Last winter, at my home in Connecticut—a place no one wants to go unless the word snowplow makes your knees weak—I had a life-altering dream.
In the dream, I phoned my parents at the house I grew up in forty years ago.
The phone rang and rang. No one picked up.
At that moment in the dream, I understood that my mother and father had passed on and I would never be able to speak with them again. Ever. It sunk in fast, with the weight of an anchor dropping into the sea.
I woke with a wildly pounding heart after feeling the impossible: the pain of having lost them. But then, as gleeful as Ebenezer Scrooge when he woke up, I remembered that both of my almost-octogenarian parents had only passed on to Florida! In fact, they’re thriving in this beautiful city of Sarasota.
Back in the now of today, I’d been given a gift of time to be with them. I still had the chance to call them and know they'd pick up. We could still discuss such weighty things as how the winter storm had knocked out my power again. But it was different this time. The sand had fallen through the hourglass and a huge shift had taken place.
Like many families divided by geography, I hadn't spent enough time with my parents in recent years to really know them as they are today.
We were still operating under our 50-year-old parent/child formula. Now, I hoped we could spend whatever remaining time we had in a different way. Could we have a real friendship? Could we actually know one another as adults as well as family?
Most importantly: Could they really stop reminding me to wear a nice warm sweater every time I step outside? Galvanized, I knew that things would have to change—and pronto. Carpe diem? You bet.
Immediately after my dream, I decided to buy a home in sunny Sarasota. I flew down from Connecticut and looked at 63 houses in a week. By the last day, I had a signed contract in hand with the closing less than a month away. Talk about impulse shopping!
My parents were pleased if a bit perplexed. Nice as it would be to see their daughter more often, my speed and enthusiasm concerned them. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" they asked. "What aren't you telling us?" my mother lifted one eyebrow meaningfully.
I wasn’t telling them about the dream of their mortality, and to be fair to them, they’d witnessed quite enough of my hasty decisions in the past and hadn’t been impressed.
Yet, they soon came around to this Sarasota idea. Hard for a parent to keep complaining that their adult child wants to see them more. I'd have to pinch myself if my daughter ever agreed to this scenario. But she's 18 and I'm…not.
So I've jumped into Sarasota life with a nice couple who happen to be my parents. They've generously invited me into their world. I found myself attending a casual rehearsal with Itzhak Perlman under a beautiful white tent at USF S-M. Other days, we watched the inspired and charming Leif Bjaland conduct the Sarasota Orchestra at Van Wezel; we laughed at the Florida Studio Theater's performance of "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change;" and we listened to the brilliant architect, Carl Abbot, discuss his work at a lecture given by the Fine Arts Society of Sarasota, a group of dynamic supporters of culture and education in Sarasota.
These events were strikingly intimate; no sign of that imaginary wall between audience and performer. While Sarasota was clearly a sophisticated city, it was still perfectly sized for a personal experience.
Sitting with my parents at these events, I watched them with new eyes as they greeted and chatted with their friends about things I hadn’t known interested them. They settled comfortably next to each other, not as mom and dad, but as a loving couple long accustomed to sharing small spaces.
Their conversation with each other flowed, freed from the burden of editing for younger ears. Not once during our outings did I hear Sit up straight, share with your sister, stop complaining. Nor did I feel tempted to roll my eyes. Yes, most definitely, this friendship thing had legs.
I tip my hat to you, Sarasota. Could this have happened in our old family home in New York where I grew up? Not likely. Too cold, too many memories, too familiar. We started fresh here, in this sunny city, with its endless offerings and natural beauty.
Recently, we met at Columbia, a popular and lively restaurant spilling out onto the street of fashionable St. Armand's Circle. There was a bit of wind that gusted from time to time. I was wearing a sundress and had hung my sweater on the back of my chair.
"It's getting a bit chilly out," said my mother. "Yes, it is," I agreed and dug into the justly famous house salad. Neither my mother nor I seemed concerned that my sweater was left on my seat-back, flapping gently in the coastal breeze… we were all home again, for the first time.
Please read my other blog: http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/ http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/
What a wonderful blog! Looking forward to reading your posts.
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