Home Alone

As the nest empties, we're looking to feather it

I HAVE four kids.

That's how I started the first Sunday Punch column more than 15 years ago. It was written during those days when people didn't have big families or any family at all. Couples would get together to buy big houses and big cars with their big incomes. They even had a name for their breed. They were called DINKs, which stood for Double Income, No Kids.

Mrs. Johnston and I were not big into following trends. Instead we formed our own group that announced its purpose in our name. We were called SILKs. That stood for Single Income, Lots of Kids.

As I said in that first column when I told folks how many children we had, people looked at me like I had lost control of my bodily fluids. I have to admit that I did not have much control back then, but Mrs. Johnston had that situation fixed. That fix helped her earn the nickname of "The Truly Unpleasant Mrs. Johnston."

We still have four kids. But a funny thing happened in the past two decades. The "kids" have grown up and become young adults. We believe they are capable of living on their own. They know how to boil water so they can cook. They know they should bathe and change their clothes. We hope they will pay their bills and do all those things that responsible adults do.

Even if they don't do all those things, life has a way of slapping you in the back of your head and screaming, "Wake up and get with the program!" when you don't do what is expected.

Meanwhile, for the first time in 26 years, I will be alone in the family home with (drum roll, please) The Truly Unpleasant Mrs. Johnston. For the past two decades, Mrs. Johnston and I steered our lives with the kids always in mind. I think family counselors might say we were wrong, but that's what we did.

We bought a five-bedroom home because the house I was living in when we were first married was "too small." It had only three bedrooms. The same thing with the cars we drove. What happened to my car just shows people how insane I was when I married Mrs. Johnston. I owned a bright-red sports car when we met. Mrs. Johnston looked it over and condemned it with this statement:

"No room for car seats."

We moved to neighborhoods that had the best public schools, we shopped at stores where other parents like us crowded the aisles, and we ate at places that advertised specials for families. We bought our clothes at stores that had kids' departments, and we went to so many Disney movies that Mrs. Johnston and I were shocked when we saw an adult movie that had potty mouth.

Our youngest child graduated from high school two years ago, and she is off to Bellingham to finish her junior and senior years of college at Western. The other children are raised, educated and on their own.

What drove home the fact that Mrs. Johnston and I are true empty-nesters was what happened when we decided to replace Mrs. Johnston's 1993 station wagon. She started looking at other station wagons and newer minivans, just in case she might be called upon to haul a Little League team to practice.

Then it dawned on Mrs. Johnston while going over the merits of a six-passenger station wagon that she would not have to haul anyone ever again, unless it was grandchildren (none so far) or her monthly book club in search of ice cream. She dropped the station wagon idea like it was a soiled diaper and bought the car she wanted.

It was the first time in more than 20 years that Mrs. Johnston made a purchase with only one family member in mind: Mrs. Johnston. She bought a brand new 2005 VW convertible. And it is baby blue, her favorite color.

She can now be seen cruising the streets of Seattle, top down, radio blasting, talking on her cell phone. She is spending her children's inheritance.

Meanwhile, I am trying to persuade her to help me live my dream. It is a simple dream where we sell our home, buy an RV the size of a Greyhound bus and set off to see the country. Mrs. Johnston said we couldn't do that "because the children couldn't visit us."

I said they could. "We could call them from Arizona and tell them which park we're in."

Steve Johnston is a retired Seattle Times reporter. His e-mail address is stevejonst@aol.com. Paul Schmid is a Seattle Times news artist.