True Ancestor: Snapshots: The Aged and Revered Parents

The Aged and Revered Parents are ensconced once again in their home on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Having given up their Chicago redoubt, they are now, entirely, Floridians. Snowbirds.

Traveling to Florida on business and staying with the folks has gone from pure pleasure to something else: part pleasure, part watchful evaluation (I write this knowing they will read it): can they still carry on as an independent couple: are some daily tasks starting to be too much for them? Mom allows as how she uses her giant, three-wheeled bicycle to cart the garbage out to the road, as it's easier and less harrowing than having my dad (whose hips and back ache) drag it out. Can they still lug 5-gallon jugs of drinking water up out of the car trunk, up the stairs and into the kitchen? They've chosen delivery of 3-gallon jugs instead.

But a visit with them is not without its pleasures:

We sit together in the morning and have coffee. The Parents read the local paper and the New York Times. I stare at the Gulf of Mexico just over their shoulders and try to fathom the challenges of the workday ahead. They keep the house "cooled" to about 81 degrees. After one cup of coffee, I've begun sweating, and won't stop until I shower 12 hours later, if then. I ask The Parents if we might turn the air conditioning down, for my sleep's sake, to a frigid 78 degrees tonight.

"Oh, sure," Mom says. "We'll just throw on an extra blanket."

The Parents have strange TV-watching habits: they prefer dinner at 7, which at this time of year is about a half-hour before sunset, so they can be outside as the sun goes down behind Sanibel Island. But eating at 7 means they would miss their beloved News Hour with Jim Lehrer. So they turn the sound up, and we listen to (and peek at) the News Hour from the screened-in patio, while the news of the day is called to us from the living room.

Afterward, we sit on the beach. Dad and I smoke cigars and have a glass of brandy. Mom sits between us, dramatically fanning away the smoke and the bugs. The horizon is draped in violet clouds and slanted curtains of rain. Somehow, the clouds to the west part enough for the sun to torch the towering cumulonimbus to our north; dragonflies dart across our field of vision, devouring no-see-ums. The sky behind the cloud-tower is, somehow, turquoise. The last few pelicans and gulls commute south toward their rookeries, their tireless work done for a few hours. Dad, who is known to his local friends as the "Director of Sunsets," surveys the scene with some satisfaction. I say to him: "I guess you're not out of a job after all."

Dad and I watch a Red Sox-Yankees game, with the sound down, while Mom pretends to read but actually dozes off. "It's so late," she mumbles. Dad and I point out to her that it's only 9:15. She revives, and at 11:30, she is still at her desk, working on God knows what.

Dad is fishing on the beach. It is getting very uncomfortable for him to stand for long periods of time. Mom, with a new knee and a new lease on life, crosses the beach and walks about 100 yards with a plastic chair for him to sit in.

I stand a few yards away from Dad, casting beyond the sand bar. I turn to see if he's still fishing. "Impossible snarl in my line," he says, sitting in the plastic chair. "I'm going to have to go in and re-rig." But he is just sitting, watching me fish. Even though he doesn't have a line in the water, joggers and beach-combers go by, see his rod, and duck, thinking they're about to be garrotted by 8-pound test. I make a few dozen casts; bait fish jump out of the way, and gulls swoop expertly past the line to see if anything is following the lure. No one is following, but it doesn't matter.

Dad is outraged by the war in Iraq, and says, in as many ways as he can, that every day our troops are there is a criminal waste of money, energy and, most of all, lives. He hears the newscaster say that two more American servicemen have died in Iraq today. "It hurts every time I hear that," he says. Sixty-five years later, he still mourns his brother, and he still hates the dissembling of politicians.

We discuss the upcoming Jewish holidays. I allow as how I'll likely have to chew some instant coffee crystals in the morning: I'm giving a talk at a synagogue in the afternoon, and if I have no caffeine in my system, the withdrawal headache will by then have me in a semi-vegetative state. Dad says, "You might be interested to know I'm giving up something for Yom Kippur, too."

"Really?," I say (Dad is no fan of religion). "What?"

"My bridge game," he says. I laugh and congratulate him. "Now don't you go putting that in your blog!," he says. Sorry, Dad.

Mom hugs me goodbye before I head down the stairs to get in my car and drive to the airport for the trip home. She watches me pull out and she waves. I feel like a kid who's just climbed onto the school bus, a little embarrassed, a little relieved, but grateful -- grateful the way a grownup is grateful, for having parents who, all these years later, still stand at the top of the steps and wave goodbye.

--T.A.