The Most Important Guest

The Most Important Guest

by N. Chrystine Olson

The firing was quick and not completely unexpected. Bipolar craziness passing for management within the Recreation Services department of semi-posh, time share resort had prevailed. One highly qualified woman had been decapitated six days before, and as I was considered her confidant and conspirator, no surprise to be herded down to the main office when I showed up Monday afternoon. My overweight manager, a Southern belle martyr to a job she didn’t like or do very well, couldn’t  look me in the eye, having the more imposing and less obese General Manager do her dirty work. Asked for my name tag on the spot, told to mail my uniform shirts back at my in the pre-posted box provided,  I wouldn’t ever have to come back.  How convenient.

No tangible reason given was for my termination. In a Right-to-Work state employers don’t need one. My only response to their nebulous ramblings about employee moral and workplace negativity was things had been “tense” the past months. A severe understatement. My manager was apparently scared how I’d react.  I was escorted to my locker, instructed not to speak to anyone while I gathered my belongings, lest I contaminate them. Calmness covered immediate economic panic, all I wanted to know from the financial officer responsible for preventing me from “going postal”, was whether they’d fight unemployment compensation.

It’s never easy to tell friends and family you’ve lost a job, but my father was coming for a visit the next week.  He took the news over the phone as serenely as his youngest daughter had an hour before. Wondered if he should cancel the trip.  Responding with an emphatic “No!”, I assured him we’d have a blast (more enthusiastically than I felt). I’d been a tour guide, giving guests from around the world a feel for my own private Idaho, the skinny part dominated by Lewis and Clark remembrances.  Food always figured in our wanderings: 102  year old hamburger joints, out-of-the-way doughnut shops,  huckleberry festivals, organic farms tucked between blue lakes and conifer covered mountains. During a Christmas visit, Dad and I were pretty much snow bound, storm after storm pummeling the Inland Northwest. This time I had something to prove, that I deserved all those “Best Employee” references in a year’s worth of guest surveys.  I’d mailed him a complete package of brochures in June,just as I’d done for guests from Florida and Texas, wanting an idea of where they planned to spend their precious one week vacation.  A dinner cruise on Lake Pend d’Orielle intrigued him.  Assuring him I’d make reservations, we said goodbye until the following Tuesday at the Alaska Airlines terminal.  

Airports aren’t as fun as they used to be. No one except passengers are allowed past security. No access to an overpriced airport bar, no emotional at-the-gate reunions since the date no American citizen needs to say. I sat on a bench beside the large glass windows next to the drop off /pick-up lane at Spokane International Airport, passing time with an education professor from Gonzaga. It took a minute to recognize my father. He looked thin, walked slowly on two artificial knees towards the light, his Duke ball cap finally tipping me off to his identity.

 Presumptively I parked him next to my new acquaintance while I went for his suitcase. Thought a conversation with an academic might be a good diversion in case I had any problem with baggage claim.  Dad is smart, very smart. Lots of letters behind his name,  a “Doctor”  he could use if he chose to. He studied forestry. I’d studied something close, stopping graduate work before our credentials matched. He stayed with the US Forest Service long enough to draw a pension; I’d left twelve years in, spending my retirement on world travels and stalled attempts to write and publish.

On the drive to the small Panhandle town I call home, conversation was decidedly non-controversial. No discussion of my entrance onto the national unemployment rolls, no answer to the pregnant question “What are you going to do now?”, no reference to the financial help he brought.  Nothing but comments on weather, drive times, names of local tree species and what I planned for supper. I told him about my two month gig promoting a local children’s book, that a piece I wrote on a local basketball tournament would come out next week.  Didn’t want him to think I was laying on the couch in pajamas with a bag of Doritos and the remote. Daddy likes  I’m making a partial living with words turned to stories. I like that he likes it. Want to do better. Funny how the desire for parental approval continues way beyond childhood.

We’ve been without my mother for over four years now. A slow decline into death from Alzheimers. A week before his last visit, his girlfriend of two years died. Bad ticker. Both lady loves hailed  from the south, holding all the signature charms the best that species of woman is known for: charming accents, witty senses of humor, excellent cooking skills.  Now I’m his main girl. In some ways I always have been.  Genetically closer to his Scandinavian self physiologically, mentally, emotionally than other family members, we love all the same things, have similar interests in sports, politics and culture. I followed in his proverbial professional footsteps without coercion.  The connection probably Freudian, if you go in for such psychology, but I’m the one who coaxed him up here for the halcyon days of summer.  I’d spent many hours in the kitchen with Mom until she couldn’t any longer, so I get the food part right during our father/daughter time.

My preparatory trip to grocery stores and farmer’s markets the week before were tortured. I called BB (Baby Brother) who lives in the same city with our father to get a feel for any changes in Daddy’s tastes. He just laughed.

“He comes back from seeing you raving about the food. Don’t worry.”

Of course I did anyway, spending three times my normal budget on special treats: high end salted nuts without peanuts, brand name crackers, several types of cheese, bratwursts, pork ribs, good sherry and local beer.  I might not have a proper job, but my refrigerator would reflect nothing but prosperity.

I had six days to assure Dad all was well. Having not provided him with a son-in-law or any grandchildren, knowledge, hospitality and a four-pawed family were my only offerings. I cooked, the dogs wagged their tails, the cats purred, while Dad read or watched television with the volume all the way up. Despite a healthy investment in custom hearing aids he won’t wear them. I’ve given up asking him to.  His viewing options were severely limited since broadcasts are exclusively digital.  Mountains and trees hinder all but one station’s signal, so it’s “All ABC All the Time” at my place.  Great if your into “Dancing with the Stars.” My father is a “CSI” guy.

Our itinerary was intentionally jammed: 

*Day 2: Coffee and Davis’Doughnuts to start, a visit to the new state-of-the art Coeur d’Alene library, sunning and swimming at City Beach on a hot July afternoon.

*Day 3: Wolf sanctuary tour, art galleries in Sandpoint, the requested dinner cruise on another of Idaho’s gorgeous lakes.

*Day 4: Hiking through ancient cedar groves with some huckleberry picking on the side.

*Day 5: Julyamsh, a Native American Pow-Wow I’d never manage to get to before.

A friend in Sandpoint warned my 82 year old father I’d wear him out. By Sunday both of us needed a traditional day of rest. Nothing more strenuous planned than a game of cards, watching golf on television, napping and finishing a collection of leftovers. In between all significant topics were discussed and dismissed. One important idea was cleared for take off: starting my own tour company. My most important guest wanted to help.

On our last day we went to the beautiful 100 year old Looff Carousel in Spokane’s Riverfront Park.   I can’t help but plop down a couple bucks for a ride on a fanciful painted pony every time I’m there. My father watched his forty-something daughter spin around, waving to me when I passed, a slightly sad re-enactment of carnival rides from my real childhood. Afterwards we had the dining room to ourselves for an early lunch in the restored Davenport Hotel, a historical landmark almost lost to the wrecking ball in the 1980′s. Our waitress called Spokane home again after twelve years in Las Vegas, confessed she missed the glamor of that very different city. We talked glowingly of the Bellagio Conservancy while Dad finished his French Onion soup, checking his watch between gooey spoonfuls. Always punctual, he wanted to make certain he didn’t miss his flight.

 Getting to the airport by the recommended hour and a half before a domestic flight, our good-bye was casual.

“Thanks for everything kid. It’s been great.” an uncomfortable hug, a tip toe kiss towards the cheek of his six foot plus frame. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

I did, secretly watching Daddy finish the security check (He’d repeatedly set off the metal detectors. Obviously an octogenarian terrorist with devilish plans for Idaho’s state capital). It occurred to me this was probably his last visit and he was right. It had been great.