Trying To Watch TV

My Dad's favorite sport is baseball.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's because he comes from a time when there was nothing else to do.  Back when he was growing up, it didn't matter that a baseball game could go on for hours and hours.  And hours.  What else were you going to do?  Go home, cut an apple in half, and watch it turn brown?
     My wife tries to make it as enjoyable as she can for him.  She fluffs his pillows.  She makes him snacks.  She even sits him down and turns on the TV for him.  The only problem is, he won't stay sitting down.  He gets up and goes to his room constantly.
     And when he does, after ten or fifteen minutes, we'll change the channel.  But my Dad must have some kind of radar, because, when we do, that's exactly the time he decides to come back.  He'll walk into the family room, stand on one side of the TV, look at it, at us, at it, at us, and ask no one in particular, "Is the game over?"
     He knows the game isn't over.  I have a sneaking suspicion that he's secretly been watching it in his room, on his TV, laughing to himself--"Heh, heh, heh."--and when he thinks enough time has passed for us to have changed the channel, he comes back.
     "No," I'll tell him, "but you went to your room, so we thought you were watching it there."  I give him hints that are so big, they could be rolling down a cave at Indiana Jones.
     So we'll change the TV back for him.  After awhile, my wife will get up and fiddle around in the kitchen.  She'll clean something, or make us some popcorn.  I'll pick up a magazine, and go thumbing through it.  You know I'm bored, when reading what Martha Stewart has to say is the more entertaining alternative. 
     Dad then gets up, and goes to his room.  He doesn't say, "I'll be back."  He doesn't say, "Goodnight."  He doesn't say, "Excuse me, but I've got to go see a man about a horse."  He just leaves, without a word.
     My wife eventually makes her way back, and sits besides me.  I'll put the magazine down.  And we'll talk for a bit.  After another ten to fifteen minutes have passed, we'll look at each other.  I'll pick up the remote, and change the channel.  With any lucks there will be a rerun of Wings, an old TV show we both like.  That, or Third Rock From The Sun. 
     "Hey," I'll say, "I haven't seen this episode."
     And right on cue, my Dad will walk in.  He'll look at the TV, at us, at the TV, and back at us.
     "Is the game over?"
     'When you left, Dad," I tell him, "I thought that meant you didn't want to watch the game."
     "No, I want to watch the game."
     So we change the television back to baseball.  Dad continues standing, watching the game for a few minutes, before he walks off again.
     Ten minutes later, no Dad.
     Twenty minutes later, no Dad.
     "What do you think?" my wife will ask me.
     "I think he's not coming back," I'll say, but I know better.
     "Should we change it?"
     "He'll only come back, and we'll have to change it again."
     "How does he know?"
     "I don't know.  He just does."
     "Do you think he has us bugged?"  I know my wife is kidding.  She has that wry smile she gets when she's being facetious.  My wife is funny, but she has a very dry sense of humor.  If you miss the visual cues, you'll think she was serious.  She pretends to look around.  She points.  "Did that mirror used to be there?"
     So I change the TV.  Again.  Wow, Homicide:  Life On The Streets. That's one of my all-time favorite shows.  The only thing better would be St. Elsewhere. Yeah, I'm old. 
     At the thirty minute mark my Dad comes back, right on schedule.  He has papers in his hands, and tells me he wants me to help him with his bank statements. 
     My wife gives me that wry smile again.  Then, without a word, she gets up and goes upstairs.  She gives me a little salute on her way out.  She knows better than to stay.
     "What's the problem, Dad?"
     Dad sits himself down at the kitchen table.  So I have to get up, go over, and see what's bothering him.
     "I don't know about my bank," he tells me.  "Those characters, they'll cheat you blind if you don't watch them."
     "What do you mean, Dad?"
     He shows me his statement.  I look it over.  It looks fine to me.
     "Those characters are after my money," he tells me.  "You have to watch them."    
     He asks about this deposit, and that one.  They are the same deposits that are made every month, and in the same amounts.  He asks me about a few of the deductions.  I tell him, well, Dad, on this day you did this, and on that day you paid for that.  Everything checks out, and thirty minutes after we began, we're done. 
     My Dad gets up, he takes a step toward his room, then stops.  Looks at the TV.  He picks up the remote, changes the channel back to the baseball game he keeps not watching, and then leaves.  Back to his room.  To finish not watching the game, I suppose. 
     I sit down.  Turn off the TV.  There's nothing I really want to watch, anyway.  After awhile, when she feels there's no longer a disturbance in The Force, my wife comes back down, and sits beside me.
     "Is the game over?" she asks. 
 
