I don't know how he knows, but somehow he does. He can't see to the end of the room, but whenever I'm doing any kind of work in the house, he somehow always manages to situate himself right in the middle of it.
When I'm in the great room or kitchen to do anything, he knows I'm there, and, a few seconds later, so is he. I'll only walk in to fix me and my wife a cup of coffee--it'll be early in the morning, and I won't even turn on the light--and I'll see him look out of his door. There's no way for him to know I'm there, but somehow he does. I'll see him walk out and toward the main house. Sometimes I'm able to sneak back upstairs with our coffee before he makes it into the house. Sometimes...
"Where's my coffee?" my wife will ask when I walk back into our bedroom empty-handed.
"Um... ah... well..." I'll begin to explain.
"Your Dad?"
"Yeah."
For the last three days I've been trying to dust-mop and buff the oak floor downstair. As usual, however, no sooner do I start to dust the floor, than he walks into the kitchen for his tea. And then, once he has his tea--and also proving in the process that he doesn't need my wife to make it for him--he sits himself in his favorite chair in the great room and watches TV. Sometimes he even turns it on. These last few days it's been on, and that meant I couldn't use the buffer. It makes too much noise.
Today, I finally get lucky, and I was able to finish dusting the floor. No Dad. He's still in his little house. I quickly grab the buffer, and just as I turn it on, guess who walks in? My Dad. Only I'm standing between him and his favorite chair. With a buffer.
Can't he see I'm busy in here? I pretend not to see him, and begin to buff the floor. He stands there, looking at me work. He's trying to figure out his next course of action. He doesn't say anything. No "Hi, how are you?" No "Good morning." No "Get the Hell out of my way!" I can still hear him, however.
Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhh, well..." Big sigh, then smack, smack, smack some more.
He finally decides what to do. Instead of coming in straight through the kitchen and into the greatroom, he takes a different route to get to his favorite chair. An immediate right, and then down the front hall.
"Oh, my..." he says to nobody, and plops himself down in front of the TV. It's off. Again, for some reason known only to him, he doesn't bother to turn it on. He just sits there and watches a black screen. My wife will usually turn it on for him if she's around, but today she's not around. She's upstairs and keeping herself busy and out of my way. My Dad, however, was never one to take a hint.
I've never worked harder in my life than since I've retired, and I'm hard at work now, putting a fine finish on the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. It's almost hypnotic. My music is on, but I can't even hear what song is playing because the buffer is so loud.
But I can hear my Dad.
"Ahhhohhh, ohhh, my..."
I had all of the curtains closed, but somehow he still saw me. Somehow he knew I was inside. And busy. I don't know how.
After I finish, I figure I can't pretend to not see him any longer, so I ask him:
"Dad, do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
"What?"
"Do You Want Me To Turn On The TV For You?"
"Do you want me to what?"
"TURN ON THE TV FOR YOU!"
"Don't yell at me!"
I go upstairs.
If it wasn't for his smacking, I would be more than happy to sit with him and watch The Price Is Right or Wheel of Fortune with him. Maybe even Everybody Loves Ramon. But no more baseball games. I'm still shell-shocked from the first year he moved in. I watched more baseball games in that one year, than all the other years of my life put together. But I wanted him to feel at home, so I watched.
After that year, I told my wife, "Sweetie, I love my Dad, but I can't watch any more baseball." She understood. I think that's part of the reason she caters to my father more than she should.
I return downstairs an hour or two later, and I find him still sitting in the great room. The TV off. His eyes closed. Is he asleep, or...
I stand there quietly, and watch him for a few seconds.
SMACK!
All is right with the world, and I go back upstairs.
When I'm in the great room or kitchen to do anything, he knows I'm there, and, a few seconds later, so is he. I'll only walk in to fix me and my wife a cup of coffee--it'll be early in the morning, and I won't even turn on the light--and I'll see him look out of his door. There's no way for him to know I'm there, but somehow he does. I'll see him walk out and toward the main house. Sometimes I'm able to sneak back upstairs with our coffee before he makes it into the house. Sometimes...
"Where's my coffee?" my wife will ask when I walk back into our bedroom empty-handed.
"Um... ah... well..." I'll begin to explain.
"Your Dad?"
"Yeah."
For the last three days I've been trying to dust-mop and buff the oak floor downstair. As usual, however, no sooner do I start to dust the floor, than he walks into the kitchen for his tea. And then, once he has his tea--and also proving in the process that he doesn't need my wife to make it for him--he sits himself in his favorite chair in the great room and watches TV. Sometimes he even turns it on. These last few days it's been on, and that meant I couldn't use the buffer. It makes too much noise.
Today, I finally get lucky, and I was able to finish dusting the floor. No Dad. He's still in his little house. I quickly grab the buffer, and just as I turn it on, guess who walks in? My Dad. Only I'm standing between him and his favorite chair. With a buffer.
Can't he see I'm busy in here? I pretend not to see him, and begin to buff the floor. He stands there, looking at me work. He's trying to figure out his next course of action. He doesn't say anything. No "Hi, how are you?" No "Good morning." No "Get the Hell out of my way!" I can still hear him, however.
Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhh, well..." Big sigh, then smack, smack, smack some more.
He finally decides what to do. Instead of coming in straight through the kitchen and into the greatroom, he takes a different route to get to his favorite chair. An immediate right, and then down the front hall.
"Oh, my..." he says to nobody, and plops himself down in front of the TV. It's off. Again, for some reason known only to him, he doesn't bother to turn it on. He just sits there and watches a black screen. My wife will usually turn it on for him if she's around, but today she's not around. She's upstairs and keeping herself busy and out of my way. My Dad, however, was never one to take a hint.
I've never worked harder in my life than since I've retired, and I'm hard at work now, putting a fine finish on the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. It's almost hypnotic. My music is on, but I can't even hear what song is playing because the buffer is so loud.
But I can hear my Dad.
"Ahhhohhh, ohhh, my..."
I had all of the curtains closed, but somehow he still saw me. Somehow he knew I was inside. And busy. I don't know how.
After I finish, I figure I can't pretend to not see him any longer, so I ask him:
"Dad, do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"
"What?"
"Do You Want Me To Turn On The TV For You?"
"Do you want me to what?"
"TURN ON THE TV FOR YOU!"
"Don't yell at me!"
I go upstairs.
If it wasn't for his smacking, I would be more than happy to sit with him and watch The Price Is Right or Wheel of Fortune with him. Maybe even Everybody Loves Ramon. But no more baseball games. I'm still shell-shocked from the first year he moved in. I watched more baseball games in that one year, than all the other years of my life put together. But I wanted him to feel at home, so I watched.
After that year, I told my wife, "Sweetie, I love my Dad, but I can't watch any more baseball." She understood. I think that's part of the reason she caters to my father more than she should.
I return downstairs an hour or two later, and I find him still sitting in the great room. The TV off. His eyes closed. Is he asleep, or...
I stand there quietly, and watch him for a few seconds.
SMACK!
All is right with the world, and I go back upstairs.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.blogspot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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