My dad and I are different. He is thick-skinned and practical-minded, and I’m emotional and sensitive. I have always been able to count on him to get me out of any practical jam I manage to get myself into—usually it relates to money and my inability to make any. Because my dad is so down-to-earth, I have been allowed to keep my head in the clouds for my entire life. But instead of appreciating him for who he is, I would come close to resenting him when he couldn’t be there for me in times of emotional crisis. Growing up, he could never understand my moods, or why I didn’t have more friends, or why I didn’t like summer camp, and we would clash often because of it. I didn’t really come to appreciate him for who he is until last Christmas Eve, as we were driving home to Houston after visiting my grandmother in California.
The roads in North Texas were iced over, and the wind had been whipping the snow across the plains all day, occasionally reducing visibility to practically nothing. My dad and I had hoped to make it home to Houston by that night, but the weather and road conditions were making that seem increasingly unlikely. All the snow and ice was a complete oddity for Texas; it shouldn’t have been surprising to see so many cars stuck in the ditch by the side of the road.
At about 3 PM, my dad and I came to a stop in traffic about 15 miles north of Wichita Falls. There had been accidents and stoppages all day, so at first we assumed things would get moving after maybe a few minutes, or an hour at most. About two or three hours later, we learned that an 18-wheeler had jackknifed on the ice, blocking both lanes of traffic. As it became dark, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we could be stranded on the road all night, though we hoped it wouldn’t come to that. By the time the clock struck midnight and Christmas Eve became Christmas, we were stuck in a full-on nightmare—trapped in the car in an 18 degree freeze in the middle of nowhere, praying that a quarter-tank of gas and some Ritz crackers would be enough to sustain us for however long we were gonna be out there (mostly I was doing the praying; my dad did a lot of howling expletives), pissing in the privacy afforded by the space between us and the car in front of us, petting the dog in the back to keep our sanity even though she was as miserable as we were, and not sleeping, because every now and then the row of cars would creep forward only to stop again after maybe 20 or 30 feet. Stop and start. In the ice, in the dark. For 16 hours.
If it had just been me in that situation, I would have no doubt given up in the first hour. My dad, who had already done most of the driving since we set out at 6 AM that morning, somehow managed to stay awake all night without ever once pulling the car to the side of the road and calling it a night like literally hundreds of motorists ended up doing. The initial wreck cleared, but the problem became the miles and miles of backed up cars that ended up clogging the highway. There didn’t appear to be any way through.
At some point during the whole ordeal, maybe in hour eight or nine, I remember sitting in the passenger’s seat thinking, there’s no way this is ever going to end, there’s no way we’re ever getting out of this. But we did, and I had my dad and his superhuman practical skills to thank. Never once did he ever come close to losing control over the situation, and never once did he think of calling it quits for the night, even to the point where common sense might have seemed to necessitate it. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated my dad as much as the moment we dragged into Wichita Falls at 7 AM Christmas morning and proceeded to crash in some moldy motel room. Nobody but my dad, as far as I was concerned, could have gotten us there any sooner, and no less worse for wear.
I think about this now as I go through my own version of this situation. My dad and I are different, but I hope we’re the same in the ways that count.