 

Raising My Father

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There's An Old Joke...

There's an old joke that goes: 
     An elderly man says to his doctor, "Doc, I have this problem.  I keep throwing these silent little farts all day long.  (See?  There goes one now).  I can't help it, doc.  I keep farting and farting, but they make no noise.  (Oops!  There goes another one.)  I don't know what's wrong with me.  I can throw the most massive farts, and they'll make no sound.  (Ahhh, that's three in a row.)  What do you think?"
     "Well," the doctor says.  "I think you need to have your hearing checked."
 
     Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:
 
     My Dad has his own room.  His room, actually, is in a guest house in the front of our main house.  If it's not called the Father-In-Law House, then it should be.  His room has its own satellite TV, radio/CD player, telephone, and refrigerated air.  The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house, which forces everybody--mainly me--to watch TV somewhere else.
     And that's where my Dad is right now.  He's watching baseball.  In fact, he's been watching baseball all day long.
     "Who's playing, Dad?" I'll ask him.
     "I don't know," he'll answer, and keep watching. 
     If it's not the Yankees, he really doesn't care who's playing.  Now, I like baseball as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is someone who doesn't like baseball, and I have fond memories of watching baseball on TV as a toddler, when the only other options were The Edge of Night and Sing Along With Mitch.  When and where I lost my interest in baseball, who knows?  But it's gone.  No use crying over spilled milk.
     Speaking of milk, I'm kind of hungry, so I pour myself a glass of 2% and start to fix myself something to eat.
     "Do you want something, Dad?" I ask.
     "What?"
     "Would you like something to eat?"
     "Would I like something to eat?"
     "I'm fixing myself something, and would like to know if you would like me to fix you something."
     "You're making it?"
     "I'm the only one here, Dad."
     "Would I like something to eat."
     "Yes."
     "And you're making it."
     "Yes."
     "No, thanks."  My Dad is the only one who can make a polite statement sound insulting.
     Well, more for me.
     I'm not too picky about what I eat, and that's probably why Dad turned me down.  I tend to keep things simple.  It's not that I don't appreciate good food, I do.  And it's not that my wife isn't a good cook, she is.  It's just that in my bachelor years I got used to eating pretty much anything that was available.  Fast food.  Leftovers.  Meals by girlfriends trying to prove they can cook.  I kid my wife that I married her for only two reasons:  She could cook in the kitchen, and she could cook in the bedroom.*
     Meanwhile, my Dad gets up from his chair and goes to his little house with all the deluxe accommodations.  I grab some potato bread, Miracle Whip, various lunch meats, and lettuce, tomato, and such.  I decide to live large, so I even grab an avocado.
     Ten minutes have passed, and no Dad.
     I tear off a couple of lettuce leaves.  Rinse them, put them on the side to dry.  Slice the tomato.  Do the same with the avocado.  I look toward where my Dad had been sitting.  Still no Dad.
     So I grab four slices of potato bread, and slather them with Miracle Whip.  Heck, I decide to live life on the edge, so I grab mustard from the refrigerator, and slather on a little bit of that, too.  It should give my sandwich an interesting combination of sweetness and tart.
     My Dad's still gone.  The fact that he's left on the TV annoys me, and he does that constantly.  He'll sit, turn on the TV, get up, and leave.  I think I've given him enough time, so I walk over, grab the remote, and turn it off.  If he's not back by now, he's not coming back, I reason.
     I guess I shouldn't let it annoy me so much.  I'm sure I did the same thing when I was a kid.  I probably used to get up and and leave Mitch Miller warbling along with the bouncing ball, so I should cut my Dad some slack.  But I'm sure, even as a toddler, I would turn off the TV the majority of the time.  Do you know why I know this? 
     Because my Dad wouldn't have tolerated anything less.
     Settle down, settle down, I tell myself.  If I let myself get too irked about Dad not turning off the TV, I'll ruin my appetite.**
     So I get back to my two sandwiches.  Lettuce leaves torn and rinsed--check!  Tomato and avocado sliced--check!  Potato breads properly slathered--check!  I open the package of turkey slices and put a healthy amount on two separate slices of bread.  Heck, it's turkey...  I pile it on a little higher.  Top it off with the lettuce, tomato, and avocado.  Perfect.
     Just then, my Dad comes back.  He walks back to the TV.  Sees it's off.  I don't know if this confuses him, or if he's upset because I had the nerve to turn it off.  He stands in front of the black screen.  He stands there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do, I guess.  Meanwhile, I serve myself a little more milk, and top off the sandwich with the remaining two slices of bread.
     I keep my head down, ignoring my Dad, and try to enjoy my meal.  I take the first bite of my sandwich.  Mmm, that's good, but you know what it needs?  Some chips.  So I walk over to the pantry, and grab myself a bag of Vinegar & Salt chips.  I can hear him mumbling something.  He mumbles to himself for a few minutes, before he starts walking back to his room.
     "What's that, Dad?"  I ask.
     "Nothing," he mumbles some more.
     To get to his guest house he has to walk right past me, through the kitchen, exit the french doors that lead to the patio, follow a little pathway, and--bam!--he's home.  The part of that sentence that's important is the part where I say he has to walk right past me, because...
     I lift my sandwich to take another bite, when--BRRRAPPP!--he cuts loose with a huge fart just as he's passing me. 
     He mumbles something again, and walks out of the kitchen. 
     I put my sandwich down, and walk away.  My appetite gone.  I don't know if it was intentional, accidental, or revenge for my having turned off a baseball game he really wasn't interested in.  All I know is...
     ...he ruined my meal.
 
