When we are growing up, we see our parents as parents. We may see them this way our entire lives and that is rightly so. They will always be our parents. Sometimes, I still see my parents as rigid disciplinarians. When I was thirteen, I thought they were impossible ogres, although they were just concerned about my future.
A few years ago, my mother’s brother, Uncle Richard, gave me a shoe box full of old photos; there were pictures of my parents when they were young and first dating each other. Looking at these pictures, I was struck by the notion that my parents had once been young dreamers, waiting for their lives to unfold. I was not even part of their lives at the moment in time when the photo was taken. My mother was slim and sophisticated, wearing high heels and fancy clothes. My father was handsome and handy, busy building our house in his free time.
My parents still live in that same house (number four) on the pretty little tree-lined street we grew up on. I stay there whenever I get the chance; I call it “Motel Four” or “the motel.” I get the royal treatment when I am there; one might say I am a “preferred guest.” Of course, there is an off-season, beginning the day after the Super Bowl until my mother’s birthday in April. During this time, the motel closes its doors for renovations and rejuvenation. Sometimes even during the regular season, I will hear my mother’s ominous voice saying “the motel will be closed this weekend.”
The motel is closed this weekend for my parent’s anniversary.
Do not disturb.