as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
My wife and I are cleaning the oakwood floors downstairs. Wood floors need a good, old fashioned cleaning and waxing several times a year to keep it rich looking, and all that cleaning and waxing takes an awful lot of elbow grease. The whole affair takes too long to do all at once, so we do it in sections. We are on our knees cleaning the floor.
Which reminds me of the following joke (if you don't care for jokes that are a bit on the politically incorrect side, then I suggest you skip the following paragraph):
What's the difference between the mass in a catholic church and the mass in a gay church? In the gay church, only HALF the congregation are on their knees.
But I digress...
By all of us, I mean not my Dad. He's sitting on his (my) favorite chair. I don't see him from the angle and direction I'm in, but I know he's there because I can hear him.
Mmm... smack, smack, smack! Ahh, click, click, click! Ohh, weee! Smack! Ahhh!
I'm almost positive that he doesn't know he's making those noises. They just find their way out of him, like various other noises from various other parts of his body.
"Ahhh--smack, smack, smack--what are you all doing?" he asks.
We're both using a cleaner and micro towels. My Dad can see exactly what we're doing. He's just making conversation.
I think to myself, what are we doing? What does it look like we're doing? I've got my wife on her knees, and not in the fun way.
"We're cleaning the floors, Dad," I tell him. I'm not too nice when I'm in the middle of hard work. I know that. So I try to be nice. Nice, but still not in the mood for long explanations.
My wife, the saint that she is, takes a little more time to explain it to him.
"We're cleaning the floors, Dad," she tells him. "Right now, we're using a wood cleaner, because your son is going to have to wax it. We have to clean it in sections, because it's too much work to do all at once. The floor will look better when we're done. You'll see."
She's just spent a lot of effort and wordage telling him the same thing I just told him. I think she just wanted to take a break.
"Yeah," my Dad says to us. "I thought so."
You know, when we were buying the house, wooden floors seemed like a good idea. They're beautiful to look at, but... who the heck knew they were so much work? We had an option to buy fake wooden floors that looked just as good as the real thing, but I thought that would be taking the cheap way out. I didn't realize that, after retiring, because of those wooden floors I'd be spending all my time off working harder than I ever did when I had a job.
Later--much later--after the floor is clean, I'm on my knees adding a wax finish to it.
My Dad walks by.
"Still working on it, huh?" he tells me, and stands over me (not too close, or I might put him to work) to inspect, not admire, the great job I'm doing. (That's right. I'm patting myself on the back. somebody has to.)
"Yeah," I tell him. "Now I'm waxing it."
Smack, smack, smack!
"Yeah... I thought so."
Smack!
He lifts his nose and sniffs around.
"What's that smell?" he asks.
"What smell?" I say.
"That smell," he says, waving him arms around himself, to indicate the air.
"I don't smell anything."
"You don't smell it?"
"Smell what?"
"That smell." Still waving.
"You mean the wax?"
"Wax?"
"Yeah, the wax I'm waxing the floors with."
"Yeah, that wax. Do you smell it?"
"Dad," I tell him, hating to break the news to him, "it's odorless. It doesn't smell."
"Sure, it smells. I can smell it."
I think the wax he smells is the gas he just passed.
"Son," he tells me, "that stuff stinks. I'm surprised you can't smell it. Something must be wrong with your sniffer."
My sniffer?
Finally, I'm finished. Dad goes off to his room, and I go upstairs To get cleaned up, and claim my reward. My wife's not always a saint.
The next morning, my Dad comes into the kitchen. I'm sitting at the kitchen island, enjoying a nice, hot cup of coffee. My wife, with a smile on her face, is making us breakfast. We're both tired from all the physical exertion from the day before.
Cleaning and waxing the wood floors was pretty tiring, too.
My Dad takes a look around.
"Your floors look the same," he tells us, and then sits down and waits to be served breakfast.
Yeah... I thought so.
Which reminds me of the following joke (if you don't care for jokes that are a bit on the politically incorrect side, then I suggest you skip the following paragraph):
What's the difference between the mass in a catholic church and the mass in a gay church? In the gay church, only HALF the congregation are on their knees.
But I digress...
By all of us, I mean not my Dad. He's sitting on his (my) favorite chair. I don't see him from the angle and direction I'm in, but I know he's there because I can hear him.
Mmm... smack, smack, smack! Ahh, click, click, click! Ohh, weee! Smack! Ahhh!
I'm almost positive that he doesn't know he's making those noises. They just find their way out of him, like various other noises from various other parts of his body.
"Ahhh--smack, smack, smack--what are you all doing?" he asks.
We're both using a cleaner and micro towels. My Dad can see exactly what we're doing. He's just making conversation.
I think to myself, what are we doing? What does it look like we're doing? I've got my wife on her knees, and not in the fun way.
"We're cleaning the floors, Dad," I tell him. I'm not too nice when I'm in the middle of hard work. I know that. So I try to be nice. Nice, but still not in the mood for long explanations.
My wife, the saint that she is, takes a little more time to explain it to him.
"We're cleaning the floors, Dad," she tells him. "Right now, we're using a wood cleaner, because your son is going to have to wax it. We have to clean it in sections, because it's too much work to do all at once. The floor will look better when we're done. You'll see."
She's just spent a lot of effort and wordage telling him the same thing I just told him. I think she just wanted to take a break.
"Yeah," my Dad says to us. "I thought so."
You know, when we were buying the house, wooden floors seemed like a good idea. They're beautiful to look at, but... who the heck knew they were so much work? We had an option to buy fake wooden floors that looked just as good as the real thing, but I thought that would be taking the cheap way out. I didn't realize that, after retiring, because of those wooden floors I'd be spending all my time off working harder than I ever did when I had a job.
Later--much later--after the floor is clean, I'm on my knees adding a wax finish to it.
My Dad walks by.
"Still working on it, huh?" he tells me, and stands over me (not too close, or I might put him to work) to inspect, not admire, the great job I'm doing. (That's right. I'm patting myself on the back. somebody has to.)
"Yeah," I tell him. "Now I'm waxing it."
Smack, smack, smack!
"Yeah... I thought so."
Smack!
He lifts his nose and sniffs around.
"What's that smell?" he asks.
"What smell?" I say.
"That smell," he says, waving him arms around himself, to indicate the air.
"I don't smell anything."
"You don't smell it?"
"Smell what?"
"That smell." Still waving.
"You mean the wax?"
"Wax?"
"Yeah, the wax I'm waxing the floors with."
"Yeah, that wax. Do you smell it?"
"Dad," I tell him, hating to break the news to him, "it's odorless. It doesn't smell."
"Sure, it smells. I can smell it."
I think the wax he smells is the gas he just passed.
"Son," he tells me, "that stuff stinks. I'm surprised you can't smell it. Something must be wrong with your sniffer."
My sniffer?
Finally, I'm finished. Dad goes off to his room, and I go upstairs To get cleaned up, and claim my reward. My wife's not always a saint.
The next morning, my Dad comes into the kitchen. I'm sitting at the kitchen island, enjoying a nice, hot cup of coffee. My wife, with a smile on her face, is making us breakfast. We're both tired from all the physical exertion from the day before.
Cleaning and waxing the wood floors was pretty tiring, too.
My Dad takes a look around.
"Your floors look the same," he tells us, and then sits down and waits to be served breakfast.
Yeah... I thought so.
Raising My Father
JimDuchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
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