Sometimes even on a school night, Mom and Dad would play poker with friends, and so it must have been one of those nights because Dad was carrying me from the car to the house. As I floated, a limp six year-old doll, through the cold and dark, I peeked through slitted-eyes past the falling snow and the bouncing, burning ember of Dad’s cigarette and saw a giant ice moon far up in the sky. A few more steps and I was rolled from his bowling pin arms into the fluffy softness of my own bed. 

“We met at a high school dance,” Mother always bragged, “My date dumped me, and I swore to nab the next guy who walked in the door, and that was your Dad.” Mother was a chemistry major headed for med school, Dad a be-bop sax player headed for a life on the road. Neither realized their dream.

They married right after high school. And for the first few years, Dad toured with the Navy band during the Korean War, and on his meager pay, bought flashy jewelry that Mom never wore because, “He wants a dress-up woman, and I’m not that,” she said. Tension pulsated constantly between the two of them strong as my heartbeat on the first day of school. As far as I saw, they never smiled, hugged or said I love you. Never even looked into each other’s eyes. 

The years passed under a militaristic style of child-rearing popular in the 50s and 60s that featured improvisational drubbings called spankings. And I’d be on the receiving end of many. When I turned 19, I fled to Manhattan where I’d live for the next 25 years. 

As seasons rolled on by, I came to accept our detached family dynamic, but I was wrong to assume things would remain the same. At the next family gathering Dad pulled me aside and said, “I’m sorry for whatever I did to you.” I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say, and therefore regretfully said nothing. An opportunity lost. Even worse, I didn’t know what to do with the rest of my life. 

And then a real shocker. At their sixtieth wedding anniversary, Dad handed Mom an elegant rose, a real one, a red one, and in front of all of us said, “I love you.” It was disturbing. Even more disturbing was Mom’s face. All pruned-up, and looking away. I had hoped for a glimmer of a smile, but no, that didn’t happen.

Snow moons came and went until finally, in the winter of their lives when Dad was 91, and Mother 87, they started giggling together over inside jokes. They’d do this at dinners, diners and friend’s funerals. When Mom forgot to turn off the stove, Dad didn’t even get mad. Instead, he put his arm around her shoulders and looking into her eyes reassured her that he checked the stove before they left the house. She smiled back. The transformation between the two of them was remarkable and so, I had to wonder if it was us kids who made their marriage so awful, and that perhaps, all along, they actually did love each other. 

Then, a few days before he died, Mother finally professed, “We hold hands at night; ask each other, are you alright? Are you alright? And we don’t go to sleep until each of us says, yes.”

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.