Wayne's daughter Marja just left after a weekend visit. She lives in Los Angeles and is driving home as I write this on Highway 99 through the central California farming countryside - Modesto, Fresno, Chico. Marja's mom Mary also joined us and now she's gone too, back to her home in Santa Cruz. Our house is awfully quiet, and we're a little depressed after a full three days of chatter, eating, drinking, and laughter.
Two weeks ago we flew to Portland for a quick 3-day visit with my son Arthur and his family. It was great fun as they had made a lot of changes in their backyard and inside their home. Wayne helped Arthur re-wire a ceiling light in the basement. Jack, my grandson, was leaving for his first day of 7th grade as we were getting ready to go to the airport to return home. Two days later, Arthur called. "Hi Mom, I just wanted to know how you two are doing. We miss you." I think his house had become awfully quiet, like ours is today.
Why do we live so far from those we love so much? Our children have chosen to build their lives in places we don't really want to move to, except that they're there. But they're not in the same place. We live in the middle, between them. Not close enough to have day-to-day contact, but close enough that we can fly or even drive occasionally without too much trouble. It's the day-to-day stuff we miss. They seem to miss it too.
When we were young, we couldn't wait to "get out of town" and find our own lives. Wayne moved to California from New York, and I moved from Minnesota. We were really far from our families and yet we didn't feel any pull back. It has never occurred to me that my parents might have missed me in the way I miss my son, who lives considerably closer to me than I did to them.
Undoubtedly we and our children are closer emotionally than we were to our parents. Our kids are in their 40s now and we're still close. It's to be enjoyed, in the bittersweet way of enjoying something you miss and wish you could have more of.
