Calling Home

Being around 700 miles away from home has it pluses and minuses. When I was single it was a little tuff being on my own. If there was a problem I had to take care of it myself and if I did happen to call my parents when something went wrong I would get a reply like “What can we do about it, we are in a different state.” Also, I didn’t get the benefits that a lot of people get when they first move out of their house. Things like dropping by the parent’s house to visit and you just happen to have a bag of laundry to do, or going over to say hi to mom and checking out what leftovers she has in the refrigerator. Dad is not able to help get the car started and too far away to fix the toilet that over flows. But the plus is that they are around 700 miles away, which means no surprise drop bys.

I love my parents; they brought me into this world after all. But being the youngest of three, sharing a room with my oldest brother, in a house with one bathroom, I was ready for a little privacy when I moved out. Not that I lived an exciting life as a bachelor. If they were to give a surprise visit back then they would find me just sitting on my couch, balancing a frozen pizza on a paper towel on my leg, trying to keep the cat from sticking his head in my glass of Kool-Aid, while watching the Disney Channel. That’s right I knew how to live the single life. But what they would also find would be the pile of laundry on my bedroom floor, stack of dirty dishes, and an indescribable smell coming from the bathroom. So it was nice having a phone call a month or more in advance, warning they were going to come for a visit and having a 700 mile cushion to clean the house. Even though when they got here the first time they were surprised to find out I didn’t own any wash clothes or dish towels. Why would a single guy need those?

So since I moved out I’ve tried to call home at least once a week, and I hear about it if I forget. I get this message left from my mom, sounding like a kid that just lost her puppy, saying “I haven’t heard from you in a long time, I hope you are alive, I’m worried some Mexicans might have kidnapped you.” So over whelming guilt comes over me and I call home. A typical phone call involves; my dad trying to put a dead frozen cat in a trash bag, mom counting how many tomatoes she is growing, and my uncle’s dog ate his fake tooth, and their recent purchase of a phone that plays the “The Star Spangled Banner” when it rings. This is what I miss out on being 700 miles away from home. But I’ll admit I still miss them.