Say Anything: A Father-and-Daughter Road Trip

The argument my father and I once had in the middle of Nebraska lives on as comedy gold today. It sounds like a sitcom advertisement: "Father, daughter and two cats drive cross-country in an ancient Chevy pickup. Hilarity ensues." At the time, however, it was a drama that surprised both of us.

The events that led us there date back to the 1970s, when my parents divorced. Dad shuttled me to and from my visitations with him, and as I grew, we passed the time by talking. My father is an opinionated man. I looked forward our chats because very little was off limits. However, there was a drawback of our say-anything conversations. As he shared his cynical views on love with me, I began to reassess my parents' marriage. That didn't change my love for him. But I struggled to maintain my own ideals about romance, and as time went on, l learned to hide those feelings of doubt and resentment from him.

In 1999, my father helped me move back to the East Coast after nine years in Oregon. The plan was to cram my truck with essential belongings, including my two cats, who would ride in carriers. He flew from New Jersey to Oregon, helped me pack, then drove 3,000 miles with me back to his home. All went according to plan -- until we started arguing.

We were in Nebraska at the time, and the stink of manure did nothing to improve my mood as Dad launched into a monologue about sexual politics. He was in rare form, blasting myths about relationship equality, railing against romance and enjoying himself as only a consummate debater could. He forgot I was a casualty of his own failed marriage, though, and didn't realize I was boiling mad.

It was my turn to drive. My hands were gripping the steering wheel in white-knuckled anger as he orated, "So that's why nothing will ever work between men and women. The bottom line is, men only want sex and women only want money."

I said, "We'll have to agree to disagree. I think..."

He interrupted. With one finger pointing at me, he boomed, "And anyone who thinks otherwise is fooling themselves!"

As if from a distance, I heard my own voice. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, while Dad stared at me in open-mouthed shock.

"Shut up! Don't point your finger at me. Take a look at yourself!" I kept going -- about the divorce, his second marriage and how his opinions affected my own self-confidence as a woman. I was hideous mess. My nose was running. I was staring at him in furious, bug-eyed rage.

He was stupefied.

Finally I screeched, "You're the reason I've been in therapy for years!" And with that, I burst into sobs.

Neither of us spoke. I dwindled off into snuffling hiccups, blew my nose on my sleeve and drove on. The silence was broken only by feline caterwauling from the back. You've never seen awkward until you've seen a father and daughter trying to ignore each other on a lonely highway, straight as an arrow with nothing in sight but cows and compost.

Eventually, we checked into a hotel at the end of the day. We both were eager to forget my outburst, and the rest of the trip was uneventful. But I never forgot the argument. I'd remember at key points during subsequent years -- when I met my husband, when Dad announced his second divorce, when I dealt with the growing pains of marriage and parenthood. Was he right? Or was I? Could men and women ever get along without sacrificing something in the process?

Last week, I called my father to say hello. He was in Florida with his girlfriend -- a lovely, mature divorcee with grown children and grandchildren of her own. He's happy, and it shows. Meanwhile, my own attitude toward love has changed. I'm of the opinion now that marriage is hard work -- not the endless romance I once imagined.

"You were right, Dad. You were right about everything. I thought you were too cynical, but you were just telling it like it is."

He laughed. "Well...don't go to extremes. It's good to be realistic. But I think differently now about love. At least, I think that we should all look for it. That's what life is about, isn't it? Anyway... remember that it's never just one answer. There's never a final answer."

And, as usual, he's right.