"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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