A Story About Empathy

As I move into different avenues of 'teaching' I wanted to share one of my stories here that taught me a little about empathizing with my parents.  It is completely different than my other posts that are more about public education or education within a classroom.  I hope you enjoy it and I would love some feedback if you have a moment.

Thanksgiving Guest
R.L.C
I've often had disagreements with my dad growing up. We both seemed to be persistently stubborn. There was one Thanksgiving holiday in particular where we had difficulty seeing eye to eye. This Thanksgiving we were at the white house post remodel.  (For those of you who are not privy to my other stories I lived in many locations and the white house had two variations.  A house turned into two apartments and then turned back into a single family house with my dad’s remodeling.) There was nothing unusual about the year or  season aside from us getting a new neighbor.  I had noticed it was just one person and he moved in just days before Thanksgiving day. Having a tendency towards caring for others I asked my dad if we could invite him over for the holiday dinner.  My father quickly replied no. I pushed the issue again pointing out that he had just moved in and appeared to be alone and it would be a nice gesture to our new neighbor.  My dad replied no again and said it likely he had somewhere to go. I grew frustrated and pointed out that we should at least extend an invitation and he could always decline if he had plans.  My dad made a small grunt without a clear response other than silence.  I gave up just for the moment. Again, if you are not privy to my stories you may not know that I had a penchant for being annoying about ‘doing the right thing’ so much so I was sent home from class mid-day for such an incident from a just plain IMO terrible teacher. 
 I then enlisted the support of my then quasi stepmother (another story).  She was a beautiful-hearted woman who often came to the aide of myself and other three sisters when we tried to reason with the only man in the house.  I asked her why he wouldn’t invite him over and stated my case with her as well.  She listened and said that she was sure my dad had his reasons.  In any case the next day I of course decided to ask my dad again if he could at least ask the neighbor.  He conceded and walked next door to speak with him.  The slightly disappointed look on his face as he walked back to the house let me know that the neighbor had accepted our invitation.  My father and I appeared polar opposite in emotion.  I elated that kindness won and he, for whatever reason, disappointed at helping out someone.  
I thanked him and gave him a hug and he said, “well we’ll have another guest despite mom and dad going north” (this year my grandparents were traveling north for the holiday with extended family).  I continued on my delighted way through the day.  
Thanksgiving day came and so did the bustle of preparation.  Despite my grandparents not being there this year we still had a turkey and a small ham (the ham was always at the request of my grandfather).  My quasi step mother and sisters prepped everything else and cleaned as we went.  This was one of the many positive things my quasi step mother left me with, a good sense of cleaning as you go so the job isn’t as big in the end.  Oh, and the Saturday clean the house ritual, but I digress.  We prepared the door for dinner.  Yes, the door, as our dining room table was actually a door with a nice cloth table covering.  You wouldn’t really notice unless you worked on house construction and recognized the distinct dimensions of a typical door.  Or unless you were seated next to the hole where the doorknob was to be inserted.  In any case it worked perfectly for us and perfectly for my father since remodeling on a single father of 4  heating and cooling technician’s salary caused an occasional amenity challenge.  After slight arguing amongst ourselves and a few sighs (but never yells) from our quasi stepmom we had the table ready.  Our father who was at the smoker (any excuse to be outside in our estrogen laden household) began the introduction and disassembly of the turkey in the house.  After the ham was sliced we had the perfect making for a shared meal.  It was about this time that the bell rang and our guest (I was still so proud we were being sharing/caring and what not) arrived with a bottle of wine.  My dad greeted him with a handshake and a glance at the bottle.  His gaze then went straight into the eyes of our day’s dinner guest and we all sat down to eat.  
Food was gathered on plates and our guest offered up his wine.  My quasi step mom gave a quick glance to my father.  She mentioned that wine gave her a headache.  My dad gave a hearty, “of course let's open that bottle up”.  I’ve never known my dad to refuse a drink.  He asked the new neighbor what kind of wine it was to which the neighbor replied, “it’s homemade from a recipe I learned”.  My dad didn’t miss a beat and asked what type of fruits he used and how long he let it set.  He and the neighbor enjoyed a glass and my father commented in a somewhat surprised voice that it was the best homemade wine he has had.  The meal continued without any dinner fouls and my father and the neighbor had finished most of the bottle of wine. 
Clean up time came and my sisters and I followed the direction of quasi step mom.  My dad and new neighbor were chatting it up with slightly louder voices.  Eventually my dad walked him out and joined him to take a review of what my dad felt needed to be done with his new dwelling.  After some time, we were still cleaning up, my dad returned and declared the new neighbor to be a, “Good Guy”.  As he went out back for a smoke I continued my task of drying the dishes.  My quasi stepmother asked if I knew what Pruno was.  I of course did not.  She said it was a type of wine made in a manner typically from prison inmates with the type of ingredients our guest had described.  I paused, and after the plinko effect my mind takes when settling on a situation estimation I realized the origin of discomfort that my father had upon my request for inviting the stranger neighbor into our home with his four daughters.  It hit me then that he had known the strangers past as he seemed to know an excess about our town’s inhabitants.  This was confirmed by my quasi stepmother’s acknowledgement that my dad knew that the gentleman had just come out of a detained situation and that was why he was hesitant.  But my quasi stepmother who was absolutely caring (but also an owner of an adorable saturday night special gun and a keen sense of reading people) had felt that my insistence upon our invitation was a good thing for ‘us girls’ to extend kindness to all.  

Directly after finishing the dishes I went out and let my dad know that he had cooked the turkey and ham really well and once again, with a different light of appreciation, thanked him for inviting the neighbor over.  He heartily agreed that the food had been excellent and that he really enjoyed the company of the neighbor.  Over the course of the next year (that is as long as our neighbor stayed) my father would occasionally head over offering tools to be borrowed for some need and they would chat a bit.