile, I also took my turn at sharing stories out of my own four decades of life experiences.  Quite a few turned out to be things Dad had never heard me talk about before.  He listened attentively, and asked some really good questions.  As we shared our stories and interacted about them, I was struck by Dad’s wisdom, as well as his compassionate heart. 

Looking back, it still amazes me that I randomly landed upon the movie "Tuesdays with Morrie" that night during our trip.  I was both watching the movie and living out it's plotline at the same time.  For, I was Mitch and Dad was Morrie!  There would be no tape recordings of Dad’s stories and insights like Mitch had done — that would have been too weird.  But our delightful days of driving, chatting, visiting racetracks, and enjoying meals together were being recorded on my heart.  And our equivalent of the movie's weekly Tuesday meet-ups came all bundled together into that 10-day cross-country drive.

The movie came to an end too quickly for me.  I loved how Mitch’s heart and life were changed.  And I wondered if mine might be changing, too.  Dad, on the other hand, had fallen asleep early on.  But he and I still had plenty more miles to drive, stories to share, and experiences to enjoy together as we finally, very late in his life, were getting to truly know one another.  As I drifted off to sleep, I was deeply contented in the anticipation of more real time together. 

For I knew that the next day would be yet another "Tuesday" with Dad.

[scroll down for some questions to ponder and some lessons I’ve learned about becoming more real]