 

Raising My Father

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*But let's keep that between you and me.

**Did I mention that he does it ALL the time?  For some reason, instead of turning off the TV, he'll just get up, walk away, and leave it for us to worry about.

 

The Toilet Paper Holder (Part Two)

"Honey," my wife says to me.  She's giving me her sweetest smile.  I know something's up.  "You need to repair the toilet roll holder.  Dad said it came off the cabinet."
     "What?" I almost spit out my coffee.  "How did that happen?"  The holder is bolted onto the side of the cabinet, and the cabinet is made out of one inch plywood.
     Actually, I know how it happened, or, at least, I can put two and two together.  It was Dad.  Godzilla may have lumbered through downtown Tokyo knocking down buildings, but Godzilla's got nothing compared to my Dad.
     So when I ask my wife how it happened, I'm not really looking for an answer.  I mean, I know how the toilet roll holder got broken, but my wife is kind enough to give me an answer anyway.
     "Dad says that the house cleaner is rough on the stuff, and she probably pulled it out."
     I raise one eyebrow at her.  I look in the direction of my father.  He's in the great room.  Watching baseball.  His favorite pastime.  In other words, he's ignoring our entire conversation.  If my wife were to whisper to me that she was going to Sam's, he'd beat her to the car, but this particular conversation is of no interest to him.
     "I'll check it out," I tell her.
     "Dad!" my wife calls out to him.  For some reason she wants to include him in on this.  I've learned that it's sometimes better to not to confuse my Dad with too many facts.  Do what you need to do first, and then apologize, if you have to, after.  "Dad!"
     "Huh...what?" my father says, one eye on the TV.
     "Dad, we're going to go into your room to fix the shower rod and toilet holder."
     (What?  The shower curtain rod, too?)
     "You're going to fix what?" he asks.
     "We're going to fix the rod and toilet roll holder in your room."
     This information doesn't even deserve one eye's worth of attention from him.
     "Yeah, that house cleaner is rough with the cleaning.  She pulled it out.  She broke off the holder by cleaning too hard."
     "Maybe it wasn't her," I chime in.
     "Yeah, it was her."
     "How do you know?"
     "I just know."
     "Maybe," I say, slowly.  My wife knows I'm just teasing my Dad, but she still gives me a cut-it-out look.  My wife gives me good advice.  And I usually come out ahead when I follow it.  Too bad I never do.  "Maybe she used your toilet, and, when she got up, she used the toilet roll holder for support, and her weight broke it off the cabinet."
     "She'd better not be using my toilet," he warns.
     "I'm not saying she did, but if she's gotta go, she's gotta go."
     "Well, she'd just better not be going in my toilet."
     "Okay, Dad, okay," I tell him.  He's starting to get agitated at the thought of our maid using his toilet, so I back off a little to let him settle down.
     "I know, Dad," my wife helpfully adds, trying to distract him from the image of our maid sitting on his toilet seat--the closest he's ever come to having sex with another woman since he met and married Mom.  "The house cleaner broke it."
     I get up, and go into his room.  I check it, and I find two large holes on the side of the cabinet where the toilet roll holder should be.  This holder was installed to stay put and not come off.  I did my investigation, and it was just as I thought, my Dad was sitting on the toilet, and, while he was getting up, he probably used the holder for support, and his weight pulled it off the side.  Trust me, I watch CSI.
     So I fix the rod--again--and reinstall the holder.  And then I have an idea.  I run it past my wife, and she agrees.
     "I don't want bathtub handles," my Dad tells me.  He's firm about it.  "I'm just fine.  I have no problem getting out of the tub."
     "But, Dad," my wife says, "they'll make it easier for you to get in and out of the tub."
     "I don't need them, and I don't want them.  You'll be wasting your money."
     "Pop," I lie, "we're installing them in our bathtub, too."
     "Well, I don't care if you need handles to get in and out of your bathtub, but I don't."
     "Dad," we both say, but it's no use.  His mind is made up.
     "You don't need to install it.  I'm telling you, I don't need the handles."
     And then one day my Dad goes to Sam's with my wife.  If you think it was some kind of grand plan to get him out of the house for a few hours, you'd be right, and I take the opportunity to install them.  When they come back, my wife comes in, looks at me, and I give her a little nod.
     "Dad," she tells him, "guess what?  We installed that bathtub handle you wanted.  Isn't that a nice surprise?"
     My Dad's confused for a second, and then he says, "But I didn't want bathtub handles."
     "Well, we just installed it in case you need to use it.  You don't have to use it, but it's there just in case."
     "...well, I don't need it..."
     Months later, my Dad tells us how much he likes the hand support.  "You should have installed it long ago."  And, you know what? 
     The shower curtain rod hasn't fallen since.
   
   

Raising My Father

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The Shower Curtain Rod... (Part One)

