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.