RaisingDad

When my Dad thought his radio was broken, and all it turned out to be was that the volume control knob was turned down, it made me laugh... but it made me sad, too.      There was a time when there was nothing my Dad couldn't build or couldn't fix. When he was twelve years old-- eighty-one years ago! --he used work on his uncle's car for the opportunity to drive it around town. For all I know, even at twelve, he was trying to woo the fairer sex with a ride in his jalopy. When he was in the Army during World War II, and stationed in the Philippines, he built a washing machine for his platoon. He used a metal barrel, a jeep... and his own personal smarts. I don't know if there was even such a thing as a washing machine back in the 40's, but my Dad had one, the one he built. I have a picture of it. He's standing next to it with a big smile on his face, proud as all get out. Years later, after he was married and I was old enough to pay attention, I r...

I'm at the kitchen counter enjoying a nice hot cup of coffee, reading this month's issue of the AARP magazine. Yeah, I'm that old. My wife is cleaning the counter tops. My Dad walks in. I look over the top of my magazine. He has a look on his face. I recognize that look. He has a problem. And it's about to become my problem.      "Ahhh," he says. Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click! My Dad makes these smacking noises when he talks. Even when he doesn't talk. Sometimes when he just sits. Now he's started making clicking noises as well. "Hmm, I don't know. I just don't know."      "Don't know what, Dad?" my wife makes the mistake of asking him. She has a heart of gold, she does. My Dad shakes his head, and lets out a weak laugh.      "I don't know about those house cleaners you have," he tells my wife, seeing as she's the only one listening to him. "You know those house cleaners?"      ...

It's not the big things that you drive you nuts... it's the little things.      When I first asked my 93 year-old father to move in with me and my family, I knew that there would be a period of adjustment. What I didn't know was just how long that period of adjustment would be. Here it is, years later, and I'm still adjusting.      My father? He's doing just fine.      My father had been the head of his household well into his 80's. Myself, I've been in charge of my own life since I turned 18, when I put what little I remembered from school about geography to use and went to college out of state.      As a kid, I learned early on that no one was allowed to touch my father's morning newspaper until he was finished reading it. And he took a looong time reading it.      "Pop," I would ask him, "can I have the comics?"      "No," he would always answer. My father was...

When I was a kid I must have driven my parents crazy.      When they took me to the store, I was always asking them to buy me something. Spiderman comic books. The Man From UNCLE camera that turned into a gun.      And candy.      I was always asking for candy.      "You'll ruin your teeth!" my mother would warn me.      I'd think to myself, "If I can't have candy, what's the point of having good teeth?"      This was before I discovered girls, and how they had the annoying habit of preferring guys with good dental hygiene.      I remember one Christmas, when I was about ten-years-old, I pestered my parents for a chemistry set that was probably more expensive than they could afford, but, on Christmas morning... there it was.      Did I play with it?      Not even once.      ...

I was probably a pretty rambunctious kid, because I remember my Dad always after me for one thing or another.      When I was a Senior in high school, and prone to staying out late on a Friday or Saturday night, my Dad would always make it a point to get me up early the next day.      "Why do I need to get up early?" I'd ask him.      "Because everything has a price," he'd tell me.      I'm sure he was trying to teach me something, but it was something I didn't want to learn, so, after a few early mornings of me getting up to do nothing but learn a lesson, the only lesson I learned was that if I got out of bed so he could see me, and then, when he went inside, immediately laid down on the floor of the far side of my bed, the side facing away from my bedroom door, so that he couldn't see me, then I could happily spend the rest of the morning in dreamland. ...

The next day (yesterday) I was having my noon cup of coffee. I was wearing a baseball cap that has a light in front for hiking. I had all the drapes and shutters closed. No one could peak in, but then neither could the sun, and I also had all the lights in the kitchen and great room turned off. Only the little light in the front of my cap was on. It was on dim. In my mind I could hear the theme music to Mission: Impossible.      I could barely see the newspaper I was reading, when something outside caught my eye. I see my Dad looking out his front door. His front door is actually a back door. He lives in a little in-law house that's located just in front of the main house, so his front (back) door faces directly to the french doors that lead into our kitchen. It's not as confusing as it sounds.      He looks straight at me. I can see him through the space between the shutters, but can he see me ? I'm in the back of the kitchen, which is actually...

My Dad.       I don't know how he knows, but somehow he does. He can't see to the end of the room, but whenever I'm doing any kind of work in the house, he somehow always manages to situate himself right in the middle of it.      When I'm in the great room or kitchen to do anything, he knows I'm there, and, a few seconds later, so is he. I'll only walk in to fix me and my wife a cup of coffee--it'll be early in the morning, and I won't even turn on the light--and I'll see him look out of his door. There's no way for him to know I'm there, but somehow he does. I'll see him walk out and toward the main house. Sometimes I'm able to sneak back upstairs with our coffee before he makes it into the house. Sometimes...      "Where's my coffee?" my wife will ask when I walk back into our bedroom empty-handed.      "Um... ah... well..." I'll begin to explain.      ...

Every morning my father goes on his morning walk, rain or shine. Even the days he doesn't want to go, he'll go. Sometimes our conversations will go like this:      "Man," he'll tell me, "I really don't feel like going on my walk this morning."      "Why don't you take a break?" I'll ask him.      "What?"      "If you're not feeling good, Dad, why don't you give yourself a break today?"      "A break from what?"      "From your walk."      "From my what?"      "From your walk."      He pauses. Thinks. Chews on the idea a bit.      "Why would I want to do that?" he'll finally say.      "I'm just saying, if you're not feeling good."      "Who said I'm not feeling good?"      "You told me that you didn't f...

My Dad just got himself a new dog. Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!  Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!  Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!      I'm upstairs, trying to watch TV. Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!      I look at my wife in bed next to me. She's trying to read, but she can't concentrate. The barking is driving her nuts as well, but she's trying to pretend that it doesn't.      No g...

My wife has been sick and in bed for the last few days. She thought she'd do the smart thing by getting her flu shot early this year, and, sure enough, she got the flu.      Don't get me wrong, I'm not against inoculating yourself against the various bugs and viruses that will save the Earth when the space aliens come to conquer our planet. In fact, every year I get the flu shot, too. My wife makes sure I do.      "I don't get sick," I tell her.      "But what if you do?" she'll tell me.      "I've never had the flu in my life."      "What does that have to do with anything?"      And she's right. I've never had the flu in my life, true, but maybe the shots had something to do with that. I've never had polio, either. Or whooping cough, or any number of childhood diseases, and I can thank my parents for taking me to the doctor to get my childhood vaccinations...

My father hates to admit it, but the walks he takes every day are taking their toll.      He no longer walks as far, he no longer walks as long, but he's still determined to get out there and worry me.      "I really don't feel like going," he'll sometimes say, but before I can encourage him to stay, he's out the door. He's so stubborn, he even aggravates himself.      If it's hot, I'll tell him to wait until it's cooler. He'll refuse. Sometimes he'll even put on a light jacket. I'm positive it's just to irritate me. And then, when it's cool, he'll head out the door in shorts and a t-shirt.      "At least put on a jacket," I'll tell him.      "It's not cold," he'll argue.      "Yes, it is," I'll plead.      "It feels warm to me," he'll comment.      "That's because we're indoors," I'll p...

I'm in the kitchen sitting at the island. Reading the morning newspaper, disagreeing with everything Dear Abby has to say (her answers are a little too politically correct for my taste), and enjoying my noon coffee. I have the dimmer switch to the lights set on low.      As usual, I'm listening to the blues on the TV in the great room. I love the blues. Right now they're playing  Mean Old World, one of my favorite songs. Maybe I like the song so much because I like the title so much. It is  a mean old world. You only have to read the paper or watch the news to realize it. This version is   by Little Walter and His Night Cats. I prefer the song by T-Bone Walker. Maybe I just like the name T-Bone. There may be a dozen other songs called Mean Old World, but those are the only two I know of.      In a way, the blues have ruined my appreciation for the music I grew up listening to in the sixties and sevent...

This morning my wife greeted me with a cup of coffee and a question.      "Guess what Dad found this morning?"      Let's see, what's the only thing Dad's been looking for these days?  What's the only thing Dad's been blaming everybody but himself for misplacing?  What's the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?*      "The keys the baby stole?" I ventured a guess, taking a sip of my coffee.  And then I took another one.       Ouch, it was hot...  but it kept me from laughing out loud.  I knew the baby didn't take it.  My wife knew the baby didn't take it.  The only person who didn't seem to know it was my Dad.  According to my father, his two year-old great-grandson snatched them out of his hand, stole his car, and maxed out his credit cards playing blackjack in Vegas.  Of course, I'm joking.       It was poker...

It's the same old story.  My Dad can't find his keys.  He's checked the kitchen.  The great room.  The court yard.  And, of course, his room.  Many, many times.       "Somebody's gone into my room," he'll say.  "I can tell."      "Nobody's gone into your room, Dad," I'll say.      "I can tell."      "How can you tell?"      "I just can," he'll say, and then he'll look me right in the eye.  "I don't know who, but somebody's been in my room.  And they took my keys."      I don't know why he looks at me when he says that.  Does he think it's me who sneaks into his room for no good reason to steal his keys for no good reason?  I don't know why he would.      My Dad is only two places at any given time:  he's in his room, or he's in the great room watching TV.  He can pret...