Getting Old Is Not For Wimps (Part Two)

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 remember seeing him take apart the vacuum cleaner. He took it apart, piece by piece, and laid those pieces on a tarp in the order he removed them. That way, he knew in what order what was attached to what. The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone, as the song goes.
     But when you get older, things begin to fail. Your vision. Your hearing. Your, um, tallywacker. (Ahem, so I'm told.) Your thinking process, which used to be crystal clear, starts to become muddled and, like your vision, blurry.
     I remember watching a documentary by Desmond Morris called The Human Animal. Desmond Morris is a zoologist who studies humans as if they're animals. One of his observations was how, when we're young, we can almost defy gravity. We run and jump and practically fly through the air. but when we get old, that same gravity which we used to ignore, grabs us hard and drags us down. Walking is an effort. Getting up from the couch impossible. When you're a kid you can fly off the couch like a bullet fired from a gun. Zero to sixty in less than a fraction  of a second. When you're old, you develop a fondness for the phrase, "Help me up." I'm not saying my dad can't get off the couch on his own. He can. Eventually. It takes some grunting and groaning and rocking back and forth, but he does it.
     (For the record, I don't try to help my Dad up from the couch until he asks for help. "What?" he'll practically yell, "you don't think I can get off the couch on my own?" A few seconds after that, he'll forget that he just yelled at me, hold out a hand, and say, "Help me up.")
     My Dad will be walking from the kitchen to the great room, and if my grandson is running around around him, my Dad will stop for dear life. He gets nervous when his great-grandson is around. All that running and jumping can only mean one thing: "Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!" My Dad will stop, hang on to the edge of the kitchen counter, and wait for the human tornado that is my grandson to pass.
     Why is it that as we get older, we get so unsteady on our feet? The slightest nudge can knock us over. Why is it that the simplest of problems that require the minimum of mental effort to solve--like turning the volume control knob on the radio--becomes the mental equivalent of climbing Mount Everest?
     I like to people watch, and it always saddens me to watch old people walk down the street. They move so slowly it almost seems as if they're traveling in a different time stream. Maybe they are. A time stream slower that the one the rest of the world travels in. Kids, on the other hand, seem to move along in a faster time stream. Looking at my grandson run and jump is like looking at my TV set--when my Dad's not busy wasting his time watching baseball, that is--when I'm fast-forwarding through the commercials. Looking at my Dad, on the other hand, is like watching a documentary where those underwater guys with those big, round metal helmets on their heads walk around the bottom of the ocean.
     Getting old is not for wimps, my friends. Every morning my Dad goes on his walks around the neighborhood, rain or shine. I think he thinks as long as he keeps walking he'll live forever. Sadly, that's not the case. His 98 year-old brother died just a few days before Christmas this year, and the wife of the pastor of our church died just a few days after. She was 62. But every morning, in the heat or the cold, in the dry or the wet, he'll force himself to walk.
     "Dad, it's raining," we'll tell him. Doesn't matter.
     "Dad, it's hot," we'll warn. He doesn't care.
     To him, walking means he's alive. Of course, he's walking slower these days. And not as far. And his aches and pains don't completely go away. But he's alive.
     And that's what we have in store for us, if we're lucky enough to live that long. "Lucky," hmm...
     One man's dream is another man's nightmare.
     I guess.
 
 

Raising My Father 

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

 

Getting Old Sure Stinks (Part One)

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?"
     "The house cleaners?" my wife asks, trying to encourage him on to his point.
     "Yeah, ahhh, they broke my radio. I don't know what they did, but they broke it."
     "The house cleaners broke your radio?"
     "Yeah, I was trying to hear my music, but it's not working. I've done all I can to make it work, but it's broken. I turned it on and off. I changed the station several times. But nothing works. I'm telling you, they broke it."
     "Are you sure the house cleaners broke your radio?"
     "Who else? It was working before, now it's not. I moved it around. Placed it on the desk. Back to the night stand. They broke it, all right. The house cleaners are hard on my stuff, you don't know how hard." Smack, smack, smack. "You might have to buy me another one." Click!
     My wife looks at me. I keep looking at my magazine.
     "Honey, why don't you look at Dad's radio?" my wife pretends to ask me, but she's really telling me.
     "What?" I pretend to not hear, but she knows I'm only pretending. She turns back to my Dad.
     "Dad, do you want your son to look at it?"
     "What?"
     "Do you want your son to look at it?"
     "Look at what?"
     "Your radio, Dad? Do you want your son to look at it?"
     "Do I want my son to look at it?"
     "Yes."
     "What?"
     "Yes."
     "Why would I want him to look at it. It's broken, I've just told you."
     I continue to drink my coffee, not saying anything, keeping my eyes on the magazine. My wife walks over and stands next to me. She gives me a nudge. And then she gives me a bigger nudge.
     I ignore her.
     "Your son's not doing anything," she tells him. "He can look at it, if you want."
     "What's the point?"
     "And if he can't do anything with it, we'll go buy you a new one."
     "Wellll," my Dad says. "Ahhh," he continues, smack, smack, smack. "Why bother?" he finally says in a language I can understand. "I told you, it's not working, but if he wants to look at it, that's fine with me. I don't know what he can do with it. If I can't fix it, I don't know what he can do with it."
     My wife whispers in my ear: "Honey, go check on your Dad's radio."
     I slowly put down my cup of coffee. It's still reasonably hot, but when I get back it won't be. I get up. My wife mouths the words thank you. I give her a big exaggerated sigh--SIGH!--and then walk out of the peace and comfort of my own home, to the little father-in-law house we have toward the front of our property. My father is following right behind me, mumbling. Whatever he's mumbling about, I can't understand. Everything else, I'm not listening to.
     I stop just in front of his door. I wait for him to let me in. We walk over to his bedroom, and I go over to the radio that's sitting on his night stand. Hmmm, I notice, it's nicer than the one I have in my room.
     "I tell you," my dad tells me, smack, smack, smack. "It's broken. The house cleaners broke it." Smack, smack, click! "I already tried to fix it, but I couldn't get it to work. I don't know why your wife wants you to look at it."
    I'm thinking no kidding. What I really want to do is not mess with the whole thing, and just go buy him a new radio, but maybe one not quite as nice as the one I'm stuck with. But anyway...
     ...there I am. Standing in front of his radio. Just looking at it. My Dad still going on behind me.
     And then I notice something.
     I slowly reach down, turn the little knob for the volume to the right... and music magically comes on.
     "What did you do to it?" my Dad asks me, surprised.
     I turn the knob a little more, and the music gets louder.
     "Turn it down," my Dad says. "I don't like it that loud."
     No "thank you." No "hey, you fixed it." No "you're the greatest."
     "I'm glad I could fix it, Dad," I tell him, and then go back to the wife and cup of coffee both waiting for me back in my house. I'll just leave with him wondering how I did it.
     As I leave, all I hear is smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click!
     When I get back to the kitchen, my wife asks me how it went. I tell her what was wrong, and she just shakes her head. She doesn't say anything, but we're both thinking the same thing.
     Getting old sure stinks.
     
     

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

    

It's The Little Things

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 a firm believer in brevity.
     "Why not?"
     "Because I'm not done with it yet."
     It didn't matter that he never read the comics, or that I would be done with it by the time he was ready to peruse it for himself, but Dear Blabby was featured in the same section of the newspaper that the comics were featured in, and he liked to read about other people's problems. He couldn't believe that some people were so willing to hang out their dirty laundry to dry where everybody could see.
     Myself, I'm not so strict. If any of my kids want to read the newspaper with me, well, I'm just happy that they like to read and enjoy being in my company.
     However, when my father first moved in with me, the newspaper quickly became a point of contention between the two of us, because I enjoy reading the paper first thing in the morning, too. But, if he gets to the paper before I do, he's like a dog guarding his bone. Grrr...
     Like I said, it's one of those little things that drives me nuts.
     How do I deal with it? Well, to tell you that story, I first have to tell you this story: When I was about 12 years-old, and prone to overestimating my abilities, we went on a family vacation to the beach.
     "Don't go too far," my mother warned me.
     Did I listen? Of course not. I was 12 and I knew everything.
     Needless to say, I swam out farther than I should have, and when I tried to swim back I noticed that for every three feet I swam forward, the waves would pull me back four. It didn't matter how hard I swam, I kept being pulled further and further back into the ocean. If I were pulled back any further, I'd have ended up being just another face on a milk carton. Oh, sure, I could have yelled for help, but that would have been embarrassing. Thinking back on it now, I wonder how many swimmers have drowned because they were too red-faced to cry out for help?
     But that wasn't what was on my mind when I was treading water, desperately trying to make it back to dry land. It didn't look good. My arms and legs were giving out, and I was getting nowhere fast. Did I survive?
     Well, I'm writing this story, aren't I?
     What to do? What to do?
     "Use the brain God gave you!" I could imagine my father chastising me.
     And that's exactly what I did, I used the brain God gave me. I swam with the ocean when the waves were moving forward, toward the beach, and when the waves would move back toward the open sea, I stopped swimming and rested. I made it back to shore eventually, but my arms and legs were trembling from exhaustion. I made it back because I decided to stop fighting the waves and worked with them instead.
     And that's what I decided to do with my father, himself a force of nature. I would work with him, instead of fight against him.
     So now, on those mornings when I get to the newspaper first, I try to be gracious. I offer my father the sections I'm not reading. On the mornings when my father gets to the newspaper before I do, I choose not to argue or get angry, because it is a choice, after all. Instead, I choose to be patient. Why ruin everybody's day?
     My father is 93 years-old. If one of his only pleasures in life is having the morning newspaper all to himself... I can live with that. And some mornings my father will even ask me if I want the comics.
     I guess he's learned a few things, too.
  

  

Raising My Father

@JimDuchene

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

                   

Imagine That

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.
     Cut to the present. My mother's been dead for a few years now, my father lives with me and my family, and we're at Costco. Costco is a large warehouse store along the lines of a Sam's or a Price Club, where you don't just buy one thing, you buy a lot of one thing.
     My father usually goes with my wife, and they usually come back with a lot of something we don't need. Courtesy of my father. One time he wanted a box containing 48 corn dogs, and my wife bought it for him. She always does.
     He ate one.
     The rest have taken up space in our freezer ever since.
     This time I go with them. He wanders around close by. He picks up a pack of white tube socks. Inspects them. Looks at me. Puts them back. In another aisle he looks at the Rogaine. My father's hair has thinned a bit, but he doesn't need it. He looks over at me. Back at the Rogaine. And then puts it back.
     Same with the gourmet cheese.
     We're at the frozen foods section. He finds something he likes. A box of 120 little frozen cream puff balls. Enough for a small wedding. A small wedding that I'd be paying for. He looks up. Sees me. Looks around for my wife. She's not there. She's at the far end of the aisle.
     There's only me.
     "These are really good," he tells me in a just-making-conversation kind of way. He's never eaten one before in his life. "I wonder how much they are."
     My father looks at the box. Turns it around in his hands. Reads the back.
     "It's all natural," he says.
     He looks down the aisle, where he sees my wife turning the corner, moving away from us. She's the one he usually asks when he wants something. Let me take that back, he doesn't ask. He just drops whatever item that catches his fancy into our grocery cart for my wife to pay for.
     My father stands there looking at the box of cream puffs in his hands.
     There's a long pause. Finally...
     "Son," he says, "do you think I can have this?"
     Imagine that.
     A father having to ask his son for something at the grocery store. My father has never asked me for anything before in his life. I think about the chemistry set he bought me that I never used.
     "Sure, dad," I tell him. "Put them in the cart."
     Now what am I going to do with 120 cream puffs?
        