"Honey," my wife says to me.  She's giving me her sweetest smile.  I know something's up.  "I need you to fix the shower curtain in Dad's bathroom.  It fell."
     Again? I think to myself.
     "I just fixed it," I tell her.
     "Fix it again," she tells me.
     "It can't be broken."
     "And yet it is."
     Again? I think to myself.  Again?  I must have fixed that darn thing, what, eight, nine, ten times?  It seems I retired from a job I enjoyed just to spend my retirement fixing my Dad's shower curtain.
     "The problem," I tell her, "is that Dad uses the curtain for support when he gets out of the shower.  We have the same kind of rod in our shower, and how many times has it fallen.  Zero times."
     "Just fix it," my wife tells me, thus ending the conversation.  What she doesn't tell me is, "He's your Dad."  My wife is good that way.  She never tells me, "He's your Dad."
     She just tells me to fix the things my Dad breaks.
     That's the funny thing, at one time my Dad could fix anything, and I mean anything.  During World War Two, he built a washing machine* while fighting the Japanese.  Well, not exactly while he was fighting the Japanese, but while he was stationed in the jungles of New Guinea, and occasionally fighting the Japanese.  I know that story is true, because I've seen pictures of the washing machine.  A 25-gallon barrel fixed to a Jeep.
     Just then, my Dad walks in.  He sits down.  Ready for breakfast.
     "What happened to the shower curtain, Dad?"  I ask him.
     He looks over his shoulder to see what my wife is cooking for him.  She wisely keeps her back to us.
    "It's broken," he tells me. 
     "What happened?"
     "It just fell.  I could fix it, but I know you like to take care of this stuff."
     I don't know where he got the idea that I like to fix things.  I remember, when I was a boy, I once told him that when I grew up I'd hire somebody to fix things for me.  He laughed at me, and, when I grew up, I understood why he laughed, even though I was offended at the time.
     "It sure does break a lot."
     "Yeah," my Dad says.  "It sure does."
     My wife puts a plate of food in front of him, and Dad starts to eat with the enthusiasm of a man who doesn't have to constantly fix the same shower curtain. 
     "The problem is," my Dad continues, pointing a forkful of scrambled egg at me, "there's something wrong with the rod in the shower area, it keeps falling.  They just don't make stuff like they used to.  The stuff is cheap.  Those characters that built this house knew they were using cheap materials.  That's why the rods keep falling by themselves."
     Not the "rods," Dad, I want to tell him.  The rod in my shower is fine.
     My wife glances over her shoulder to see my reaction.  It reminds me to keep my temper.  I take issue with my Dad telling me we live in a cheap house.  My house is not cheap.  I'd tell you how much it cost us, but I don't want the Occupy Wall Streeters protesting on my front lawn. 
     So I fix it.  What's the big deal? 
     And three more times, before the month is out, the rod comes off the wall.
   
 

 Raising My Father

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*I don't even know if washing machines had even been invented yet, and, since I'm not getting paid for this, I'd rather write this story than look up unnecessary facts.
 

Taking Medication...

My father and I have just returned home from an appointment with his doctor.
     It's 11am. Still early. He's studying the medicine his doctor prescribed, and which we've just picked up from the pharmacy.
     "Can you believe the price of this medication?" he asks. Of course I can. I just paid for it. "Now when am I supposed to take it?"
