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.
Raising My Father
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
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