   

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
   

Seeing Things Differently

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.
     Happily, that is, until he discovered what I was doing. My snoring gave me away.
     As a kid, I was forever forgetting to close doors, cabinets, drawers. I'd open the refrigerator, and stand there trying to decide what to eat.
     "Close the door!" my father would yell at me. "You're letting out all the cold!"
     And I'd close the door. And the cold would be safe. At least until I was hungry again.
     It was the same with the back door. I'd open it, go outside to do what I had to do, such as pick up dog poop in the backyard, and would leave the door wide open. Why? I can only guess that it was the logical thing for me to do. Why spend the energy opening the door twice?
     "Close the door!" my father would yell at me. "You're letting out all the heat!"
     It almost seemed that he'd follow me around telling me to close everything I opened. Like I said, I was pretty rambunctious, which is another way of saying I just plain didn't listen.
     Cut to the present. I've been noticing that the heater to my father's in-law house is always on. It's on during the night. It's on during the day. It's on when he's in his house. And it's on when he's in mine. I keep hearing his heater kicking on, and I keep seeing my dollars being wasted.
     A few weeks ago we were having all the windows to the house cleaned. My Dad's little house, too. So I had to go into his room to move the furniture away from the windows and open all the drapes. As I get to the first window I notice that the drapes are closed, but the window is wide open. The bathroom window is wide open, too. In fact, all his windows are open. Some just a crack, but open nonetheless.
     Now I understand why his heater is always on.
     "Close the windows!" I want to yell at my Dad. "You're letting out all the heat!"
     And I almost laugh to myself over how our roles have switched.
     Along with the heater always being on, my Dad also uses an electric blanket for his naps and sleeping at night. My father doesn't see or pay the electric bill, so he cranks it up.
     Cut to today. I had to leave town for a few days, and, when I came back, it was cloudy. Cool. Almost cold. It's raining. The air is fresh and sweet. I love this kind of weather, so for me it's a perfect day.
     I go upstairs to drop off my luggage. Take a shower, change, and head back downstairs for breakfast.
     All the windows are closed. The doors are closed, too. Locked tight.
     My Dad is sitting in his usual chair at the head of the table. Well, it's his usual chair when he beats me to it. He's eating a big breakfast. He usually does. He's wearing his usual battle-scarred gray sweater.
     His dog is barking for food. He's hungry, too.
     The heater's on. It's warm. Almost hot. Definately uncomfortable. The drapes in the great room are closed, so my Dad can watch the TV from where he sits without any glare.
     "Sweetheart," I say to my wife, "why's it so hot in here?"
     My wife looks at my Dad, and then she looks at me.
     "Hot?" she asks me, innocently. "Really?"
     "Dad," I say, "don't you think it's hot?"
     "What?" he says.
     "Don't you think the house is hot?"
     He looks up from his food, and looks around, as if he can actually see the heat.
     "What do you mean?"
     "The house, Dad. Don't you think my wife has the heater on too high?"
     "Nope. Feels pretty good to me," he says, and goes back to his food.
     I look at my wife. She looks at me. She raises one eyebrow--nice trick--and gives me the stink eye .
     I know what that means, so I have my breakfast and go upstairs. I open the windows in my room, as well as the french doors to the balcony. The view is great, especially with the fresh air coming in. I turn on my small TV, and sit on the bed to watch it.
     Ah, home.
  

  

Raising My Father 

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

    

Somehow He Knows (Part Two)

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 the front of the kitchen if you're in the main house. The lights are out. It's dark in here. I turn my the light on my cap off. I'm not moving. Not even breathing. My music is so low that if you didn't know it was on you probably wouldn't hear it. But my Dad can hear it. Somehow, and I don't know how it's even possible, somehow he can hear it. He can hear everything. Everything except the stuff he's supposed to hear.
     My Dad opens his door. Takes a cautious step outside. Shuts and locks his door. I guess he's afraid his three year-old great-grandson might break inside his house and steal his TV or something. He's still looking in my direction, his eyes bugging out for better focus, I suppose. He walks across the courtyard and tests the doorknob on the kitchen door. It's open.
     Dang, I forgot to lock it.
     He turns the doorknob, pushes the door in, and comes inside... but it's too late. Like a ninja, I've disappeared into the shadows.
     "Heh, heh, heh," I laughed to myself.
     Today was payback for me, because of yesterday. Man is a creature of habit, and I grab myself my noon cup of coffee. I'm sitting in the island in the kitchen. I grabbed the newspaper. My Dad has already had his way with it, so it's all mixed up. I pay for the paper, so you would think that the least my Dad could do would be to put it back in order when he was done. You would think so, but you'd be wrong.
     My Dad is sitting in the great room in his favorite chair. It used to be my favorite chair, but when my Dad moved in, it became his favorite chair.
     "Just sit somewhere else," my wife would tell me. "What does it matter?"
     Spoken like a woman. I don't mean that in a sexist way. I'm just saying that women don't understand the need to mark and defend their territories. Let me just say that, to men, it matters.
     My Dad is watching something else besides baseball. He's watching reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Bob Crane is his favorite actor. I once tried to tell him how Bob Crane died, but my Dad would have none of it. My Dad also likes to watch the afternoon news, mainly because of the weather girl with big boobs.
     I grab the newspaper, and I try to put it in order. I say "try" because there's no Sports Section. No Sports Section? That's right, there's no Sports Section.
     "Dad," I call out to him, "do you have the Sports Section?"
     No answer. Bob Crane is kissing Colonel Klink's sexy blonde secretary. That's got my Dad's attention.
     "Dad." Pause. "Dad!"
     "What are you yelling at me for?" he finally answers.
     "Do you have the Sports Section?"
     "What?"
     "Do you have the Sports Section?"
     "The Sports Section?"
     "Yeah."
     "What would I be doing with the Sports Section? I don't like sports."
     This from a man who watches ninety-nine per cent baseball--and one per cent women with big boobs--on television.
     "When you were reading the newspaper, did you put it someplace?"
     "Why would I do that?"
     I don't know, to drive me nuts? That's what I wanted to tell him. What I actually said was: "Because you were reading the paper."
     "What?"
     "Maybe you misplaced the Sports Section, because you were reading the paper."
     "I haven't read the paper."
     It was my turn to go, "What?"
     "I haven't read the paper this morning."
     I looked at the newspaper in my hands. It was like an unmade jigsaw puzzle with one missing piece.
     "What do you mean you haven't read the paper?"
     "What do you mean what do I mean? I haven't read the paper."
     I look at my Dad. There's not a girl with big boobs on the TV screen, so he's looking at me back, directly in my eyes.
     "I... haven't... read... the... paper," he insists.
     What do I do? Call him a liar? My wife will read the paper eventually, but in the morning all she's interested in are the ads. That's how she plans her day. By deciding where she's going to spend our retirement funds. My point being that I know it's not her who disected the newspaper.
     I think my Dad must have thrown out the Sports Section to get even with me for yesterday. Either that, or he likes looking at the sexy pictures in the gentlemen club ads. I can't fault him for that. I would just like to read the Sports Section first, before he hides those sexy pictures under the mattress of his bed.
     My Dad's still looking me square in the eye. Daring me to call him a liar. I know inside he's laughing. At me.
     He makes a large smack, smack, smack noise, and turns back to watch the television. I go back to trying to put back the newspaper in its original order. I'll read what's left, but I won't enjoy it.
     No, siree... I won't enjoy it at all.
  

  

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com. American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

  

Somehow He Knows (Part One)

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.
     "Your Dad?"
     "Yeah."
     For the last three days I've been trying to dust-mop and buff the oak floor downstair. As usual, however, no sooner do I start to dust the floor, than he walks into the kitchen for his tea. And then, once he has his tea--and also proving in the process that he doesn't need my wife to make it for him--he sits himself in his favorite chair in the great room and watches TV.  Sometimes he even turns it on. These last few days it's been on, and that meant I couldn't use the buffer. It makes too much noise.
     Today, I finally get lucky, and I was able to finish dusting the floor. No Dad. He's still in his little house. I quickly grab the buffer, and just as I turn it on, guess who walks in? My Dad. Only I'm standing between him and his favorite chair. With a buffer.
     Can't he see I'm busy in here? I pretend not to see him, and begin to buff the floor. He stands there, looking at me work. He's trying to figure out his next course of action. He doesn't say anything. No "Hi, how are you?" No "Good morning." No "Get the Hell out of my way!" I can still hear him, however.
     Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhh, well..." Big sigh, then smack, smack, smack some more.
     He finally decides what to do. Instead of coming in straight through the kitchen and into the greatroom, he takes a different route to get to his favorite chair. An immediate right, and then down the front hall.
     "Oh, my..." he says to nobody, and plops himself down in front of the TV. It's off. Again, for some reason known only to him, he doesn't bother to turn it on. He just sits there and watches a black screen. My wife will usually turn it on for him if she's around, but today she's not around. She's upstairs and keeping herself busy and out of my way. My Dad, however, was never one to take a hint.
     I've never worked harder in my life than since I've retired, and I'm hard at work now, putting a fine finish on the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. It's almost hypnotic. My music is on, but I can't even hear what song is playing because the buffer is so loud.
     But I can hear my Dad.
     "Ahhhohhh, ohhh, my..."
     I had all of the curtains closed, but somehow he still saw me. Somehow he knew I was inside. And busy. I don't know how.
     After I finish, I figure I can't pretend to not see him any longer, so I ask him:
     "Dad, do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
     "What?"
     "Do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
     "What?"
     "Do You Want Me To Turn On The TV For You?"
     "Do you want me to what?"
     "TURN ON THE TV FOR YOU!"
     "Don't yell at me!"
     I go upstairs.
     If it wasn't for his smacking, I would be more than happy to sit with him and watch The Price Is Right or Wheel of Fortune with him. Maybe even Everybody Loves Ramon. But no more baseball games. I'm still shell-shocked from the first year he moved in. I watched more baseball games in that one year, than all the other years of my life put together. But I wanted him to feel at home, so I watched.
     After that year, I told my wife, "Sweetie, I love my Dad, but I can't watch any more baseball." She understood. I think that's part of the reason she caters to my father more than she should.
     I return downstairs an hour or two later, and I find him still sitting in the great room. The TV off. His eyes closed. Is he asleep, or...
     I stand there quietly, and watch him for a few seconds.
     SMACK!
    All is right with the world, and I go back upstairs.
 

 

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com. American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

Who Feeds The Dog? I Do.

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 feel like going on your walk."
     "Yeah, but I didn't say I didn't feel good. I just said I didn't feel like going on my walk. That's not the same thing."
     He has a point. I guess. I just wish he wouldn't make it with a what-are-you,-nuts? look on his face.
     On occassion, he'll also go on an afternoon walk. Today, that's what he does. It's a little warm for where we live, 79 degrees and sunny. Dad goes out wearing an old t-shirt, a very old gray sweater, and old sweat pants... with a very new, state of the art pair of walking shoes that he says make his feet hurt and have shoelaces that don't work. On days when it's cold, he'll go out wearing a t-shirt and Speedos. Just kidding. He'll put on his flip-flops, too. The point is he always decides to wear the opposite of what the weather calls for. We no longer tell him when it's hot outside or cold outside or if there's an earthquake in progress. He's old enough to make his own decisions.
     He returned an hour later, and, as usual, my wife has something cold for him too drink... but not too cold. My wife is thoughtful that way.
     My Dad walks into the house, and she hands it to him. No words are exchanged. In other words, he doesn't say thank you. What he does do is take the glass and help himself to a big drink.
     "Ahhh..." he says. "Mmm..." he continues. "Oh, yeah... that was good." Still no thank you. "That hit the spot."
     I'm sure it did.
     "What kind of orange juice was that?" he asks my wife.
     "It's the Sam's brand," she tells him. "Did you like it?"
     She's expecting a positive response, especially with the enthusiasm he showed drinking it.
     "Ummm... ahhh..." my Dad hems and haws. "It's not as good as the one you used to buy."
     The one we used to buy is the exact same brand. We've bought the Sam's brand of orange juice since there've been orange trees. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exageration, but we have been getting it for a long time. At least as long as since my Dad moved in with us.
     To make a long story short, my Dad sits himself down at the table and waits to be served dinner. My wife's a good cook, but she's not our maid.
     "That's okay," my wife will tell me. "I don't mind serving him."
     "Yeah, but I mind," I tell her, or I would have told her, but why open that particular can of worms?
     After she serves my Dad she turns her attention to our grandson who happens to be spending the day with us, he's a toddler. He's a toddler, and he requires less attention from us than my Dad does. He's less fussy, that's for sure. Mainly, he likes to todddle around with a big smile on his face.
     To help her, I start to serve myself. I can see she has her hands full.
     Dad keeps eating. For an old guy, he's shoveling his food down like the guy in charge of shoveling coal into a steam train's boiler. He doesn't even look up when he tells my wife, "Don't worry about feeding my dog, I'll do it." Which is code for, "When are you going to feed my dog?"
     I look at my wife. My wife looks at me. We both notice my Dad continues eating and makes no move toward getting up to feed his dog. She shakes her head and gives me a smile before answering my father.
     "I'll feed him as soon as I'm done feeding the baby," she tells him.
     "Oh, okay" my Dad answers, "If you insist."
     "I'll get it, sweetie," I tell her, getting up. I lean closer, and whisper in her ear, "But it's gonna cost you."
     I give her a laschievious wink, and walk off to get the dogfood, which we keep in the kitchen pantry.
     "What'd he say?" my Dad asks my wife when he thinks I can't hear him.
     "He said he's going to feed your dog," she tells him.
     "No," he says, "The other thing."
     "What other thing, Dad?"
     My Dad's going to say something, but stops when I walk back into view.
     "Oh... nothing," he says.
     I know he wants to know what I whispered in my wife's ear, but he just doesn't know how to ask. So to tease him, I lean over and whisper in my wife's ear again.
     "Pretend I just said something funny," I tell her.
     "You're evil," she tells me, not quite loud enough for my Dad to hear.
     "What?" he asks. "What about the dog?" Which is code for, "Is it about me?"
     There's an old rock and roll song where the singer sings, "I love being bad, 'cause it sure feels good."
     I know exactly what he means.
    
     

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com

@JimDuchene

  

Dad's New Dog

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 getting lucky tonight.

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 finally get up, and go downstairs. I'm expecting to find the new puppy by itself, left all alone.

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!

     Instead, I find him sitting next to my Dad.

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!

     Barking at nothing.

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!

     And for no reason.

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!

     My life just keeps getting better and better.

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!

     "Heh, heh," my Dad chuckles when he sees me, and gives me a what-can-I-do? look.

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!

     "He likes to bark," my father explains.

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!

     "Crazy dog," he says, and gives his new friend an affectionate pat on the head.

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!

     That dog better pray my Dad sticks around.
 

Raising My Father 

@JimDuchene

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

  

If We Live Long Enough

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. The generation before mine wasn't so fortunate. Ask FDR.
     But don't tell my wife. Right now I'm having too much fun teasing her on her deathbed.
     My first wife used to drive me nuts when I was sick. I'd be in bed, sleeping, trying to heal, and she'd come in every hour on the hour.
     "Are you sleeping?" she would ask, as her head peeked around the used-to-be-closed bedroom door.
     "Not anymore."
     "How do you feel?"
     "Let me sleep. Please. I'm begging you."
     And she would. For an hour, at least. I'm not saying that was the reason we eventually got a divorce, but I'm not saying it isn't one of the reasons.
     Hmm... maybe I should rethink this whole teasing my wife when she's sick thing.
     My Dad, on the other hand, doesn't know what to do with himself when my wife is sick. He knows how to turn on the TV, how to work the remote, and how to fix his own tea, snacks, and food, but my wife has him extremely spoiled.
     He'll sit in his favorite chair in the great room, and my wife will turn on the TV for him.
     "What channel do you want it on, Dad?" she'll ask him. I don't know why she asks. He always wants it on the baseball channel. But she asks him anyway.
     Once my Dad's comfortable and watching a game, she'll ask him if he wants something to eat.
     "Some ice cream, Dad?" she'll ask him.
     "Ahhh... ice cream? I don't know. What flavor do you have?" I don't know why he asks. We always have the same three flavors. But he asks her anyway.
     "We have vanilla and chocolate, Dad."
     "Any strawberry?"
     "We have strawberry, too."
     "Ahhh... strawberry? I don't know."
     It takes him a few minutes to decide. My wife is a saint. She'll wait patiently for him to answer.
     "Oh, okay," he'll finally say. He never says no. I don't know why he takes so long to answer. "But not too much. You always serve me too much."
     I don't say anything, but what I'm thinking is, "Instead of complaining, how about just saying thank you." But, like I said, I don't say anything.
     So my wife will bring him a small bowl of strawberry ice cream, and she'll even add a few cookies on the side. My Dad likes cookies.
     When it's time to eat, I have no problem serving myself. My wife's a busy lady. She's just worked hard cooking everybody great meals, and serving myself is the least I can do. My Dad, on the other hand, just plops himself down at the kitchen table and waits to be served. He won't eat, unless he's served. But my dad's 93 years-old. I guess I shouldn't complain.
     When my wife's sick, however, it's another story. My Dad's a grown man. I don't baby him. I'll cook for us, but it's up to him to serve himself.
     Yesterday, when he got home from his walk, I was just about done making some steak and eggs. The steak was from the day before. I cut it up into pieces, heated it up in the frying pan, and scrambled some eggs to go with it.
     "You hungry, Dad?"
     "What?"
     "Are you hungry?"
     "What are you making?"
     "Steak and eggs."
     "Steak and what?"
     "Steak and eggs."
     "Ahhh... steak and eggs?" He'll think about it. "Well, I am hungry."
     By this time, the food is done, and I've served myself and am sitting down at the table.
     "Well, the food's ready, Dad. Help yourself."
     And he does.
     For dinner that night, my daughter brought him some gumbo soup. 
     "I brought you dinner, Grandpa."
     "You did? What'd you bring?"
     "I brought you some gumbo."
     "Oh, boy," he said. "I like gumbo."
     And, again, he just plopped himself down at the table, and waited to be served. No thank you for the gumbo. No thank you for serving him. No thank you at all. Later that night, she brought him some ice cream.
     "You served me too much," he told her. "I didn't want this much."
     "Sorry, Grandpa," she told him.
     It may have been too much, but that didn't keep him from enthusiastically eating all of it.
     This morning, my wife was still in bed. I told my Dad early, before he went on his walk.
     "I don't think she's coming downstairs, Dad," I told him.
     He mumbled something and left.
     While he was gone, I was busy feeding the dogs and cleaning up. I worked fast, because I wanted to get in an early workout, because I was supposed to pick up my grandson later. He spent the night with his auntie. She picks him up several times a month, wines and dines him, and I usually pick him up later in the day. Last night was the first night he had spent the night at her house, and I was anxious to see him.
     I go upstairs to see how my wife's doing.
     "How are you feeling, sweetie?" I ask her.
     "Better."
     "Really?"
     "No."
     "Can I get you something?"
     "Water, please."
     "Are you thirsty?"
     "No. I just want to water my plants."
    My wife. The smart ass.
     So I went downstairs to get her some water. I found my Dad sitting in the shadows, in front of a TV he hasn't bothered to turn on. I guess he was waiting for my wife to come downstairs to turn it on for him and fix him breakfast.
     Well, this time he's on his own. Today I'm just too busy, and I know he's capable of fending for himself. However, just so you know I'm not heartless, my conscience tugs at me. It's kind of sad seeing him sitting there, in a dark room, in front of a black TV. There was a time when my Dad was young and strong and he had the world in his hands. Now, he's an old man sitting by himself. We're all heading there, I guess.
     If we live long enough.
  
  

Raising My Father 

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

  

Smack! Smack! Smack!

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 point out.
     "I'll be all right," he'll insist.
     "Take your jacket," I'll beg.
     "I'll be back," he'll say, but what he really means is,"Nobody tells me what to do."
     So off he'll go.
     And when he comes back his cheeks will be a bright pink, his nose will be running, and he'll rub his hands together briskly trying to warm them up and say, "Man, it's cold outside."
     On the days when it's hot, he'll come back looking as if he's just had a stroke.
     "Why didn't you tell me how hot it was?" he'll say, gulping down a glass of water that my wife always makes sure is waiting for him at the end of his walk.
     I don't know if he's serious, or if he's just kidding me.
     Two nights ago he was sitting in his favorite chair watching his favorite sport on his favorite TV. His favorite team was playing. The score was tied. It was a good game. Even I was interested. Out of the blue, Dad called it a day, and went to bed. My wife and I had been talking quietly in the kitchen. We just looked at each other.
     "Good night, Dad," we told him as he tiredly ambled off.
     Sooner or later, Father Time catches up with all of us. No matter how hard we work out. No matter how healthy we eat.
     For example...
     I've noticed that the older I get, the more noises I make. I sometimes grunt when I sit down, and I sometimes grunt when I get up. When I lay down to go to bed, before I put on the mask of my CPAP machine, I clear my throat and cough up phlegm about a dozen times. I don't know how my wife still sleeps with me, because I probably drive her nuts.
     My Dad, on the other hand, drives me nuts. With all of his lip smacking, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and front teeth cleaning with his tongue. I've tried to sit down with him and watch TV, but, after awhile, the only sounds I hear are the ones he's making with his mouth. Sofia Vergara, from Modern Family, can be jiggling around in one of her tight outfits, but I can't enjoy it. I have to get up, and go someplace else. Someplace where I can't hear the never ending smack, smack, smack!
     Yesterday, the ah, ah, aahhh... and oohhh... and hee, hee, heeeee... and ooo weeeee...  were so loud I could hear him all the way upstairs and in my bedroom. "Sorry, Sofia," I thought to myself as I turned off the TV, "I just can't give you the attention you deserve."
     The noises were so loud, my wife even asked if my Dad was all right.
     "He really likes baseball," I told her, not really explaining anything.
     The other day, my daughter asked me why I never sat with Grandpa when he watched TV. She couldn't help but notice that I  was watching the same program upstairs in my bedroom that my Dad was watching downstairs in the great room.
     She shouldn't have asked.
     I told her the whole story.
     She thought I was being mean, and went downstairs to join her grandpa in front of the TV. A while later, she came back and told me I never should have told her about Grandpa smacking his lips.
     "That's all I hear now," she complained. She had a bowl of cereal in her hands. "I can't even eat in the kitchen, because all I hear is the smacking."
     She shook her head sadly.
     "Poor Grandpa," she said, as she walked off to her room.
     Poor Grandpa, indeed. True, it's sad, but life as a very elderly person is sad. And it's a road we'll all have to travel one day.
     If we're lucky.
    

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

  

"Is There A Game Today?"

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 seventies. When I first began listening to Eric Clapton or Led Zeppelin I thought they were geniuses. Forty years later, when I widened my taste in music to include the likes of Buddy Guy or Z.Z. Hill*, I realized that everything I loved about rock-n-roll was stolen from these guys. I have a CD box set of all the Led Zeppelin albums. I haven't listened to it since.
     But that's neither here nor there. The point is that I'm enjoying my early afternoon. The song changes, and it's a song I don't recognize. The singer sounds like he's drunk, as if Richard Pryor's old wino character was given a guitar and microphone and told to earn his next bottle of Thunderbird.
     I go from Dear Abby to the comics section of the newspaper. That's when my Dad walks into the kitchen.
     "Hey, Dad," I say, but I keep my head down. I've already said hello to him this morning, not that I'm counting how many times I say hello to him in any given day. I can understand when people like Hilary Clinton and Sylvester Stallone tell their employees not to look at them, talk to them, or make eye contact with them when they pass each other. Otherwise they'd be spending the whole day acknowledging people they feel are beneath them, and they wouldn't have time to do important stuff like sell fiction to the general public.
     My Dad mumbles something, but I pay him no mind. I know that sounds mean, but I've learned that when he wants to say something he wants me to acknowledge, he'll speak up.
     He mumbles again, this time louder. And then he walks over to the TV set, stands in front, and looks at it. I still don't look up. He knows I'm listening to music on the TV. And I know that he has a TV in his room. He can watch whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but what he usually wants is to watch TV on the big TV in the great room. It drives me nuts, because it means I can't watch what I want to watch, or listen to what I want to listen to.
     "Isn't there a game today?" my Dad finally speaks up.
     Quite clearly, I might add.
     I ignore him, but not in a mean way. More like a Clint-Eastwood-when-he's-not-busy-talking-to-a-chair kind of way. I know there's a game today. HE knows there's a game today. Even Clint Eastwood's chair knows there's a game today. We have a dozen or so baseball channels. Even if there wasn't a game, there would still be a game.
     "Isn't there a game today?" my Dad asks again.
     This time he even turns to look at me. He wants to make sure I heard.
     I make the mistake of quickly glancing up.
     Our eyes meet.
     I can't pretend I didn't hear him.
     "Did you say something, Dad?" I pretend anyway.
     "Isn't there a game today?"
     "A game?"
     "Yes."
     "Today?"
     "Yes."
     "I don't think so," I tell him.
     He doesn't buy it.
     "I'm sure there's a game today."
     "You sure?"
     "Yeah, I'm sure. Cleveland's playing."
     Cleveland's his favorite team.
     "Then I guess there's a game."
     "I knew it, I knew there was a game."
     I'm thinking to myself, if he knew there was a game, then what was he asking me for? We're at a stalemate, of sorts. He's not asking me if he can change the channel to the game, and I'm not offering to let him change the channel to the game. If my wife were there, he'd already be sitting down in front of the TV, feet up, and being served champagne and caviar.
     Unfortunately for him, my wife's not there.
     Mumble, mumble.
     I ignore him.
     Mumble, mumble.
     Dang! I briefly looked up, and our eyes meet again.
     "Did you say something, Dad?"
     "I think Cleveland's playing today."
     "Cleveland?"
     "Oh, yeah. Cleveland's my favorite team."
     "You sure it's today?"
     "Sure, I'm sure."
     We're at a stalemate again. He stands there, looking at me. Tampa Red is singing When Things Go Wrong With You (It Hurts Me, Too).
     I no longer have the heart to keep it up.
     "Sit down, Dad," I tell him. "Let's see if the game's on."
     He sits down. Doesn't even tell me thank you. Instead he says, not quite mumbling but not quite clearly, "Of course the game's on. I told you  that already." And then he says "I know when the game's on." to the chair next to him.
     My Dad.
     The new Clint Eastwood.
     I change the channel and put on the Cleveland game. His favorite team is 100 games out of the playoffs, losing 20 out of the last 22 games. There's no hope for them this year. The only hope is next year, or the year after that. Or the year after that.
     My Dad settles down in his favorite chair watching his favorite team on his favorite TV set. I go back to drinking my luke-warm coffee, and finishing up the comics. Then it starts...
     Smack!
     I lift my eyes.
     Smack, smack, SMACK!
     My Dad has the nasty habit of smacking his lips whenever he watches TV. He smacks, he moans, he yawns, he sighs, he oohs and aaahs, but what he mainly does is annoy me. I've tried, but I can't sit down with him to watch anything on TV, because his constant noises are so distracting.
     "You should try," my wife will sometimes admonish me.
     "Why don't YOU try?"
     "He's not MY father
     "Yeah, but he's YOUR father-in-law."
     "What does THAT have to do with anything?"
     "Nothing, but he's still YOUR father-in-law."
     "Why are you trying to drag ME into it?"
     "Because YOU brought it up."
     "What have I ever done to you?"
     It was worth a shot.
     Oh, well. Back to the present...
     "Ahhh... ohhh..." Big sigh. Followed by an even bigger SMACK! "Ohhh... ahhh..." Smack, smack, smack. Mumble, mumble.
     Shoot me. Please.
     I grab my coffee and leave the kitchen. I walk upstairs to watch the TV in my bedroom. That TV doesn't have a converter to play music.
     It's a mean old world, indeed.

RaisingDad

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

*Z.Z. Hill. ZZ Top. See the connection?
 

Revenge of the Missing Keys

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.
     "Where did he find them?" I asked.
     We took our coffee cups and went out to sit in our patio, and enjoy the morning.  I took my usual spot, and my wife took hers.
     "When he got dressed this morning to go on his walk," she said, "he decided to wear his black sports pants."  Black pants?  It's 84 degrees outside!  It's too hot to be walking around in black pants.  "And there they were.  They were in his pants' pocket all this time."
     We shook our heads, and laughed to ourselves.  And then we talked about other things.  We talked about the upcoming election.  We talked about the bad economy.  We talked about the last time we were in the house alone together for any length of time.
     And that's when my Dad decided to show up.  He has that kind of timing.
     "What were you guys talking about? he asked as he sat down with us.
     Getting old is strange.  My Dad can't hear what we're saying when we're talking to him from only a few feet away, but somehow he hears everything we don't want him to hear.
     He can be in the great room watching a baseball game on our TV, we can be in the kitchen with the kitchen TV set on, I can have my back to him, and if I whisper to my wife, "Did you want to go see that new Wes Anderson movie that came out?"
     My Dad will yell, "The one about those kids?" from where he's sitting.
     On the other hand, I'll be sitting right next to him and I'll ask him, "Dad, have you seen the remote?"
     "The what?"
     "The remote to the TV."
     "The what to the TV?"
     "The remote."
     "To the TV?"
     "Yeah."
     "Why would I  know where the remote is?"
     It drives me nuts.  And on those rare conversations that he doesn't quite catch what we're saying, he'll just ask us afterward what we were talking about.  First he'll ask my wife, and then he'll ask me, and then he'll compare our stories to see if we're lying to him.  It's gotten to the point that I'll wait until we're upstairs alone, before I'll tell my wife anything or ask her anything.  I'd wait until he goes into his room, but that would mean a long wait.  A very long wait.
     Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
     "Are you guys ready for breakfast?" my wife asks us, getting up.
     "Sure, sweetie," I tell her.  "Need help?"
     "I'm fine," she says.  "Finish your coffee."
     "Not too much for me," my Dad tells her.  "You always serve me too much."
     "Okay, Dad," my wife tells him, and goes off into the direction of the kitchen.  "I won't."
     We sit there for awhile.  Me, taking a sip or two of my coffee.  My Dad, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  I told you it was hot.
     "I heard you found your keys," I tell him.  He shakes his head, and laughs.
     "Yeah, heeheehee," he laughs.  "I found them."
     I wait.  He doesn't elaborate.
     "Where did you find them?"
     "What?"
     "Where did you find them?"
     "Find what?"
     "Your keys.  Where did you find them?"
     "Where did I find my keys?"
     "Yeah."
     "Oh, yeah--heehee--they were in my pants."
     "In your pants?"
     "Yeah, in my pants.  I must have forgotten them."
     "So the baby didn't take them from you?"
     "Who?"
     "The baby.  The baby didn't take them from you?"
     "Why would the baby take my keys?"
     "But, didn't you say..."
     "Say what?"
     "...that the baby took your keys?"
     "Why would I say that?"
     My Dad laughed, shook his head, and looked at me as if I was an idiot.
     "How could a baby take my keys from me?" he asked me.  "I'm a grown man and he's just a baby."
     He was right.  That was MY point all along. 
     My wife stuck her head through the door.
     "Breakfast is ready," she said, smiling, knowing what we're probably talking about.  I must get a particular kind of look on my face when my Dad has me flustered.
     "Get this," my Dad tells my wife, and nods toward me.  "He thinks the baby took my keys."  My Dad turns back to me, and makes a kind of snorting sound.  "How could a baby take my keys?"
     We get up, and walk into the kitchen.
     "By the way," he asks, all of a sudden suspicious, "how did you  know I found my keys?"
  
  

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

*"What do you mean?  An African or European swallow?"
  "What?  I don't know that!" (Bo-iiing!) "Auuuuuugh!"
 

Return of the Missing Keys

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 pretty much see anybody who would leave our house and go into his.  Besides which, I don't know why the fact that he (or  my wife) always seems to find his keys (usually in his pants) doesn't make his first response be that his keys are just misplaced, not stolen. 
     He's even blamed his 2 year-old great-grandson.  He knows--KNOWS, I tell you--that the baby takes his keys.
     "He must have snuck into my room while I was watching the baseball game," he'll say.  "Why don't you guys watch him better?"
     I bristle at those kind of comments.  First off, the baby is never out of anyone's sight, and secondly, the baby isn't allowed in my Dad's room.  Besides which, the logistics of the baby sneaking out of our house, sneaking into Dad's guest house, stealing the key, and then successfully making his escape...  well, let's just say I'd sooner believe my Dad's a back-up dancer for Lady Gaga. 
     But the main reason it's not possible that the baby takes his keys is that my Dad uses his keys in the morning when he goes on his walks, and the baby is usually off stealing cars when my Dad discovers his keys are missing.
     My Dad will go on about it so much that I'll get to the point of defending the poor baby's honesty, but my wife will put a subtle hand on my knee, and I'll leave it at that.  There's no reason to reason with him.  He'll think his keys have been stolen, until he finds them.  And then he'll shake his head, chuckle, and say, "Er...  ahhh...  they were in my pants after all."
     That happens so often I don't know why his pants aren't the first place he looks.
     Right now I'm watching the Olympics on TV.  Admiring the skimpy uniforms of the female athletes.
     "Yes, dear," I'll agree with my wife, and pretend to be disgusted.  "Those costumes are way too skimpy for a world-wide audience."
     I'm careful not to drool when I say this.
     Basically, I'm just minding my own business when I notice my Dad coming into the kitchen.  He's just left his room, and he's mumbling something about his keys.
     He laughs, looks down, and shakes his head.
     "That little guy," he chuckles, and makes his smacking noise.  Smack, smack, smack!  "That little guy took the keys."
     "What, Dad?" I ask him, although I know better.  I try to keep one eye on the TV set.
     "What?"
     "What did you say?"
     "What did I say?"
     "What did you say about the keys?"
     "What did I say about the keys?"
     "You were saying something about your keys."
     "Oh, yeah," smack!  "That little guy, he...  he...  ahhh, I had the keys when he grabbed them from me."
     "The baby took your keys?"
     "He was so fast, so fast."
     "The baby took your keys?"  I ask him again.  It was my turn to repeat myself.  
     "Yeah, that little guy grabbed the keys and took off running.  He was so fast, and now he lost them."  Smack, smack, smack!
     "The baby's not even here.  How could he take the key from you?"
     "I don't mean now, I mean earlier."
     "Why didn't you tell us then?"
     "What?"
     "Why didn't you tell us then?  When he took your keys?"
     "What?"
     I had to change direction.
     "How could the baby take the keys from you?" I asked my Dad.  I almost laughed at the image of a 2 year-old baby snatching the keys out of my Dad's hand, and then giving him a noogie for good measure. 
     "What?"
     "How could the baby take the keys from you?" I ask him again.  "What was he even doing in your room?"
     "I don't know how he took the keys from me, he just did.  He was so fast."
     "Well, what was he doing in your room?"
     "I don't know what he was doing in my room, he just was.  And now there's no idea what he did with them.  He's lost them."
     It's not that I don't believe my Dad when he says a 2 year-old was able to snatch something out of his hand, it's just that I don't believe a 2 year-old could snatch something out of man's hand, even if that man is 93 years-old.  I don't know what really happened, but I find that particular scenario pretty farfetched.
     I was going to ask him that if the baby took the keys from him, why didn't he just take them right back.  Or how the baby was able to get away.  Or how the baby was able to get into his room in the first place.  Or why didn't he just tell us about it when it happened.  Or...  or...  or...
     Please, if the baby had taken my Dad's keys we would have heard about it.  My Dad gets a little nervous around the baby.  As soon as the baby gets close to him, we hear about it.  There's probably a dozen reasons why my Dad gets nervous.  None of which I'll bore you with right now.  What it comes down to is this:
     The poor baby is too young to defend himself, and my Dad is too old to be interrogated.
  
  

RaisingDad

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene