Father Far and Away: Part V

The Meaning of Cozy
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I have shared in other pieces that my mother had the gift of childlike glee. These spells of high-pitched enthusiasm came at predictable times: the first snow fall of the season, the first sign of spring after a long winter, and the first day at our favorite beach after a chilly spring. They also happened whenever she got something big and new with Dad‘s approval--especially if it had been a long time coming.
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(If she bought something “big” without Dad’s okay...say a new vacuum cleaner...she would be more frightened than giddy because Dad liked having a say in such things; he studied up on them the week before, could tell Mom all the pros and cons of each model and tell Mom why his choice was the best buy. But Mom would occasionally come home with a "big" purchase based only on a statement like, "I liked it better than the other one they had," and Dad would just shake his head as if quoting P.T. Barnum to himself. Mom often said that she lacked Dad's confidence, but actually it takes quite a bit of confidence to buy "the one you like"... what she lacked was confirmation...
but I digress...)
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A few times in her life really big and new items came to Mom almost like gifts for no occasion, like her new fruitwood piano or her maple dining room table and chairs. She couldn’t help but smile each time she sat at them. It took years for the giddiness of such things to wear off--in fact, I'm not sure it ever did until the table sat empty and the piano fell silent near the end.
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But the times I remember Mom’s childlike joy most were the times she‘d step into a place and chirp with glee, “Isn‘t this cozy.” It typically happened the first dozen times she stepped through the zipper door of our family tent when our camp site was finally set up for the week. It would happen again each night when it was time to turn in. We’d all be side by side in six sleeping bags, staring at the faint shadows of branches in the moonlight on the tent roof, soaking in the smell of the canvas, listening to the crickets chirp, and Mom would say in the dark… “Isn’t this cozy!”
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To this day for me, cozy is not merely the feeling of comfort found in a feather bed with flannel sheets and a patchwork comforter on top; it’s not a cabin with a fireplace. Cozy must be shared. It can happen anywhere except alone. Perhaps it's a feeling that begins in the womb and is subconsciously recreated whenever loved ones huddle close against the elements or some subtle unknown force.
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Cozy may be four kids and a mom sharing three towels on a beach blanket when the wind switches and a cold breeze comes in off the lake. It may be the whole family tangled together on the couch because no one wants their feet to touch the floor during a scary movie. It can be two silver-haired sisters, in the twilight of their years, together again on a front porch glider with a lap blanket on their knees.
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Cozy is whenever the lost time, a lost cause, a change of winds or fortune is trumped by the single most important fact: we’re together, safe and sound, and that‘s what matters. It’s the scene at the end of Peter Rabbit, when Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter, after a long day of work and misadventure, are watching their mother make chamomile tea?
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When we came in from the pool that night, with our car still up in tractions across the way, we stepped into the simple room with two double beds and a roll-away all in a row. There was barely room for the five of us to walk. Jim dove on his bed, rolled over, crossed his legs at the ankles, laced his fingers behind his head, and grinned as if in the lap of luxury.
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“Isn’t this cozy?” Mom chirped.
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Dave and I just raised our eyebrows. It had been years since we shared a bed, and cozy wasn't quite the feeling generated by maintaining an invisible line down the middle while trying to sleep, but after being away for a year, we couldn't help but smile at Mom's familiar line. It confirmed what Dad’s surprisingly pleasant mood had already suggested: we’re together, safe and sound, and that‘s what matters. My little brother Jim was 7, Dave was 21, and I was 19, but whether we would admit it or not, you're never too old for cozy. It was the first time in our lives to stay in a motel with Mom and Dad.
I slept like a rock.
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To be continued...
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Father Far and Away: Part 1

When I was growing up, my family NEVER stayed in motels. Dad could not see spending a month's house payment for a few nights in a little room with two beds. We vacationed all across northern Michigan and Georgian Bay, Canada, but always stayed in tents, and none of our family road trips were more than a day's drive from home. By the way, Dad's definition of a day's drive was what he could do himself from dawn to dark with as few stops as possible.

When I was nine, we loaded up our VW bus and began a "day's drive" to a family reunion at my Uncle Roy's house in Lancaster County, PA. Our route took us across Ontario, Canada, to Niagara Falls. It was our first time to see this landmark and we ended up staying longer than planned enjoying both the American and Canadian side. Dad knew we could not make his brother's house in what was left of the day so he decided we’d spend the night.

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“Wow! Are we staying in a motel?“ I asked.

“We’ll see,” Mom said, and Dad shot a perturbed glance her way.

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Dad was a firm believer in not getting our hopes up, and Mom had a habit of raising faint hope with the words “We’ll see.” It was one of the constant but bearable tensions of our shared life.

I leaned over to Dave and whispered, “We’ll see means no.”

Dad did stop by a few motels while we waited in the car, but each time he came out with the dazed look he wore whenever something was not only out of our budget but out of the question. It was a look I did not understand at nine but would respect by nineteen.

That night the six of us slept at the far end of the parking lot behind Louis Tussaud's wax museum, which incidentally we never did get to see. “It’s just a bunch of people made out of wax,” Dad explained. [Years later as an adult, I paid the admission. He was right.]

Dad slept with his back to the door, feet stretched to the far floor. Mom curled on the front bench seat with her head against his chest. Kathy was on the middle bench, and Paul and Dave shared the rear bench with their legs sprawled in every direction. I was over the engine compartment in the back. Other than the fact that the prickly mat came right through my clothes, it wasn't a bad place to stretch out. In the middle of the night I woke to a single snore, peeked up at the silhouette of Dad's head leaning back like a PEZ dispenser, and fell back asleep.

It was not until ten years later that I stayed in a motel with my parents, but it was quite by accident.

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To Be Continued...