Big Five (Part Three)

My Dad walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine.
     Only today isn't rainy, it's shiney.  Very shiney, as in hot!  It's hot, and I've just made my dad happy.  I've bought him a new pair of walking shoes, and, let me tell you, they weren't cheap. 
     The problem is this: my 93 year-old Dad's feet hurt him when he walks.  They hurt him when he wakes up in the morning, and they hurt him when he lays his head down at night to go to sleep.  They hurt him when he eats, and they hurt him when he's hogging the TV watching...  well, you know what he likes to watch.  They just plain hurt him.  But, the thing is, he doesn't blame his feet. 
     He blames his shoes.
     I drive to Willcox, Arizona on occassion.  And every time I do I see an old man jogging down the road.  It never fails, he's always jogging.  With a big smile on his face.  I honk my horn, and he always gives me a big friendly wave as I drive by.
     One day, I decided to stop.  I stopped.  He stopped.  I got out of my car, and he walked on over with his right hand outstretched.  He was ten feet away, and already eager for a handshake.  I guess that's how it's done in a small town.  How small?  Well, it doesn't even have a Wal-Mart, for gosh sakes. 
     I didn't stop just to be friendly.  He had old feet just like my Dad, and I was curious what kind of shoes he wore.  Heck, he jogs every day.  They must be comfortable.
     "Hey, how's it going?" I said.
     "Hey, how's it going?" he repeated, and he snatched up my hand before I had it completely raised.  He shook it vigorously. 
     He looked even older up close.  Passing him at 35 mphs I wasn't able to see just how wrinkled he was, or how thin his hair was.  But he was an energetic old coot, and I call him that in an endearing kind of way.  He was happy to see me, even though he didn't know who I was, and happy to talk with me, even though he didn't know what I wanted to talk to him about.  I could have been there to rob him, and he would have happily handed over his wallet as long as I stayed and talked awhile.
     "I don't mean to interrupt your jog," I told him.  "But I just wanted to know what kind of shoes you're wearing?"
     I looked down at his feet, and I saw they were Nike's, but I couldn't tell what kind of Nike's. 
     "My shoes?" he answered.  "Oh, I've got about six or seven pairs."
     "What kind are you wearing now?"
     "I'm wearing my favorites."
     "Yeah, and I can see why, they look pretty comfortable," I said, and it was true.  They did look pretty comfortable, and well-worn, but that didn't tell me what I wanted to know.  "I can see they're Nike's, but what kind are they?"
     "They're Nike's?  I didn't know that."
     Huh, wha?  He didn't know?  Surely, he's joking.  ("And don't call me Shirley!")  At least, I hope he's joking.
     "Do you know what they're called?" I asked him.
     "They're called Nike's.  You just told me that."
     "Yeah, but what kind of Nike's?"
     "They make more than one?"
     A big rig was coming down the road at us, so I put a hand on his arm, and we moved a few feet to the side.  I decided to take a different approach.
     "Did the salesman who sold you these shoes tell you what kind they were?"
     "I bought them at Big Five Sporting Goods."
     That didn't really answer my question.  In fact, it didn't answer it at all.
     "Did the salesman at Big Five tell you what kind of shoes they were?"
     "I bought them at the Big Five in Tucson.  Do you live in Tucson?  If you want a pair like these, you'll have to go there."
     "No, I don't live in Tucson.  All I need is the name of the shoes you're wearing."
     "They're Nike's.  My wife and I were driving through Tucson on our way to Rawhide in Chandler, Arizona.  We were taking the grandkids.  Rawhide used to be in Scottsdale, but they had to move.  We stopped in Tucson to get some gas, and I saw a Big Five.  'Let's go in here awhile, honey,' I told my wife, and that's where I bought my shoes."
     Great.  He could tell me everything BUT the kind of shoes he was wearing. 
     I was familiar with the Rawhide he was talking about.  It's an old western town with donkey and stagecoach rides.  They have actors who dress up as cowboys, and have gunfights with each other.  They used to have a camel you could ride, but, sadly, he died.  You can still see him in movies, none of which I can remember the names of.  The best thing there, in my opinion, is their steakhouse, where, besides great steaks, they also have fried rattlesnake and mountain oysters (If you want to know what mountain oysters are, you'll have to look elsewhere.  I'm trying to keep this blog G-rated.), both of which I've tried.  They also have a very spacious dance floor, and a live country band.  At any time during your meal, you can get up and shake a leg.  And then you can shake the other one.  Maybe you can even dance.  One other thing the steakhouse has is the best bread pudding I've ever tasted. 
     When my kids were still kids, we always made it a point to stop there and have a good time.  And I'm not just saying that to get a free mule ride the next time I go.
     "No, sir, I don't live in Tucson, but if you can just tell me what kind of shoes you're wearing that would be a great help."
     "They're Nike's," he said.
     I was getting nowhere fast, so I decided to cut my losses and say goodbye.  A part of me was kind of frustrated at how he wouldn't answer me, even if it was just to tell me to get lost, but he was so happy to have had someone to talk with, I wasn't able to make the jump from frustration to being mad.  He reminded me too much of my Dad.
     "Well, thanks a lot, sir," I told him, and I even meant it.  "You were a big help." 
     Well, I didn't mean that one so much.
     He shook my hand even more vigorously as I tried to leave, and as I drove away I could see him in my rear-view mirror waving goodbye at me for longer than he had to. 
     Meanwhile, my Dad's feet still hurt, and Tucson wasn't too far away.  I didn't think Big Five would be too hard to find.
     It was near a gas station.
 
    

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Who's Paying? I Guess I Am. (Part Two)

My Dad walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine.  Part of me wishes he'd stay home, that way we can keep an eye on him, but another part of me realizes that when he's not here I don't have to watch baseball on TV.
     I've mentioned before that I enjoy hiking, so I know a thing or two about shoes.  My Dad benefits from this knowledge, and, as a result, wears the best shoes my money can buy.  I say my money, because my Dad can afford to pay for his shoes himself, but affording to and actually taking out your wallet and doing it are two separate things.
     Many a time we've gone to Sam's, and I'll see three or four items in our cart that magically appear out of nowhere.  It could be a pack of 50 little cheeses with a smiling cow on the label.  I like cheese, but I don't want to eat fifty little packages of them.  Neither does my Dad, although he doesn't realize it when he's putting it in the cart.  He'll eat one, complain about how it stopped him up, and then the rest my wife will have to imaginatively include in the meals she prepares. 
     It could also be a box of 48 corn dogs.  I used to enjoy eating corn dogs, that is, until I saw a picture of our almost-Republican presidential candidate Michelle Bachman's husband eating one.  I'm not particularly vain, but I don't want anybody to mistake me for a Hollywood Scientologist, either. 
     "Dad," I'll tell him when I see the box mysteriously appear in the cart.  I don't know how he does it, but one moment something's not there, and then the next moment something is.  He's pretty quick for an old guy.  Anyway...  "Dad, are you in the mood for a corn dog?"
     "What?" he'll reply his usual reply.
     "The corn dogs.  Are you in the mood for one?"
     "Am I in the mood for what?"
     "A corn dog."
     "A what?"
     "A corn dog."
     I think my Dad tries to wait me out.  If he keeps asking me to repeat what I've just said, over and over again, then he probably figures I'll get tired and quit.  But I'm shopping at Sam's with my wife.  What else do I have to do?
     "Why do you ask?" my Dad asks me supiciously.
     "I can't help but notice you put a box of 48 corn dogs in the cart."  I'll point at the box, and he'll look at it as if he's never seen it before in his life.  "If you want a corn dog, why don't we go to the snack bar, and you and I can have one."
     See?  I'm not such a bad guy.  I don't mind buying my father a corn dog.  What I mind is buying 48 of them, him eating only one, and then us having to get rid of the remaining 47 in one way or another.
     "Oh, I don't want one now," my Dad will reply.  "I want one for later."
     "Are you sure, Dad?  We can go to the snack bar.  A corn dog sounds pretty good."
     "I'm sure."
     "I'm kind of hungry."
     "I said I'm sure."
     When my Dad's sure, he's sure.  Unless he isn't.  But, even when he isn't, it'll still cost me money, because, out of stubborness, he'll pretend he is.
     Which is a long way to go to explain that my Dad loves buying things.  What he doesn't enjoy is paying for those things he loves to buy.  So he'll just drop them in our cart, and somehow those things magically get paid for.  No "Hey, can you buy me this."  No "Thanks for buying me this."  No "What are you going to do with the 47 corn dogs you'll have left over?"
     So, when it comes to buying my Dad shoes, I don't skimp.  I don't skimp with what goes on my feet, and I'd be a jerk if I skimped on what went on my dad's feet. 
     The only problem is my Dad's feet. 
 
 

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Walking Papers? No, Walking Shoes. (Part One)

I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was.  

 
My Dad walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine.  Maybe it's a habit he picked up when he was in the military.  Maybe it's a habit he picked up as his body started showing the wear and tear of aging.  Maybe he just wanted to be ready whenever the opportunity to be romantic with my mom presented itself.
     Myself, I think my Dad walks, because he believes that as long as he's walking he'll never die.  The only problem is that his mind is willing, but it's his body that's letting him down.  Starting with his feet.
     "I need a new pair of walking shoes," he tells me, as he walks into the kitchen where I'm at.  I'm reading the newspaper over one of the counters, and he's carrying with him a well-worn pair of walking shoes that he has never complained about before.  "These hurt my feet."
     "What's wrong with them, Dad?"  I ask.  He looks at me as if I'm stupid.
     "I told you, they hurt my feet."
     "Yeah, but how do they hurt your feet?  Are they too tight?  Are they rubbing against your heel?  Are they giving you blisters?"
     "They just hurt."
     Having made his complaint known, he then puts them on, and goes on his walk.  My wife walks into the kitchen about then.
     "Want some coffee?"  she asks me.
     "Of course, sweetie," I tell her.  "I would have made some myself, but nobody makes coffee like you."
      "You just say that, because you're too lazy to make your own," she says, with one eyebrow raised, John Belushi-style.
     She thinks I'm kidding when I compliment her, but it's true.  She does make good coffee.  I don't know how she does it, but I can used the exact same ingredients and the exact same equipment and make it the exact same way, but her coffee will always turn out better than mine.  So, even though the first thing I want when I wake up (well, make that the second thing) is a cup of coffee, I'll wait for my wife to make it for me.
     Armed with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I go out to the front patio to finish reading my newspaper. 
     After awhile, my Dad returns.  He looks tired.  He was gone less than half and hour, but he still looks pretty beat.  I look at him walking toward me.  There was a time when he could walk all day long, and be ready to go out dancing with my Mom when he got back, but that time has come and gone. 
     I like to hike, myself.  I'll go off into the mountains, and hike for hours.  Sometimes I'll take my dog, but most times I'll just hike by myself.  The time will come for me, too, I suppose, when a walk up and down the street will be more effort than it's worth.
     My Dad sits down beside me.
     "I need a new pair of walking shoes," he tells me again.  I'm sure he's been thinking about this his whole walk.  "These hurt my feet."
     I don't say anything.  I don't want to go down the same trail I went down earlier.
     "After I walk three miles, my feet hurt," he explains.  "They never hurt before."
     I try to stay out of it, but I can't think of anything else to say.
     "Are you sure it's the shoes that make your feet hurt?" I ask him.
     "What?"
     "Are you sure it's your shoes?"
     "Am I sure it's my shoes?"
     "Yes, are you sure it's your shoes that make your feet hurt?"
     My Dad makes a kind of disgusted, snorting sound.
     "Of course it's the shoes," he says, and snorts again.  "My feet have never hurt before."
     I must admit, he has a point.  But then again, he's not the young pup he used to be, either.  Even at my age, after a good night's sleep, the first thing I want to do (well, make that the second thing) is take a nap.
     "If you want, Dad, I'll take you to the store to buy a new pair of shoes."
     "What?"
     "I'll take you to the store to buy a new pair of shoes."
     "No, don't worry about it, son.  I'll go with your wife, the next time she goes to Sam's."
     I smile to myself at this, because I know the reason he would rather go with my wife.  If he goes with me, he'd have to pay for them himself.  If he goes with my wife, he'll just put the shoes in her cart, and she'll pay for it.
    I don't mind buying things for my Dad.  What I mind is he doesn't even pretend to try to take out his wallet, and we usually end up with things we don't need, like 48 corn dogs or 120 miniature cream puffs.  I tell my wife constantly, "I don't mind spending money.  What I mind is wasting money."  My Dad, on the other hand, doesn't mind wasting money, as long as the money being wasted isn't his.
     Another thing that bothers me is that he doesn't say "please" or "thank you."  You know who taught me that particular quirk?  My Dad.  Growing up I would always have to say "please" or "thank you," and, once grown, I understood the importance of those words.  My Dad, on the other hand, has grown older backwards.  "Please" and "thank you" no longer have any importance to him. 
     "Whew!" my Dad says, letting out a big rush of air.  "I'm beat.  that was some walk, let me tell you."
     "Where'd you go?"
     "What?"
     "How far did you walk?"
     "How far did I walk?"
     "Yes, Dad.  How far did you walk?"
     My Dad had to think about it a bit.  And then he thought about it some more.
     "Oh, I just went to the end of the block and back."
     "To the end of the block and back?"  I asked.
     "Yeah, the end of the block and back.  Can't you hear?"
     I ignore that.  My Dad's tired.  And I'm sure he's got various aches and pains to contend with.  Sometimes, after a good night's sleep, if I stay in bed too long, I have my own aches and pains to contend with, so the first thing I want to do when I finally get out of bed is take a couple of aspirin.  Well...
     ...make that the second thing.
 
