Collegiate Times

Jamie Martyn/Collegiate Times

HE SAID:

I’m eager for numerous things over Thanksgiving break.

Per a former coach’s request, I’ll attend basketball practices with my high school’s current squad. A new cinema with stadium seating just opened, and I plan to catch up on my movie list. And certainly I’ll cherish the coma that results from turkey’s clever chemical — tryptophan (and its side-dish friends).

Yet one event of great anticipation might seem mundane — I can’t wait to ride in my dad’s newly acquired Subaru station wagon. No, driving it I don’t desire; I just want to see Pops grin as he revs his extremely practical ride.

He had an Acura Integra for roughly an eon, and the paint eroded so badly that the trees under which he parked must not have dripped sap but corrosive acid. The leather seats were shredded as though every passenger had knives for shoulder blades.

Still, I’m bummed the two-door is no more. I came to know that car very well. In fact, I feel it encompassed an evolution: my relationship with my parents. The vehicle as a thing is very telling of family.

When we were little tykes, parents often sacrificed loads of time for our extracurricular routines. They toted us in muddy cleats to the ball field, and they stuck around for moral support. Plus, who wants to miss their kid crush a homerun (just beyond the infield)?

Or they sped us over to Scouts just in time to watch with considerable boredom the troop tie sort-of-knots for an hour. Regardless, the vehicle not only made the delivery, but it stayed parked for the duration of family bonding.

Then we started wearing JNCO jeans and burning CDs, and the local mall became a misinformed nucleus for teen cool. Parents chauffeured us there at inopportune times, and we shed them and the car like unwelcome parasites, feeding on our tender reputation. I think deep down we appreciated the gesture, but the vehicle’s fleeting nature reflected the freedom we were beginning to explore.

Eventually we surpassed (most of) the angst and managed decent relations, but suddenly secondary school had passed. Just several years ago — only this fall for some — our parents brought us to the Tech campus, their vehicle completing its cycle in our lives as a one-way vessel. The Integra exited my every-day existence, and so did my parents.

And despite their absence, I’d argue that college manages to bring you closer to the empty-nesters.

In one regard, you’re still dependent on them, which becomes strikingly clear. You might not ask for a ride to the skating rink, but you’ll nudge their side for extra cash when your own whip gets towed from a friend’s apartment.

Although they no longer pack your Ninja Turtles lunch pale, you’ll still beg for sustenance when your dining plan magically empties with a month left in the semester.

Aside from bank accounts, though, you’re maturing into an adult, which yields a parental connection you didn’t have before. During those catch-up phone chats, discussions can range from the importance of internships to health insurance options. Their crucial knowledge makes the real-world transition tolerable.

But the topic isn’t always that heavy. Maybe it’s excitement over their upcoming visit. And it’s always fun when they (try to) weave into university life by pumping a keg at a party. Parent-child beer pong teams are somehow unstoppable, and even with no prior experience, moms throw flawless matches with the most seasoned cornhole players at tailgates.

So while they aren’t driving us to Dixie Youth, they do still toss balls by our side. And we’re not sewing Scout patches, but they can certainly guide our beanbag seams.

Maybe at the core, not much has actually changed. Except now we’re capable of giving back. I might ask to drive the Subaru next week then, in which case I’ll tell my parents the destination is finally up to them. And if it happens to be the mall, I’ll have to pull my 34-inch-pant-leg JNCO Kangaroos from the closet.

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