Seeing Things Differently

I was probably a pretty rambunctious kid, because I remember my Dad always after me for one thing or another.
     When I was a Senior in high school, and prone to staying out late on a Friday or Saturday night, my Dad would always make it a point to get me up early the next day.
     "Why do I need to get up early?" I'd ask him.
     "Because everything has a price," he'd tell me.
     I'm sure he was trying to teach me something, but it was something I didn't want to learn, so, after a few early mornings of me getting up to do nothing but learn a lesson, the only lesson I learned was that if I got out of bed so he could see me, and then, when he went inside, immediately laid down on the floor of the far side of my bed, the side facing away from my bedroom door, so that he couldn't see me, then I could happily spend the rest of the morning in dreamland.
     Happily, that is, until he discovered what I was doing. My snoring gave me away.
     As a kid, I was forever forgetting to close doors, cabinets, drawers. I'd open the refrigerator, and stand there trying to decide what to eat.
     "Close the door!" my father would yell at me. "You're letting out all the cold!"
     And I'd close the door. And the cold would be safe. At least until I was hungry again.
     It was the same with the back door. I'd open it, go outside to do what I had to do, such as pick up dog poop in the backyard, and would leave the door wide open. Why? I can only guess that it was the logical thing for me to do. Why spend the energy opening the door twice?
     "Close the door!" my father would yell at me. "You're letting out all the heat!"
     It almost seemed that he'd follow me around telling me to close everything I opened. Like I said, I was pretty rambunctious, which is another way of saying I just plain didn't listen.
     Cut to the present. I've been noticing that the heater to my father's in-law house is always on. It's on during the night. It's on during the day. It's on when he's in his house. And it's on when he's in mine. I keep hearing his heater kicking on, and I keep seeing my dollars being wasted.
     A few weeks ago we were having all the windows to the house cleaned. My Dad's little house, too. So I had to go into his room to move the furniture away from the windows and open all the drapes. As I get to the first window I notice that the drapes are closed, but the window is wide open. The bathroom window is wide open, too. In fact, all his windows are open. Some just a crack, but open nonetheless.
     Now I understand why his heater is always on.
     "Close the windows!" I want to yell at my Dad. "You're letting out all the heat!"
     And I almost laugh to myself over how our roles have switched.
     Along with the heater always being on, my Dad also uses an electric blanket for his naps and sleeping at night. My father doesn't see or pay the electric bill, so he cranks it up.
     Cut to today. I had to leave town for a few days, and, when I came back, it was cloudy. Cool. Almost cold. It's raining. The air is fresh and sweet. I love this kind of weather, so for me it's a perfect day.
     I go upstairs to drop off my luggage. Take a shower, change, and head back downstairs for breakfast.
     All the windows are closed. The doors are closed, too. Locked tight.
     My Dad is sitting in his usual chair at the head of the table. Well, it's his usual chair when he beats me to it. He's eating a big breakfast. He usually does. He's wearing his usual battle-scarred gray sweater.
     His dog is barking for food. He's hungry, too.
     The heater's on. It's warm. Almost hot. Definately uncomfortable. The drapes in the great room are closed, so my Dad can watch the TV from where he sits without any glare.
     "Sweetheart," I say to my wife, "why's it so hot in here?"
     My wife looks at my Dad, and then she looks at me.
     "Hot?" she asks me, innocently. "Really?"
     "Dad," I say, "don't you think it's hot?"
     "What?" he says.
     "Don't you think the house is hot?"
     He looks up from his food, and looks around, as if he can actually see the heat.
     "What do you mean?"
     "The house, Dad. Don't you think my wife has the heater on too high?"
     "Nope. Feels pretty good to me," he says, and goes back to his food.
     I look at my wife. She looks at me. She raises one eyebrow--nice trick--and gives me the stink eye .
     I know what that means, so I have my breakfast and go upstairs. I open the windows in my room, as well as the french doors to the balcony. The view is great, especially with the fresh air coming in. I turn on my small TV, and sit on the bed to watch it.
     Ah, home.
  

  

Raising My Father 

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

    

Somehow He Knows (Part Two)

The next day (yesterday) I was having my noon cup of coffee. I was wearing a baseball cap that has a light in front for hiking. I had all the drapes and shutters closed. No one could peak in, but then neither could the sun, and I also had all the lights in the kitchen and great room turned off. Only the little light in the front of my cap was on. It was on dim. In my mind I could hear the theme music to Mission: Impossible.
     I could barely see the newspaper I was reading, when something outside caught my eye. I see my Dad looking out his front door. His front door is actually a back door. He lives in a little in-law house that's located just in front of the main house, so his front (back) door faces directly to the french doors that lead into our kitchen. It's not as confusing as it sounds.
     He looks straight at me. I can see him through the space between the shutters, but can he see me? I'm in the back of the kitchen, which is actually the front of the kitchen if you're in the main house. The lights are out. It's dark in here. I turn my the light on my cap off. I'm not moving. Not even breathing. My music is so low that if you didn't know it was on you probably wouldn't hear it. But my Dad can hear it. Somehow, and I don't know how it's even possible, somehow he can hear it. He can hear everything. Everything except the stuff he's supposed to hear.
     My Dad opens his door. Takes a cautious step outside. Shuts and locks his door. I guess he's afraid his three year-old great-grandson might break inside his house and steal his TV or something. He's still looking in my direction, his eyes bugging out for better focus, I suppose. He walks across the courtyard and tests the doorknob on the kitchen door. It's open.
     Dang, I forgot to lock it.
     He turns the doorknob, pushes the door in, and comes inside... but it's too late. Like a ninja, I've disappeared into the shadows.
     "Heh, heh, heh," I laughed to myself.
     Today was payback for me, because of yesterday. Man is a creature of habit, and I grab myself my noon cup of coffee. I'm sitting in the island in the kitchen. I grabbed the newspaper. My Dad has already had his way with it, so it's all mixed up. I pay for the paper, so you would think that the least my Dad could do would be to put it back in order when he was done. You would think so, but you'd be wrong.
     My Dad is sitting in the great room in his favorite chair. It used to be my favorite chair, but when my Dad moved in, it became his favorite chair.
     "Just sit somewhere else," my wife would tell me. "What does it matter?"
     Spoken like a woman. I don't mean that in a sexist way. I'm just saying that women don't understand the need to mark and defend their territories. Let me just say that, to men, it matters.
     My Dad is watching something else besides baseball. He's watching reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Bob Crane is his favorite actor. I once tried to tell him how Bob Crane died, but my Dad would have none of it. My Dad also likes to watch the afternoon news, mainly because of the weather girl with big boobs.
     I grab the newspaper, and I try to put it in order. I say "try" because there's no Sports Section. No Sports Section? That's right, there's no Sports Section.
     "Dad," I call out to him, "do you have the Sports Section?"
     No answer. Bob Crane is kissing Colonel Klink's sexy blonde secretary. That's got my Dad's attention.
     "Dad." Pause. "Dad!"
     "What are you yelling at me for?" he finally answers.
     "Do you have the Sports Section?"
     "What?"
     "Do you have the Sports Section?"
     "The Sports Section?"
     "Yeah."
     "What would I be doing with the Sports Section? I don't like sports."
     This from a man who watches ninety-nine per cent baseball--and one per cent women with big boobs--on television.
     "When you were reading the newspaper, did you put it someplace?"
     "Why would I do that?"
     I don't know, to drive me nuts? That's what I wanted to tell him. What I actually said was: "Because you were reading the paper."
     "What?"
     "Maybe you misplaced the Sports Section, because you were reading the paper."
     "I haven't read the paper."
     It was my turn to go, "What?"
     "I haven't read the paper this morning."
     I looked at the newspaper in my hands. It was like an unmade jigsaw puzzle with one missing piece.
     "What do you mean you haven't read the paper?"
     "What do you mean what do I mean? I haven't read the paper."
     I look at my Dad. There's not a girl with big boobs on the TV screen, so he's looking at me back, directly in my eyes.
     "I... haven't... read... the... paper," he insists.
     What do I do? Call him a liar? My wife will read the paper eventually, but in the morning all she's interested in are the ads. That's how she plans her day. By deciding where she's going to spend our retirement funds. My point being that I know it's not her who disected the newspaper.
     I think my Dad must have thrown out the Sports Section to get even with me for yesterday. Either that, or he likes looking at the sexy pictures in the gentlemen club ads. I can't fault him for that. I would just like to read the Sports Section first, before he hides those sexy pictures under the mattress of his bed.
     My Dad's still looking me square in the eye. Daring me to call him a liar. I know inside he's laughing. At me.
     He makes a large smack, smack, smack noise, and turns back to watch the television. I go back to trying to put back the newspaper in its original order. I'll read what's left, but I won't enjoy it.
     No, siree... I won't enjoy it at all.
  

  

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com. American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene