Four States: Chapter Nineteen – The Argument

Late Fall 2004

Sometimes moving back home can be an adjustment. After living on my own for so many years, it was difficult to readjust—especially when that “home” was a fifth wheel shared with my parents. The cramped space, the lack of privacy, the constant awareness of each other’s habits—it all added up. When we finally moved into the farmhouse, having a real shower and bathroom felt like a luxury, but integrating two different lifestyles was still problematic. Managing expectations wasn’t exactly a priority, and before long, quiet tension began to build between me and my parents.

The problems didn’t start after I moved to the farm—they started before. Whenever I came up to help with renovations, there always seemed to be something new that I questioned: the alpacas, the swimming pool, the decision to cut down all the trees. Each time, I bit my tongue but wondered what direction things were heading. The one issue that truly made me angry, though, was when my parents refused to listen to me about Dale Eagle.

Growing up, my parents had always been the voice of reason when it came to friends. If they had reservations about someone, I took them seriously—because nine times out of ten, they were right. I learned from them. So when it was my turn to express concern, to be the voice of reason about a so-called friend, and they dismissed it outright—it cut deep.

We weren’t passive-aggressive or sarcastic with each other, but there was an undercurrent—an unspoken tension that lingered between sentences. It showed in the way we’d glance at each other after a regular conversation, like something important was being left unsaid. Every now and then, my parents would catch me looking distant and ask, “What?” I’d shrug, say “Nothing,” and walk away. Sometimes they did the same. There was always something on the tip of someone’s tongue that never quite made it into words.

One weekend, my parents packed up the alpaca trailer and headed to Tennessee for an alpaca convention. They said they’d be back Sunday evening around eight. I stayed behind to take care of the animals.

Everywhere I looked, the place was a mess. Tools scattered across the floor, sawdust covering the entryway, clothes piled high near the washer and dryer. The fifth wheel was worse—dirty dishes in the sink, clothes tossed over chairs and countertops. I couldn’t stand it. So I started cleaning. I gathered up the clothes, ran load after load through the washer, swept up the sawdust, and tried to bring some order back into the chaos. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop.

When I went to feed the animals, I noticed how inefficient the setup was. My dad had been feeding them the same way since he was a kid, and it made no sense to me. The food was stored in a strange place, requiring multiple trips and wasted effort. So, I decided to fix it. I reorganized everything, creating a system that was faster and more logical. By the time I finished, I was proud of myself. For once, something on the farm made sense.

My parents didn’t get back until nine o’clock that night—an hour later than they said they would. Fourteen hours on the road, hauling an alpaca trailer, had left them exhausted. They’d even stopped by John and Barb’s to drop off the alpacas before coming home. But for some reason, I copped an attitude the moment they walked through the door. Maybe it was all the pent-up resentment I’d been carrying—resentment over promises not kept, decisions made without me, and tension that had never been resolved. That one extra hour felt like another broken promise, even though it wasn’t.

My dad noticed the ducks and geese were still out. Apparently, they had followed him back from the barn, waddling in a line like little soldiers. He came inside and asked why I hadn’t put them away. Without taking my eyes off the television, I muttered, “I thought you’d be home at eight and that you would do it.”

He didn’t say a word. Just turned around and went outside. Two minutes later, the door swung open.

“ROBERT THOMAS SLATT JR.!”

That was not good. The full-name summons usually meant I was about to be read the riot act.

I knew moving the feed had probably crossed a line, but I didn’t expect it to trigger a nuclear meltdown. My dad was furious—not just irritated. We were at DEFCON 1.

He started in on me about moving the food. I tried to stay calm, explaining what I’d done and why it worked better. I pointed out that I’d washed clothes, cleaned the house, and tidied up the fifth wheel while they were gone. I thought that would help, but then my mom joined in.

She brought up how I hadn’t been helping as much with renovations lately, how I was spending more time at work or finding other things to do instead of pitching in. The house was always messy, she said, because they didn’t have time to clean after long days of work. The frustration poured out—years of small grievances, little misunderstandings, and unmet expectations all bubbling to the surface.

We argued for over an hour. It wasn’t pretty, but it was honest. We said the things we’d been holding in. I told them how hurt I was that they hadn’t listened to me about Dale. That landed hard. I could see it in their faces—the realization that they’d dismissed me when it mattered most.

Once everything was out in the open, there was a strange quiet. The air felt lighter, like the tension had finally broken. We decided we needed some structure, so we made a few house rules.

First: if something bothers us, we talk about it right away. No letting things fester.
Second: we create a work schedule—a list of projects and a plan for who’s doing what and when. My dad had a habit of juggling eight or ten projects at once and never finishing any of them. This way, we’d finish one thing before starting another.
And finally: no more spontaneous decisions. If we were going to buy something, change something, or start something new, we’d make that choice together.

Afterward, my dad and I went out to feed the animals. I showed him the new setup I’d made while they were gone. He looked it over, nodded, and smiled. That one small smile nearly broke me. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

For the first time, I felt like he saw me not just as his son, but as an equal—someone whose ideas carried weight. Until then, I’d felt like a kid again, stuck between obedience and independence. But in that moment, I felt grown.

That night marked a turning point. Together, we would accomplish much and endure much. My parents became more than just my mom and dad—they became my closest friends.

I miss them so much.