     "The doctor said you have to take it in the morning when you first wake up," I tell him, "with lots of water. Or you can take it right before you go to bed. But you have to take it on an empty stomach."
     We walk into the kitchen, and seat ourselves at the table. My wife comes up to say hello.
     "How did it go with the doctor?" she asks. "You guys hungry?"
     I look over at my wife. It's been a long day, and it's not even noon. She can see it in my eyes. 
     "I'm not hungry, sweetie," I tell her.
     "Well, I am!" my father pipes up. "What did you make?"
     She starts to serve him, and my father and I continue our conversation.
     "So I take it in the morning when I get up." he tells me.
     "That's right, or before you go to bed. The important thing is that you don't eat anything before you take it."
     "But I can take it in the morning?"
     "Yes," I repeat, "as soon as you get up, but before you eat anything."
     "I can't eat anything?"
     "That's right."
     He looks at the food in front of him.
     "But I'm hungry."
     "You can eat now, dad, but just not before taking your medicine."
     He starts to dig in on the feast my wife just served him. She's a good cook. And my father's a good eater. They make a good team. But she knows the direction this conversation is taking. She gives me a little wave as she leaves. I give her a little smile. 
     A very little one.
     Chomp, chomp! 
     "Are you sure that's what the doctor said?" my father says between bites. "I've always heard that you have to eat before you take your medication."
     "That's true, but with this medicine you have to take it on an empty stomach."
     "I don't know about these pills. I don't think they'll do me any good."
     "They might."
     "And you're telling me I can take it in the morning or at night?"
     "That's right. Take it as soon as you get up, or right before you go to bed, it just has to be on an empty stomach."
     "But I'm hungry in the morning. Does this mean I can't eat all day?"
     He takes another big bite of food.
     "No, it means that you take it as soon as you get up. You can have breakfast after that. Or you can take it at night before you go to bed. It just has to be on an empty stomach."
     "But I always have ice cream before I go to bed."
     I'm too tired to answer.
     "Well, I guess your wife can serve me less," he says.
     Chomp, chomp!
     And then continues.
     "She always serves me too much."
     He thinks about it, and then he thinks about it a little more.
     "Why can't I just take it now?" he says. "What difference does it make?"
     "Because the doctor told you to. And it has to be on an empty stomach."
     "Doctors," he sniffs, and rubs his nose in disgust. "They don't know everything."
     "Just do it, dad."
     "Okay, okay. So you're saying that I take the medication as soon as I wake up."
     "You've got it. As soon as you get up, take your medicine. You can have your breakfast after that."
     "But sometimes I go for a walk with my dog before I have breakfast."
     "That's fine, dad. Just take your medicine when you wake up, go on your walk, and when you get back you can eat."
     "I don't know about those characters. I tell you, sometimes doctors don't know what they're doing."
     Chomp, chomp, chomp! 
     "So I guess I'll take this medication right after I wake up and before I eat. After I brush my teeth and take my shower."
     "That's right."
     "Hmmm..." he says, checking out the full bottle. The pills are small, and the directions are right there on the label. "...ahh... well."
     He's continued eating throughout this whole conversation, but he's finally done. He then gets up, grabs his medicine, and tells me on his way out:
     "I guess I'll go take my medication now."
 
