At eighteen I embarked on a three month backpacking trip around Europe. I made the brief echo-y phone call to my parents upon my arrival in France, to indicate that I had not disappeared over the Atlantic Ocean. There were letters and postcard but no other spoken words for those ninety days. Perhaps those were the golden days of parent/child relationships and we’ve fallen back into a cacophony of communication.
Neither of my boys are overly communicative, still I like to think that they are within the normal range of same-age males when it comes to co-operating with their mother’s need for information and dialogue. At age nineteen when Cole set off on his own trekking trip through parts of the United States, I would have lost less sleep and kept my blond hair blond, rather then tipping to gray, if we could have magically returned to those pre-cell days of my youth.
After a successful but uninspired term at university, Cole had taken another gap, that worrisome break in continuity. The afternoon he left for the U.S of A, his fourteen-year-old sister, Lily, and I were sitting outside in the warm autumn sun, commiserating on how great it seemed to be Cole just then. He had just finished packing up his friend’s Chevy van. His traveling companion, George, advised him to empty his suitcase’s contents into the drawers in his organized van, and leave the luggage behind. The two boys posed while Lilly took photos of their departure, then they shooed her off and turned the van south towards the United States – the land they thought they knew through a thousand movies and every episode of The Simpsons. They would take the number two south, entering the U.S at the Butes, Montana crossing and wind their way to Salt Lake City, Utah, where Cole wanted to purchase a real tight video camera.
Cole called on Halloween night, music blasting in the background. He was getting sweet video footage on his new camera of a huge parade, though he confessed that earlier they had slipped down the wrong road in that unfamiliar city and things had looked sketchy. I warned him to be careful about whose face he stuck that camera in. And please do nothing sketchy, I didn’t want to hear about sketchy.
Hudson, only seventeen, but away at university, was even less inclined to ever call just to chat, but on that night he called to ask if we would be okay with him dropping two full term classes as he really didn’t like anything about them. Of course, we weren’t okay with it. Also, he told us, his friend M from Calgary had moved out there unexpectedly, and the two of them were thinking of getting an apartment off campus.
On November first I received another call from Cole. He told me that unfortunately things had got sketchy. George was not happy, wasn’t sleeping or feeling well, and just wanted to return home. The boys, friends since forever, were trying to work out a solution. George agreed to drop Cole at whatever mountain destination he wanted to go to.
I was beginning to dread the phone calls. Hudson called to ask me to send him his resume off our home computer as he was applying for a job, in case he dropped half his courses. Replace the courses you don’t like with something you’re passionate about learning, I said. I suspect my kids hate it when I start talking passion.
In the meantime George had dropped Cole off in Mammoth, California. Cole loved it there – it reminded him of Whistler. He’d met people from New Zealand and had gone skateboarding with some Americans. And he said he met a nice Navajo guy who told him he got peyote for free because he was Navajo. (These phone calls had me wondering just what kind of an out-of-body trip I might sink into with a little peyote myself.) And he met a woman on the street who said maybe he could live with her. (What?) He described her as old, and said he thought she was lonely. I told him that seemed weird, and he should be suspicious. He quoted me something about riding two horses at one time – you can’t ride Faith and Worry both – you have to ride Aware. (Fine, I will ride Worry for him.) He had been offered a job busing at a hotel restaurant and another job at a gym, as well as one at a skate shop, but all of them said he needed a visa.
Now I was making the phone calls. Twenty-four hours later he had moved in with this older woman. Her house was pretty messy but they were cleaning it – he said it was his idea. (How messy, I asked? Eccentric scary messy?) He said she had never discussed rent. And she isn’t a cougar? Or pedophile? I asked. No, he told me, I needed to chill out. She was just really, really nice.
The next day, jolted by early morning worries I called Cole to tell him he needed to tell me exactly where he was, what was this woman’s name? He said her name was Annie and she lived near the Harry’s Donut Shop in Mammoth Lakes and drove a delivery truck. Look Mom, I’m just trying to decide what to do here, he said. If he couldn’t get a job without a visa maybe he would go back to Whistler, in British Columbia, where he had heard there was already snow.
November seventh and Cole called to say he was in a car driven by a new buddy named Mosses (with Cole there is always a new buddy). Cole had agreed to pay the gas to and from Whistler if Mosses would drive him there. They were in a car which belonged to the sister of Cole’s Navajo friend. He (the Navajo guy), not the sister, lent it to them. They were close to Seattle.
An hour later – Cole called to say they had a problem – the police had stopped them – just to harass them he said, but they believed that when that happened Mosses put his wallet in his lap and then it fell out of the car six hundred miles back where they had stopped for gas. Not having ID Mosses was now going to drop Cole at the border crossing closest to Vancouver. Cole wanted his sister Zoë’s number to see if one of her friends in Vancouver could pick him up at the border (he had a lot of gear and his belongings in large plastic bags).
Another hour went by and Cole called to say they had reached the border but things weren’t good. Mosses drove too far forward in his attempt to drop him off and had entered Canada accidentally. Cole admitted to low balling the price of the video camera he bought in the States – just for a minute, he emphasized, before he saw they were going to be questioned thoroughly, but then both he and Mosses, the car and their bags, were being searched. (Is this what I signed up for nineteen years ago? To help my kid, looking like a bag person, lying (for only a minute, of course) get back into the country?) Be polite and honest, I said. Didn’t we tell you to be careful at the damn border? They’re talking to me again, Mom. Gotta go, Mom. Gotta go.
An hour later Cole called again suggesting that maybe he better speak to dad. They were trying to trip him up – they’d asked why he wasn’t with the person he drove into the States with (maybe George saw all of this coming). The horse shoe up Cole’s ass, as they say, and his people skills, were clearly not working for him.
I tried unsuccessfully to get Cole’s dad at work. Cole informed me that his friend Brian’s dad, who lived in Vancouver, was driving to the border to pick him up. I was so, so grateful for Brian’s dad, whoever the hec he was, and glad Cole had the people skills he had, or this could have gotten far sketchier.
Another call from the other son – Hudson wanted to tell us he now had a job at a pizza place and that he wouldn’t be able to come home for reading break the following day as planned. I assured him he could get another such job and told him that in case he decided he needed a break, I didn’t say – a break from being seventeen-years-old and away for the first time, and overwhelmed by school work that should have been easy for you, and uncomfortable in residence – in case he needed a break from all that, I wouldn’t cancel his plane ticket until the noon deadline the next day.
With all of the kids away but Lily, she got to be the target of my frustration. In the time it took me to drive her to school while she ate her Cheerios and brushed her teeth in the car, (aiming I believe for yesterday’s spit spot out the window) I lectured her on how she would have no choice but to start university and finish it or not to bother going. As I let her out of the car, Hudson called to say the pizza place said he could start after reading break and yes, he would like to come home. Cole called from Vancouver, where he had already been to the American Embassy to apply for a visa to work in Mammoth, California. (Do they give visas to nineteen-year-olds when the job offer they want the visa for is in a skate shop?)
We picked Hudson up at 9:35 pm and talked about how he didn’t have to decide about what he would do in January just yet. I cooked up a batch of sticky chicken wings for Lily and Hudson and he talked about his desire to maybe go to India or Tibet after he made some money in Calgary. It had been a sketchy two weeks of connecting with the boys. Would it be easier if we weren’t linked by cell phones with updates on Californian cougars and borrowed cars entering the country illegally? What sort of distressing phone call might I get from a kid in Tibet?
6 thoughts on “A Cacophony of Communication”
Wow! I think I’d rather have good news on a post card rather than have all that stress!!
Yeah, those were the days, hey?
I’M stressed from reading your post! LOL! How DO you do it? Have you been presented yet with the trophy for Best Mom on the Planet? Honestly, as worrisome as it can be at times, it’s wonderful that you and your children communicate about anything and everything. This is what I told myself when I called my college freshman son and asked what he’d been up to at school. “Not much. I went out partying last night.” My response: “WHAT!” His response: “Um, er, well, we played Apples to Apples after and that was more fun.” Nice try, kid!
Apples to Apples?
I think it’s so obvious how much your kids respect and value your opinions (even though it might not seem that way in the moment). I had many times like that and thought I’d lose my mind. But then the kids were gone and now they have amazing, supportive partners to sound off to, run things by, etc. Now, when they do share with me/rant about something/ask my advice, I am in Mom Heaven. I so enjoy reliving the journey with you.
Sometimes they respect and value my opinions – other times …. thanks for traveling along.
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