 

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Shrimp For Dinner...

"Dad, I'm cooking shrimp for dinner," my wife asks.  "Do you want regular shrimp or coconut?"
     Meanwhile, the guy who's actually helping make dinner...  his opinion goes unrequested.  Who's that guy I'm talking about?  It's me. 
     And I really can't get too upset by it, because my wife is just trying to make my Dad feel at home. It wasn't that long ago that my Mom passed away, and, after a brief time of him living on his own, we decided to ask him to move in with us.  It's not a decision I regret.  Given the opportunity to do it all over again, I would
     But it's been tough.  You can't have two alpha males in the same wolf pack without one wolf becoming incredibly annoyed at the other. 
     In the old days, the wise Native American warriors used to walk off into the distance, never to return, after reaching a certain age.* 
     Yeah, I can see the wisdom in that.  Anyway...
     "What?" my Dad says.
     "I'm cooking shrimp for dinner.  Do you want regular or coconut?"
     "You're cooking dinner?  What are you cooking?"
     "I'm cooking shrimp.  Would you like regular or coconut"
     "Did you say shrimp?"
     "Yes, Dad.  Shrimp.  Would you like regular or coconut?"
     By this time I have my head down, so my wife can't see me laughing.  That's what she gets for not asking me how I would like the shrimp prepared.  I can feel her eyes boring down into the top of my head like angry twin lasers.  She knows I'm laughing at her.
     "You're cooking shrimp?" my Dad continues.  "I like shrimp.  Yeah, hmm, that sounds good."
     Pause.
     "Would you like regular or coconut?" my wife tries again.
     "What?" my Dad says again.
     "Would You Like Regular Or Coconut?"
     "What are you yelling at me for?" my Dad says.  A bit indignantly, I might add.  "I can hear."
     And it's true, my Dad can hear.  Unfortunately, he only seems to hear  the things he's not supposed to hear.  Never the things he's supposed to.
     "Dad!"  I could yell at him.  "There's a fire!  Grab your dog and get out!"
     "What?" my Dad would say, not moving his eyes off the TV.
     "A fire!  Get out!"
     "What are you yelling at me for?  I can hear!" he'd yell back.  And then, "Are you grilling chicken?  Save me a leg."
     On the other hand, my Dad could be sitting down watching his two favorite baseball teams playing each other on TV, and I could be in the kitchen with my wife, and if I lean over and whisper in her ear, "Let's go upstairs," my Dad would yell out at us, "If you're going upstairs, can you bring me back that soft blanket I like?"  Anyway...
     So my wife apologizes for yelling, and my Dad says, "What kind of shrimp did you say?"
     "Regular or coconut.  Which one would you like?"
     My Dad's paying attention now, so he kind of hears the two choices.
     "Hmm...  regular.  What's the other kind?"
     "Coconut."
     "Coconut?  Hmm, yeah...  I like coconut shrimp."
     "So you want coconut, then?"
     "What's the other kind?"
     My wife pauses.  She's getting flustered now.  Me?  I'm still chuckling under my breath.  Personally, I prefer coconut.  I don't know why my wife is giving my Dad a choice.  If she feels like eating regular shrimp, she should make regular shrimp.  If she feels like eating coconut shrimp, then she should make coconut.  I don't care, and it's that simple.  You see, my wife has the good fortune of being married to someone who appreciates and will eat whatever she cooks. 
     "Regular," my wife says.
     "What's regular?"
     My wife lets out a sigh.  And then she explains how she prepares the shrimp, and the seasonings she uses.  I don't think my Dad understood a word of it.  Heck, even my eyes started to glaze over.
     "I like coconut," my Dad says, without really answering the question.  I think he was just taking the path of least resistance, decision making-wise. 
     So coconut shrimp it is.  I win, without even having to play the game, and, besides which, I got a good chuckle out of the whole thing as well.
     I remember when I was a kid, my mother never cooked shrimp, so marrying my wife was almost an introduction to the joys of shellfish, those little cockroaches of the sea.  The closest thing to shrimp my mother ever cooked was liver, and that's not close at all.
     I also remember that to eat that liver I had to add ketchup to it to get it down.  A lot of ketchup.  In those days, what you were served is what you ate.  If you didn't eat, you went hungry.  The way it should be.  Go to those countries where people are starving, and you don't have picky eaters.  You don't have eating disorders.  You don't have morbid obesity.  What you have is a country of people who would be grateful for some mudwater and a chickpea. 
     So, even though I might have preferred a hamburger (Come to think of it, why didn't my Mom just make me hamburgers every night?), I ate pretty much whatever was put in front of me.  I just added ketchup to whatever I didn't like to help me get it down.  Liver?  Ketchup.  Beans?  Ketchup.  Heck, I even added ketchup to my scrambled eggs, and I like scrambled eggs. 
     Why am I telling you all this?  Because my wife takes her time preparing and cooking the coconut shrimp.  She cooks for us with love, and, as that great philosopher Diana Ross said, "You can't hurry love." 
     My wife even makes some nice white rice to go with it.  Some people have a hard time making rice just right.  Not my wife.  Her rice always comes out light and fluffy. 
     So my wife serves my Dad a nice plate of coconut shrimp on a bed of white rice.  I count the pieces of shrimp.  Hmm, he's got seven.  I've only got six.  Not that I'm keeping score or anything.
     My Dad looks at his plate.  Meanwhile, my wife serves herself, and sits down to eat with us.  My Dad's still looking at his plate.  I don't know what he's looking at.  Me?  I get started on mine.  I don't believe in having a staring contest with my food.
     "Do you have any ketchup?" my Dad finally asks.  "I like ketchup on my shrimp."
     "But it's coconut shrimp, Dad," my wife says softly.
     "What?"
     "It's coconut shrimp..."
     I step in.
     "Dad, it's coconut shrimp.  You don't put ketchup on coconut shrimp.  It's already seasoned.  With coconut."
     "But I like ketchup on my shrimp."
     My wife doesn't even try to argue.  She doesn't even say a word.  She gets up, goes to the refrigerator, and brings back a bottle of ketchup.  She hands it to my dad.
     My Dad drowns his shrimp in ketchup, much like I used to do to the liver my mother would also cook with love.  I find myself wishing I could tell her, "I'm sorry."  Anyway...
     My Dad spears a shrimp with his fork, so as to not get any ketchup on his fingers.  He takes a bite.
     "Mmm...  ah...  yeah," he smacks.  Smack, smack, smack.  "Oh, yeah...  this shrimp is good."  He turns to me.
     "Your wife's a good cook," he tells me.
    

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*What I really think happened back then was when a Native American became old, he just wandered off and forgot how to get back.
 

My Wife's A Great Cook...

My wife's a great cook.
     She makes everything from scratch, and she'll spend hours cooking in the kitchen. In fact, she's such a good cook, she can even make English food taste good, and any food you have to put vinegar on to improve the flavor of, well, let's just say you'd have to admit that it would be a challenge.
     One time my Mom, when my wife wasn't around, asked me who the better cook was.
     I had to be honest, but diplomatic.
     "Mom," I told her, "when it comes to cooking Mexican food, you're the best, but my wife's the better cook when it comes to different kinds of food."
     Since Mexican food is all my mother ever cooked, she was happy with my answer.
     One time, my wife made some great fried rice. It had corn, it had peas, it had carrots, but what it mainly had were large chunks of perfectly seasoned chicken. Moist and tender. Just like my wife.
     I served myself. My father, on the other hand, likes to be served, or he won't eat. He's old-school that way. Myself, I don't believe in being hungry.
     So my wife serves my Dad. Napkin, utensils, drink, dessert...  it's all on the table. All he has to do is sit and eat. And eat he does. Even when my Dad isn't feeling well he still has a healthy appetite. Once, when he was sick, my mother asked him how he could still eat.
     "Honey," he told her, very sincerely, "it's not my stomach's fault I'm sick."
     So, anyway, the fried rice is great. I tell my wife it's great. She smiles that modest smile of hers. She knows it's great.
     Dad, meanwhile, is still chowing down. Chomp, chomp, chomp! He cleans his plate. If he was a kid, I could imagine him lifting the plate to his face and licking it clean.
     "Did you like the fried rice, Dad?" I ask him. It was obvious he did.
     "What?"
     "The fried rice, did you like it?"
     "The fried rice?"
     "Yeah."
     "Did I like it?"
     "Yeah."
     "It was good," he says, "but the chicken was kind of tough."
     My wife looks at me, gets up from the table, and walks away.
     "Where's she going?" my Dad, the diplomat, asks, and serves himself some more fried rice.*
     The thing of it is, that's my Dad's idea of a compliment. When my beloved mother was still alive, their air conditioner broke, and they needed a new one. Out of the goodness of my heart, and with a little nudging from my wife, I decided to buy them a new one. The store we bought it from gave us a day and a time it would be delivered and installed, and we made it a point to be there just in case, you know, anything went wrong. 
     The workers got up on the roof, removed the old one, and brought it down. My Dad and I took a look at it. Yeah, we could see it was passed it's expiration date. Just like my ex-wife. 
     The workers then brought out the new one. As they took it out of the box, my Dad took a close look at it, and said: "Plastic? It's made out of plastic? Where'd you buy it, the dollar store?"
     No, actually we bought it from Sears, and, for the record, only the shell of the air conditioner was made out of plastic. Everything on the inside was still the same. It makes sense. It's a way to save money, sell it for less, and make it lighter to carry and move around.  I won't mention the actual brand I bought, but it was a name brand and the model I bought was top of the line. It was actually more air conditioner than they needed. 
     But, like I said, that's my Dad's way of giving a compliment.
 
 

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*For the record, my wife has never made a tough piece of chicken in her life, and this chicken was particularly moist and tender...  just like my wife.

 

Lest You Think...

Lest you think I consider my Dad a burden, I don't.  It's just if all I wrote about were unicorns and rainbows, both you and I would be bored. 
     Besides, I find everything my Dad does incredibly entertaining.  Maybe not at the time, but when I look back.  Now I understand the saying, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you."  I'm not laughing at my Dad, because I'm just like him.  I'm laughing with him because I can see what the future has in store for me. 
     Old age takes pity on no one.
     One of the reasons we bought this particular house, is because it had a small guest house in the front where we knew Dad could live and have his privacy.  It was a way of him keeping his independence, and yet letting us keep an eye on him at the same time.
      In his home away from home he has his own TV with its own satellite signal.  Now that I think about it, his TV gets more stations than mine does.  He has a radio/CD player.  Telephone.  Refrigerated air.  Heck, it sounds so good, I think I'm going to go live there. 
     The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house--my house--and that forces everybody else to watch TV someplace else.  And, while he's busy watching TV, he's also busy complaining that our house is too cold.
     "Why don't you put on a sweater, Dad?" my wife will ask him.  "Do you want me to get you one?"
     "I don't want to wear a sweater," my Dad will say.
     "But if you're cold, a sweater might help warm you up."
     "The problem isn't that I'm cold, the problem is that the house is cold."
     So my wife will feel sorry for him,  turn up the heat, and the rest of us have to suffer. 
     "Dad," I've told him, sweating like a pig.  "Maybe you'd be more comfortable watching TV in your room."
     "No," he's told me.  "I'm comfortable here."
     "You could watch what you want to watch."
     "I do that here."
     "You could have the house as warm as you want."
     "I don't know, it's pretty warm here.  Except when it's cold."
     So what can I do?  I sit in a hot house watching something on TV that doesn't particularly entertain me.  And, man, I hate the heat.  I try to avoid it like it was the police.  You can dress for the cold.  You can put on a sweater.  You can wear a scarf.  But there's nothing you can do about the heat.  When it's hot, it's just hot.
     And the times I beat my Dad to the TV, he'll come in, sit down, and watch for a bit.  And then he'll look at me, and then back at the TV.  At me, and then the TV.  Me.  The TV.
     "There's not a baseball game on?" he'll ask me.
     He knows perfectly well there's a baseball game on.  We have entire channels devoted to nothing but baseball games.  So at any give time, my Dad can watch one if he wants to...  and he always wants to. 
     "This show's pretty good, Dad.  You should give it a chance."
     "Oh, okay."  And he'll watch.  For awhile.  And then he'll look at me, then back at the TV.  At me, and then the TV.  Me.  The TV.
     "There's not a baseball game on?"
     My wife will finally feel sorry for him and change whatever it is I'm watching.
     "Can you also turn up the heat?" he'll tell her.  "It's too cold in here."
     Once again, I can't watch my programs.  I think he pretends to watch baseball on the outside, and laughs at me on the inside. 
     "Heh, heh, heh," he'll laugh to himself.  "Heh, heh, heh."
     And, trust me, I understand why my father prefers watching baseball.  He's a bit hard of hearing, so it's hard for him to follow the stories on the programs I watch.  Baseball, he understands.  And when he can't hear the color commentators, he makes it up himself. 
     "You know," he'll say, in between chewing on the snacks my lovely wife provides.  Smack, smack, smack. "These games are fixed."
     "Are they, Dad?"
     "Yeah--smack, smack--fixed.  I don't even know why I watch them."
     The bases might be loaded, and the batter will hit a home run.
     "See?  I knew it.  I knew that batter was going to hit a home run.  I had that feeling--smack, smack, smack--the games are fixed--smack--I knew they were going to win the game."
     "Did you, Dad?"
     "Ahhh, yeah.  They're all fixed so the owners can make more money." he'll laugh, and shake his head a bit.  "I don't know, I don't know.  How else can you explain their scoring four runs and winning?"
      "Maybe the batter just hit a home run, Dad.  I mean, somebody's got to win."
     "Nah, they're fixed.  How else can you explain it?"
     By this time my wife will have already gone upstairs to bed.  I'll decide to join her.
     "Goodnight, Dad," I'll tell him.
     "Huh?  Ahh...  what?"
     "I'm going to bed now, Dad.  Can you turn off the TV and lights before you go to bed?"
     "Sure, son.  Don't worry."
     And then sometime in the middle of the night I'll wake up to check the doors, and I'll find the TV on, the lights on, and the heater on.  The door leading out of our house and to his will be unlocked.  And Dad will be in his room.  Sleeping like a baby.  He knows how to turn everything off, but for some reason he won't do it.
     Maybe that's his way of paying me back for leaving him alone. 
 
 

Raising My Father

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