 

Raising My Father 

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My Dad...

My father was very respected in the neighborhood I grew up in. Years after my friends grew up, they would always come by to visit and pay their respects to my Mom and Dad. Even after my friends had gotten married, had kids, and moved far away to the promise land of California.
     Myself, after I grew up, visiting the parents of my friends was one of the last things I was interested in doing.* I'd list it just behind getting my prostate checked. One of my friend's dads was our grade school's janitor. It's an honorable job. We never stopped making fun of him.
     One story/legend about my father that circulated around the kids in the neighborhood was how in World War II he saved his platoon in the Philippines by catching a bomb that had been dropped from a Japanese warplane. I don't know where this story originated. I never heard Dad kid us about it, or make reference to it. As kids, me and my friends were in too much awe of my Dad to ever ask him about it. Plus, since my Dad was a firm believer in capital punishment, we had learned early on to keep our distance. Whatever trouble we were interested in causing, we knew to cause it far from home.
     The proof of this particular heroism was a hollowed out bomb-shell he had in his storage closet. That's where he kept his "souvenirs" from the war. His uniform. A gas mask. A Japanese "pillow" girl.** Where he got that hollowed out bomb-shell, who knows?
     The story went: a Japanese bomber flew over his platoon, dropped the bomb, and Dad caught it in his arms--thus saving his buddies. It was our next-door neighbor, Sal, who told me that. My friends and I would sneak into the storage closet, take it out, and then imitate my Dad catching the bomb.
     Speaking of Sal, he was one of four brothers who lived next door. Sadly, a few years later he discovered he loved drugs more than he loved himself, so his mother occasionally had to run over to our house so Dad could save her from her own son.
     One particular story I remember is that Sal came home stoned on something he's never admitted to, and told his mother to make him a sandwich. She did, but, she later told my parents, when she placed it in front of him he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite, and the sandwich said: "Don't eat me!" That freaked him out even more than he was freaked out to begin with, and he started screaming at his mom and throwing things around. She ran next door, got my Dad, and he came over and told him to take off. He did. That was how much my Dad was feared and respected, that a drugged out hooligan would obey him.
     A few trips to prison finally got Sal on the right road, but by then it was too late. The only future he had in front of him was one that included a lot of manual labor. If there's one thing I have to thank my Dad for, is that he saved me from a life like Sal's. Not that I was a bad kid, but why does being bad have to be so much fun?
     That reminds me of when I was 16 years-old and feeling my oats. My Dad was quick to give us a smack if we mouthed off to him or to Mom, especially Mom, and I guess that's just what I had done.  I blocked his punch as easily as David Carradine in Kung Fu. Let's just say that, with my Dad, I learned that it's better to dodge one of his punches than to block it. Less disrespectful.
     And that reminds me of another story, this one my Dad told me of a time, back when he was feeling his oats. He was in a bar, and got into a fight with some guy over some girl whose lack of virtue was in dire need of defending. To paraphrase Groucho Marx, my Dad fought for her honor, even though that was more than she had ever done for it.
     Threats were made. Fists were raised. And my Dad, who was smoking at the time, made the challenge: "You won't even be able to knock the cigarette from my mouth."
     After that night, the guy's nickname around the neighborhood was Indio (The Spanish word for a man from India.), because of the dot in the middle of his forehead where my Dad stamped his cigarette out while he lay unconscious on the floor.
     A neat trick my Dad once used in a fight was he invited the guy he was arguing with to step outside. My Dad opened the door, walked out first... and slammed the heavy wooden door on his opponent. Fight over.
     I've never had to use that trick myself, but it was one of the things my Dad taught me that might come in handy someday.
 

