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Despite my somewhat advanced age, I am, in fact, the youngest of the five kids in my family.

There’s quite a large age spread between my siblings and me which meant that, for a number of years, I lived alone with my parents.

I quite enjoyed this — savoring the benefits that came with being the baby of the family: less competition for desserts, my own room, and parents who weren’t as frazzled as they’d been when there was a houseful of kids.

Plus, my folks were super cool – like Ward and June Cleaver only boozier.

On a typical night in our home, dad would return from his job as a butcher — mom would return from her job as a teacher and dad would mix martinis. Then, he and mom would relax in the den — a lovely wood-paneled room with a fireplace, a wall of books and dad’s hi-fi. Dad would cue up some Artie Shaw or Woody Herman and he and mom would dive into conversation.

They launched my love of booze, jazz and stories.

Chores were a thing in our house and, strange as it may seem, I enjoyed this as well. Shoveling, mowing, raking — I did these tasks and more — just as mom and dad busied themselves running a proper household.

I felt good about pulling for the family team and I felt really good about the acknowledgment my folks gave me for my efforts.

• • •

In the summer, mom, dad and I spent weekends at our cottage — about an hours drive from our town.

Our routine was this: Dad would get off work at 5:00 on Saturdays — his weekly days off were Sunday and Monday — he’d walk three blocks from the butcher shop to our home.

Mom and I, both out of school for the summer, would be ready to meet him and, together, we’d walk a few more blocks to the Catholic church we attended — fulfilling our obligation on Saturday rather than Sunday.

After mass, we’d hurry home and prepare for our weekend at the cottage. Mom would pack a squeaky styrofoam cooler with food. Dad would load tools, or fishing poles, or some such into his old pick-up truck — which was a rather embarassing bright baby blue.

My job, an important one I thought, was to lock up, and my routine including speaking out loud to myself as I made my way through the house:
- The upstairs windows are shut.
- The downstairs windows are shut.
- The back door is locked.
- The stove is off.

x

Then, I’d finish on the front porch. I’d pull the door shut, check that it was locked with a tug on the knob, and look over my shoulder at mom and dad, waiting in the driveway, in the baby-blue truck.

Dad would look back at me. He’d give me a head-nod — acknowledgment of a job well done.

Then, off to the cottage we’d go.

• • •

Life changed, decades passed, and my dad died of cancer.

My mom lived another eight months ­— unable to stay in her home of over 50 years because she was too physically frail.

I visited her nearly every weekend during those eight months, driving roughly 500 miles on each trip. After my days with mom in the nursing home, I’d spend nights alone in my old room — in our home which was left just as it was when dad died and mom moved into the nearby care facility.

What a time that was:
- Mom and I sharing her loss – and mine.
- She and I pondering the end of things.
- Me spending nights in an achingly empty house —
alone with my thoughts.

• • •

Then came the weekend that I knew would be our last — Mom had become so frail — she died in the middle of the next week.

And so I had my last night in my childhood room alone. And the next day, as I prepared to drive back to Minneapolis, I found myself in the midst of my old routine — once again speaking out loud to myself:
- The upstairs windows are shut.
- The downstairs windows are shut.
- The back door is locked.
- The stove is off.

And then, for the last time, I was on the old front porch. I pulled the door shut, checked that it was locked with a tug on the knob, and looked over my shoulder.

Of course, I saw nothing, but in my heart I imagined
my mom and dad waiting in the baby-blue truck —
I imagined my dad giving me a nod — his acknowledgment that I’d done my job well one last time.

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