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

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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*"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

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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The Case of the Missing Keys

My Dad has his own keys to the house and gate so he can come and go as he pleases on his walks.  We used to try to keep track of his walks, but no matter what we suggested he would want to do the opposite.
     "Dad," I'd tell him, "It's hot.  Why don't you wait until it cools off?"
     "It's not that hot," my Dad would say on his way out.  A half-hour later, on his way back in, he'd tell me, "Man, it was hot.  I should have waited until it cooled off."
     "Dad, it looks like rain."
     "Dad, it's cold.  Put on a jacket."
     "Dad, it's getting dark.  Take a flashlight with you."
     I retired from a job I really enjoyed to become a weatherman for my father.
     On this particular day, my Dad's morning walk was pretty uneventful, and he gets home feeling pretty good.  So good, in fact, that he decides to go on an afternoon walk. The only problem is he can't find his keys.
     He walks out of the front guest-house, which is essentially where he lives, and walks into the main house.  He starts looking around the kitchen and the great room.  I can see him from over my newspaper.  He's picking up pillows, and putting them back down.  He's looking in front of things, and behind.  He's looking on top of tables, and below.  I continue reading. 
     I pick up the fresh cup of coffee my wife had just made me a few minutes ago.  I take a sip.  I can see with my peripheral vison that several times he stops and looks at me.  I take another sip.  I'm not ignoring my Dad.  I've just learned that it's better to wait for him to come to me.  That way he's a little more open to listening to what I have to say.  Not by much, mind you, but a little nonetheless.
     He keeps talking to himself about his keys.  He's talking just loud enough for me to hear him.  I think he wants me to ask him what he's doing.  Instead, I continue reading.  Finally, after ten minutes of not finding what he's looking for and not getting the response from me that he wants, he goes back into his room.
     Thirty minutes after that he comes back to the kitchen and tells me that someone went into his room and took his keys. 
     "Someone took your keys?"
     "Someone took my keys."
     No one goes into his room, not even our dog. 
     I don't want to ask him any questions, because I don't know what to tell him.  To tell the truth, I just want to be left alone.  Problems always seem to come up when I'm trying to enjoy a good cup of coffee.  Can't they come up after I'm done?  By the way, have I ever mentioned how I like to grind my own coffee beans?  I do.  I go to a fancy-dancy grocery store, and I choose my own organically-grown beans.  I create my own blend.  You might think I'm being snooty, but, trust me, it really does make a difference.  I can cut back on other things--food for my dogs, shampoo for my hair, Christmas gifts for my relatives--but I like to splurge on my coffee.  I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't womanize or do drugs...  I figure I deserve it. 
     Again he tells me someone has been in his room and took his keys.
     "Who, Dad?" I ask him.
     "What?"
     "Who went into your room, Dad?"  This stops him for a moment.  He pauses to think.  And then he thinks a little bit more.  After enough time goes by, I say, "Nobody goes into your room, Dad."
     "What?"
     "Nobody goes into your room."
     "But my key is missing."
     "But why do you think somebody took your keys?"
     "Because I can't find them," he tells me, with a logic Mr. Spock would be impressed with. 
     I keep thinking about those little ghostly creatures in a single-panel cartoon that comes out in the newspaper.  Whenever something bad happens, one or both of the parents will ask their children who did it and the kids will answer, "Not me!" or "I Dunno!"  I figure it must have been one of those ghostly creatures named "Not me!" and "I Dunno!" who went into my Dad's room and stole his keys. 
     "I put them in the same spot," he tells me.  "I always put them in the same spot, and they're not there."
     He continues to insist that someone has been in his room.
     "Dad, nobody goes into your room."
     "Somebody had to go into my room, because my keys are missing."
     I decide to take a different tact.
     "Well," I say, "is there anything else missing from your room?"
     "I don't know.  I haven't looked for anything else."
     "Yeah, but the TV is still there, isn't it?"
     "I don't know.  I haven't been looking for my TV."
     That much is true.  I don't know if he's ever looked for his TV, because he's always in the great room looking for my TV.
     "Dad, I've been here all morning--you have, too, in fact--and I haven't seen anybody go into your room but you."
     "Well, if someone wants to steal my keys, of course they're not going to be seen."
     "Dad, I haven't been in your room since I fixed the shower curtain rod, and I know my wife hasn't been in there."  I want to ask him if maybe his little dog took it, but I don't.  "Nobody's been in your room."
     "Then why are my keys missing?"
     Just then, just before I hang myself, my wife walks into the kitchen.  I tell her that my Dad's keys are missing.  She's asks my Dad a very logical question, and I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't think of it myself.
     "Did you check the pants you wore on your walk this morning?"
     My Dad is stunned.
     "Of course I checked them," he tells her, his eyes bugging out at the audacity of her question.  "I've checked them several times.  They're not there."
     He looks at my wife like she's nuts for even thinking that the pants he wore earlier wouldn't be the first place he'd look.
     "Are you sure, Dad?"  Apparently, my wife is a very brave woman.
     "I've looked all over.  Somebody had to have gone in my room and taken them."
     "Who do you think took your keys, Dad?"
     My Dad's ready with an answer this time.  He's had time to let the question I asked him earlier percolate. 
     "The maid," he answers.  "The maid took my keys."
     My wife doesn't want to add to his confusion.  Dad used his keys this morning.  The last time our maid was here was four days ago. 
     "Can I go into your room, Dad, and look around?" my wife asks him.  See?  I told you she was brave.
     "What for?" my Dad asks her, his eyes bugging out again.  "I know it's the maid who took my keys."
     To make a long story short, he agrees.  My wife walks off with my Dad in the direction of his guesthouse.  I'm still in the kitchen drinking my now cold cup of coffee.
     No sooner did they walk out than they were walking back in.  My wife walks in giving me "The Look."  She makes it her own by raising one eyebrow.  Nice trick, if you can do it.  My father walks in behind her laughing and shaking his head. 
     "Hee, hee, hee,"  he admits.  He begins smacking his lips nervously.  Smack, smack, smack.  "Yeaaah, we found them."
     "Where were they?" I ask him.  I was honestly curious.
     He sneaks a quick look at my wife.  Smacks his lips a few more times in embarrassment, and shifts back and forth from one foot to the other. "Ahhh, they were in the pants I wore this morning."  Smack!
     My wife later told me that she walked into his room, went straight to his pants which were laying on his bed, and reached into the pocket.
     "I already told you," my Dad said, "I've already looked in my pants.  They're not there."
     And out comes my wife's hand with the keys dangling from the thumb and forefinger.
     All's well that ends well, I suppose.  I can always reheat my coffee in the microwave.  My wife has the satisfaction of a quick victory.  And my Dad has his keys.
     "How long were you going to let him look for his keys?" my wife tells me.
     "I'm glad you found your keys," I tell my Dad.
     "Someone must have put them there," my Dad tells us both.
  
  

RaisingDad

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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