Fruitless Fishing with my Father: A lesson in setting low expectations for some things.

Whitney M.

March 27, 2010 - 5:33 PM

I thought to myself, "Isn't it bad to set your expectations low? I thought that was a coping mechanism that is logical but eventually leads to lacking motivation."

 

While contemplating this, the chilly Columbia river whisked past me as our former boat carried us to another spot that would eventually prove unlucky along with all the others.

 

My dad, Collin, and I had planned a fishing trip for the end of our spring break. I expected that we wouldn't be catching anything, which was an accurate prediction, and I suppose that was why I was able to keep a sense of humor when even more problems arose on our excursion.

 

For as long as I can remember, my dad has not been a successful fisherman. Not that it is his fault, really. Unless you have been doing it for a lifetime and unless you have sunk thousands of dollars into the hobby, it's kind of a craps-shoot.

 

Nevertheless, the night before we went fishing, I dreamed that it didn't take but thirty seconds from the time we dropped our lines in before we were up to our eyes in salmon. I had a similar dream about getting into Stanford. Hell, if I could use "The Secret" to get into one of the world's best universities, it could work for catching fish....or so I thought.

 

The day, however, went as these trips typically go for my dad and I. This boat, which now belongs to my dad's lawyer, was the one that we owned during my childhood, and approximately 1 in 5 trips ended without a hitch-so to speak. Somehow, we managed to stall the boat, break the propeller, take on water, you name it, we did it, almost as though we were trying to sabotage our boating trip.

 

So on this occasion, I was not surprised to find that we were facing some of the same old problems.

 

We broke a fishing pole that my dad's friend loaned to us, the anchor we borrowed from this fellow ripped a hole in a seat at the bow (Mr. Lawyer's seat), we tangled our lines, we lost our bait, Collin cut his finger, we scraped and dented the propeller on some rocks, and finally, out of nowhere, the boat started blasting a high-pitched horn whenever we turned the engine on-not very conducive to a fishing environment.

 

It was when I looked down to see my dad, looking downtrodden across the river at other, more successful boats, with his boot caught in a bright pink water ski rope that I knew this was blog material.

 

Nothing more accident-prone and obnoxious could represent our voyage better. But by the time my dad was examining the damage done to the propeller after we had the boat back in the trailer, slamming his knee into the boat as he tried to maneuver around it was nothing but hilarious.

 

It was just too disastrous to take seriously. It was costly, and it was slightly irritating, but in the end, all we could do was laugh. It was either that or kill ourselves-so we opted to look on the bright side, which that day, stemmed from a set of very low expectations.

 

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Home is where you finally feel good

Whitney M.

March 25, 2010 - 11:45 AM

This break has been a dream. Although I haven't been able to sleep in as much as I wanted to because dog fostering requires early-morning potty trips, I had more time in the day to do practically nothing.

 

If you read my previous blog, you know that my dad and I started the term by visiting my mother, which, we are happy to say, lasted only about 24 hours.

 

After that, though, we didn't have many plans.

 

Collin worked for his mother every day during the break, building her four or five garden beds in their back yard.

 

So during the day, it was just me, the kitties, and the puppy. As you can imagine, this was a little dull. My two best friends had gone to more tropical climates for the break, so I didn't even have anyone to watch chick flicks with.

 

Instead of sitting around, I decided to spend almost all of my time with my dad. As a real estate appraiser, he drives all over the northwestern part of the state and the southwestern part of Washington assessing the value of homes. I have been helping him with this for years, so I was able to direct us using the Thomas guide, measure and sketch the houses, and shoot photographs of comparable home sales within the last six months.

 

After we accomplished our goals, Dad and I would head to lunch somewhere and by the evening we were taking pilates classes and playing tennis together.

 

This break was different somehow. I felt more respected by my father. When we talked, he took me seriously. When we played tennis, I was able to hold my own because I had taken a class last term-allowing us to be on more even footing while we played. It was wonderful to be able to spend this time with him. Usually, I feel too parented when I go home for breaks, but this break was nothing but comfortable. I even felt like I was "home."

 

We moved into the apartment that he lives in one month before I came to the U of O, meaning that dorm rooms and Eugene apartments started to feel more like home than anywhere in Portland.

 

But as I was dozing off for an afternoon nap, I opened my eyes and saw my towel hanging over my bedroom door, the light coming in from the living room, and my pets moving between my room and the rest of the apartment. It gave me that same feeling that I got when I was growing up and my mom would be cooking soup and grilled cheese for dinner while I dozed in the late afternoon.
Until then, I hadn't felt that way in that apartment. It's funny because now I am heading off to Europe for the summer and to Stanford in the fall-even less time at "home." Too, my dad has been thinking about moving to a house, one that belongs to him in his retirement that doesn't have Whitney's room to the left of the bathroom.

 

I guess that is okay. At least I was able to feel a sense of being home for a little while.

 

 

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Highway 30 Epiphanies

Whitney M.

March 22, 2010 - 3:37 PM

I want to write to tell you again about the experience of seeing my mother who is both mentally and physically ill, but I am sure that if you go back through my blogs, you would find sad tales of each of my short visits to my mom's house in dismal Long Beach, Washington.

 

But I just can't stomach another 20 minutes of babbling about the same, tired, depressing story.
She is sick. Life is hard. A lot of things are not fair.

 

But when I don't focus on those things in my life that are depressing, I find a lot to be thankful for.
One positive part of this weekend was being able to travel with my father to and from my mother's house.

 

I told my boyfriend that he didn't have to come. Although Collin is always gracious, the experience is never enjoyable for him, and in the end, I feel guilty that he is struggling to keep a pleasant look on his face.

 

But my dad and I had some things to talk about.

 

We always do.

 

My dad and I enjoy our conversations very much. Even when I was a troubled teen, my dad and I could talk pretty "straight" about things while we drove around taking care of business.

 

So there we were again, on one of our car rides-rides that I will recall on my death bed and cherish as some of the most meaningful moments of my life.

 

For the most part, our discussions revolve around people. We talk about their choices, their characteristics, and their sometimes unbearable manners.

 

I am able to tell him about my friends' sex lives and their quirky personalities that are sometimes hard to take.

 

We never pass up the opportunity to talk about all the ways in which Collin is one of the best people we've ever met.

 

And we talk about his lady friend, whom I adore.

 

We always talk about my mom and how she's doing, which is hardly ever an "up" conversation.
We talk about each other too.

 

He tells me about the decisions he made during his lifetime. He tells me about the people he knew when he was in school, in the army, and in the real world.

 

And he tells me about me.

 

As a parent, he was aware of the things that were going on in my life before I was able to appreciate their meanings. We recapped my social life, which is also a hard conversation to have because I was always a social scapegoat because I was plagued with severe weight problems.

 

He and I revisited the topic of the personality that I have always had. Even though I was a little girl without any friends, I was somehow always happy at my core, and I somehow maintained some minuscule sense of self-esteem.

 

As we talked about it, I started to cry. I felt so sorry for that little girl-a little girl too fat for the other kids to respect. A little girl so eager to be involved that she opened herself as a doormat to the punishment children cast upon each other. I wanted to reach out to my childhood self and embrace her with all of my strength. I wanted to tell her that the happiness she possesses and that glimmer of hope she had for herself would someday pay off.

 

I cried as I thought about that child, and I cried as I realized what I have become.

 

I have become a vibrant, talented, ambitious, and well-liked young woman whose open heart and kindness, along with a sense of humor and thick skin acquired from years of coping, has led her to the doors of Stanford University.

 

The power of this transformation moved me to tears. And it makes me feel like I did that little girl right. I feel like my fight for success has sprouted from my desire to honor the pain I suffered as a child. It will not have been in vain. It will have been in preparation for a long, happy, healthy, love-infused, brilliant existence.

 

 

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Babysitting Bella

Whitney M.

March 20, 2010 - 6:00 PM

I am taking care of my friend Kinsley's dog. If you have been following, you know that I decided that I am glad that I don't have a dog of my own yet-despite my inability to resist traveling blocks out of my way to catch up to a puppy just to get a quick bout of face time with a new pup.
Over spring break, I have been taking care of Bella, a Papillion-terrier mix, and the experience is not what I thought it would be. I thought that I would find the responsibility a daunting task, but it hasn't been. I thought that it would take no time at all for me to find pet "ownership" impossible.

 

But no.

 

I have LOVED waking up in the morning to take Bella outside. I have LOVED taking her on at least two 30-minute walks a day. And I have loved training her to do things that she hadn't learned already. Sometimes, of course, she barks a shrill, insufferable small-dog yap (pretty much exclusively in the presence of other canines). But otherwise, she is adorable, happy, loving, and a treat to have.

 

My dad dislikes her. He thinks that she is a silly little excuse for what pretends to be a dog, but even my boyfriend and I, people whose hearts are devoted to things proportional to our sizes (quite large), find her irresistible.

 

Collin's big dog, Murphy, is a Bernese Mountain Dog mix, and he is calm, enormous, and he never barks. But for all of Murphy's redeeming qualities, he does not have Bella's ability to bring tears of joy to my eyes.

 

She is the sweetest animal around. And still a pup, she needs discipline from time to time.

 

But nothing beats the slight irritation, bewilderment, and amusement I feel when Bella has burrowed her way under the covers and is content to sleep there until the morning.

 

I realize how gratifying it is to have someone to take care of. Caring for Bella gives my day-to-day life just a little more meaning. Knowing that I am responsible for her life's security and enjoyment has made me feel happier and more competent.

 

Kinsley better watch out, she may not be getting her dog back.

 

 

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Used Car Buying

Whitney M.

March 15, 2010 - 9:45 PM

This weekend, my best friends and I went to my house in Portland for various reasons. First, the two girls, Jessica and Kinsley, were signed up to work on the Shamrock Run. Second, my dad needed help moving stuff out of my grandma's condominium that just sold. Third, Kinsley needed to fly home to San Diego for spring break on Monday. And finally, Kinsley needed to buy a car to have in Portland while she is participating in the U of O's Portland Experience in the Turnbull Center in downtown Portland.

 

Knowing that used car salesmen might be tempted to take advantage of a 23-year-old young woman's inexperience and vulnerability in making such a purchase, my dad agreed to help Kins in her endeavor.

 

At first, Kinsley and I just went. We went to a couple of lots and luckily found a car that fit Kinsley's criteria. It was a '99 Honda Civic at a reasonable price, but with a few more miles than she had anticipated settling for. But overall, Hondas are good cars that last forever, so she filled out some paperwork and decided to hold the car overnight while she talked to her dad and mine about the decision.

 

She called her brother, who looked up the car in the Kelly Blue Book, and the price he found was significantly lower than the price that the company had quoted her.

 

Knowing that, Kinsley, my dad, and I went to the dealership ready to face a barrage of sales tactics that have been tested to persuade even the mature and experienced car-buyer.

 

They were good.

 

They took turns, rotating roles, and shifting their shapes, going to the back room to think about what their next move would be. They pitched other prices and checked the Kelly Blue Book, making excuses for their inflated price.

 

But we had hatched a plan, which was to decide on a fair dollar amount that she was willing to pay for the car, and no matter what trick they try to throw at her, she would stick to her plan and refuse to pay hidden fees and inflated prices.

 

We left that day without the car. Kinsley decided that she was not going to pay more than Kelly Blue Book for a car with higher-than-average miles on it.

 

This was another one of those college learning experiences that you take away from the years you spend as an undergraduate. Taking the time to help Kinsley shop for a car gave both her and me the opportunity to see what it's like to go up against trained manipulators and come out on top. Although she didn't get the car, she didn't get screwed over either.

 

That's what I call a successful learning experience.

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