*Well, there was that one mom I used to spy on as she was sunbathing in her backyard.  I wouldn't have minded visiting her.  Unfortunately, as I got older, so did she.  I'll just have to be content to visit her in my dreams, where she's still the same age she was when I was ten.

**Just kidding.

   
 

Raising My Father 

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 JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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Chocolate And Vanilla

My father and I were sitting at the kitchen table, having just finished a five-star breakfast prepared lovingly by my wife, and we continued to sit there enjoying a nice cup of gourmet coffee. Gourmet coffee is one of my few indulgences.

     We were reading the morning newspaper, or, rather, my Dad was reading the newspaper.  I usually help myself to the sections he doesn't enjoy reading, which means I sit there paperless, because my father hoards the newspaper like Hints From Heloise was printed on gold.  I buy the paper, and my Dad reads it.
     Go figure.
     It's been that way ever since I was a kid.  My Dad got the newspaper first, and no one else was allowed to even consider swiping a section of it until he was done.  Not even the comic section.
     "Dad," my wife asked my father sweetly, with the patience of a Mother Theresa, "do you want any ice cream?"
     My Dad looked up from the newspaper.
     "Huh...  well...  hmm..." he says.  "What's that again?"
     "Would you like some ice cream?"
     "Some what?"
     "Ice cream.  Would you like some?"
     "Well, yeah...  I could eat some ice cream."
     That wasn't exactly what my wife was asking, but it was close enough.
     "What flavor would you like?" my wife asked him.
     "Huh...  well...  hmm...  What flavor do I want?"
     "Yes, Dad.  What flavor do you want?"
     "What flavor do I want...  what flavor do I want?  Well, I think...  hmm... What flavor do you have?"
     "We have chocolate and vanilla."
     "You have what?"
     We only have the same two flavors we always have.  My wife might buy an occasional flavor, Cherry Garcia or coffee with chocolate chunks are particular favorites, but we usually only have chocolate and vanilla.
     "Huh...  well...  hmm..." my Dad considered the possibilities.  "You said chocolate and vanilla?"
     "Yes, Dad, we have chocolate and vanilla."
     "Well, I really don't know.  Hmm, you said chocolate and vanilla?"
     "Yes, chocolate and vanilla."
     I think on some level my wife was being amused by all this.  I just stayed quiet.  Enjoying the show.
     "Well," my Dad thought about it, and then he thought about it a little more.  "Is that all you have?"
     "Yes, Dad.  Just chocolate and vanilla."
     "No strawberry?"
     "No strawberry."
     "Well, in that case, let me have vanilla, but not too much.  You always serve me too much."
     My wife then turns to me.  I'm surprised she still has the energy.
     "Honey," she says, "would you like some ice cream?"
     I know she's being polite asking my Dad first, but it still irks me a bit that I get asked second in my own home.  Maybe the Native Americans catered to their elders, but looked what happened to the Native Americans.
     "No, thank you, sweetie," I told her.  "I'm going out for a walk."
     Off some cliff.
 

 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene