It's been raining here for over a week. I've already let the dogs go outside to do their business this morning. They weren't too happy about it, but they do what they're told. My Dad, on the other hand, is a stubborn old coot. I call him an old coot with affection. Besides, that's what he is. Me, too, for that matter.
He's sitting in his favorite chair. Not the one in the great room, but the one at the kitchen table. At the HEAD of the kitchen table. You know... MY chair. So he's sitting in my chair, the way he usually does, and he keeps talking about going for a walk.
"You'll have to skip your walk today, Dad," I tell him. "It's raining."
"No, it's not," he tells me.
Not raining? That catches me by surprised. It's only been raining for the past week. This morning's no different.
"Of course it's raining," I tell him. "Look outside."
"I am looking outside," he says from the relative dryness of the kitchen table. "It's not raining."
"Touch your dog, Dad. He's wet. That's because it's raining."
My Dad calls his dog over, and pets him affectionately. I can tell by the look on his face that he was hoping for a dry dog to prove me wrong, but the look on his face tells me that he's just touched a cold, wet, stinky dog. But my Dad, like I've said before, is stubborn.
"He's dry as a bone," my Dad says, telling a bald-faced lie.
The situation is starting to get frustrating.
"He's wet, Dad, because it's raining. Can't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"The rain."
"The what?"
"The rain."
My Dad listens, or at least pretends to.
"I don't hear anything," he finally says.
"Listen."
"I am listening. I still don't hear anything."
My Dad's determined that it's not raining. Even when it is. Well, enough from me. He can be as stubborn as he wants to be, but rain is rain. I know enough to quit while I'm still ahead.
That's when my wife makes her entrance. She comes downstairs from our bedroom, and walks into the kitchen just as I decide to quit arguing with my Dad. That's what I like about my wife, she's got good timing.
"Good morning, Dad," she tells him cheerfully. "How 'bout that rain? When's it going to stop?"
My Dad looks at me, and sniffs.
"I'm going for a walk," he tells her, but not rising from his chair.
"A walk?" she yelps in surprise. "But, Dad, it's raining."
"No, it's not," he tells her. "Touch my dog."
I remember telling her something similar when we were first dating. All it got me was a hard punch in the gut. I still laugh about it, and she still pretends to be offended.
"Dad," she tries to use reason on him. That's her first mistake. "It's been raining all week."
"Yeah, but it's stopped. Now's my chance to get my walk out of the way. Before it starts up again."
"Dad, it hasn't stopped."
"Sure it has. Touch my dog. He's dry as a bone."
She looks at me. I shake my head. No, they're not.
"I'm not going to touch your wet dog, Dad." That's similar to what she told me... just before she punched me in the gut. Anyway, she tells him that it's still raining, and, besides that, the rain clouds are low. Not only is it wet, but it's also foggy out there.
"No, it's not," my Dad insists.
"Yes, it is," my wife insists.
"It's stopped," my Dad informs her.
"No, it hasn't," she informs my Dad.
My Dad looks outside.
"Look, it's stopped," he tells her, motioning outside.
She looks outside. It is raining. I look outside. It is raining. She looks at me, and walks away. She's officially just as frustrated as I had been a few minutes earlier. Now I'm no longer frustrated. I'm laughing on the inside from the reality show I've just seen.
Why does my Dad insist it's not raining, when it obviously is? He gets up, and walks to the back door leading out of the kitchen and into the rain. To get a better look outside, I guess. A better look at the rain that doesn't exist. He's probably trying to will the rain to stop, but it doesn't. The rain's as stubborn as my Dad.
When I was in my teens I was probably about as obnoxious a know-it-all as they come. You know, your typical teenager. I thought I was just exceptionally smart, however, and that lead to countless arguments between my father and I. I thought the way to win an argument with my Dad was to just argue louder than him. My Dad thought the way to win an argument with me was to tell me, "The sky is black!"
The sky is black. What he meant by that was that it didn't matter if he was wrong. If he said something was so, then it was so. Of course, I didn't buy his logic for a second, and that lead to even more arguments. And that brings us back to...
"It's not raining," he finally tells us. "I'm going on my walk."
What can we do? Tie him down? I don't think I even have enough duck tape to do the job. Plus, after he's escaped, I'd be under arrest for kidnapping him or something like that.
He grabs his windbreaker, his hat, and heads outside.
TWO minutes later, he's back. Wet and cold. He walks in, shaking his head.
"It's raining," he tells us.
Yeah, no kidding.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
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