It arrives in my mailbox. A gift from one of my parents. A handwritten envelope. I recognize the writing immediately. My eyes mist up. I tuck it away in my purse and carry it upstairs to be savoured when no one is watching, for I know that misty eyes will turn to tears.
They seem to take turns writing me letters and cards. It’s unplanned. The latest from my dad, in May, sent my heart into joyful overdrive.
I am a lucky woman. My father and mother, 86 and 85 respectively, are alive and well. They’ve been married for 61 years. We don’t live far away from them. I like it that way. They are supportive, loving, generous and don’t intrude. I enjoy their company and my daughters adore them. So do I. Now.
It wasn’t always that way. I was a challenge to my mother and father, both first-generation Canadians of Sicilian heritage. Survivors of the Depression and the Second World War. Good Roman Catholics. Strict in that old-school way.
The eldest daughter of four siblings, I wore my attitude on my sleeve. I knew it all. At least I thought I did. I was a teen growing up in the sixties when the world became unrecognizable to my parents. Their coping strategy was to put me on a short leash. Mine was to ignore them. I rejected my Italian heritage – please, no more meatball sandwiches for my school lunch. I mocked their Catholic faith and challenged them at every turn. Never for one minute did I consider they might have known more about life than I did. How could they? They were over 30 and too square.
My mother, ever the disciplinarian, became exasperated with me. The more rules she imposed, the more I rebelled. She used to say, “If you can find someplace better to live, then you go!” So I did. I moved out at 17. I broke their hearts. I freed mine.
I supported myself with a part-time job as a cashier and stayed in high school until I hooked up with a bunch of free-spirited souls who thought it would be cool to take a road trip to Mexico. Four of us hopped into an old Volvo station wagon one summer, pointed the car south and didn’t come back for months. I dropped out of sight. My parents had no idea where I was.
Those bohemian friends and I eventually went our separate ways. We came back to Toronto long enough for me to empty my apartment and my bank account. I took a portion of that money, purchased a used Volkswagen van and headed back to Mexico for almost three years.
I didn’t think of my parents, nor did I think it necessary to let them know where I was or what I was doing. I passed those years living in my van in beach towns on the west coast of Mexico. It was 1970. Nixon was in the White House. The war in Vietnam was raging. There were a lot of Americans everywhere I went, dodging the draft. Everyone seemed to speak English. Making friends was easy. It was a moment in time when politics and music brought us all together. And I was only 17. My parents had no idea if I was alive or dead.
