I'm not especially mechanically inclined. If I fix something, it's because I have to, not because I want to. Or am able to.
My Dad, on the other hand... well, let me put it this way: At one time, there wasn't anything he couldn't fix, take apart, or put back together. When he was stationed in the Philippines during World War II he built a washing machine using an empty barrel and a broken down jeep.
Don't believe me? Well, I've got the pictures to prove it, buddy. In one, my Dad's standing shirtless next to his invention, with the biggest, proudest smile on his face, and, let me tell you, in his youth, my Dad looked pretty darn buff without his shirt on.
Today, I'm in the kitchen replacing the water faucet. Don't ask me how it broke, but it broke. Let's just say they don't make things the way they used to, and leave it at that. When you think about it, companies would go out of business if their products lasted forever. You have to look no further than the computer industry to get my point, where the product you buy is already obsolete before you can even get it home. But I digress...
My Dad is in the great room (Whatever happened to calling these rooms the living room, the formal living room or the den?). He's sitting there drinking a cup of hot tea and watching the blank screen of the un-turned-on TV. He knows how to turn it on, but he'll sit there waiting for someone--my wife--to turn it on.
I'm working in a very awkward position, with too many pipes & tools & thumbs, and too little room. If you've ever worked under the kitchen sink, then you know what I mean. If you haven't, then call a plumber.
The problem for me isn't the work. It's my dad. From the great room I can hear him moaning & groaning, oohing & ahing, and clicking & smacking.
"What are you working on, son?" he'll ask me every once in a while from where he's sitting. Click, click! Smack, smack! "Are you replacing the faucet?"
I know he's just trying to be friendly and make conversation, but, when you're working and things aren't going smoothly, you're just not in the mood for friendly banter. I could have used this kind of interest in my life when I was a kid, but back then he went by the motto: Kids should be seen, not heard.
"I'm replacing the sink, Dad," I tell him for the third or fifth time.
"Oh," he says.
At least he's not hovering over me telling me what to do and how to do it.
The house phone rings. Whenever the house phone rings my Dad has this annoying habit of going, "...ohhhhh...." I guess he's sounding the phone-alarm.
Too bad he has the TV off. If it were on, a little box on the top left corner would let us know who's calling. Since it doesn't, I just let it ring...
Ring! "...ohhhhh..."
...because my wife would call me on my cell phone.
Ring! "...ohhhhh..."
You see, my wife has the sense to leave the house whenever I'm doing something like working in a too-small space, banging my forehead and scrapping my knuckles.
The phone finally stops ringing. So does my Dad.
After some thirty minutes more, I'm still only half done. I decide to save my sanity and walk away to fight another day. My Dad's click, click, clicks and smack, smack, smacks are driving me nuts. I try to concentrate on the job at hand, but it's like the Chinese Water Torture, I just can't tune it out.
I go upstairs and into the room where I keep my workout equipment. I need to work out some of my frustration. Within five minutes I can hear my Dad exit out the kitchen door. He leaves our house, and goes into the little father-in-law house in the front of our property where he lives.
I take a Luxepro. I need the patience. I don't care if I get it artificially, just as long as I get it. Thank God for the pharmaceutical industry.
As I continue to work out my frustration I think back to a few days ago, when the faucet first broke. My Dad was right there in the kitchen listening to my wife and I discuss the broken faucet. He usually only listens to our conversations when he thinks we're saying something we don't want him to hear, and since the two of us were talking in low voices, I guess he thought we were being secretive.
"I can't fix it right away," I told my wife, "but it's a piece of cake, so don't worry."
My wife gave me an encouraging smile. She thinks I can do anything.
"Do you want ME to do it?" my Dad asks.
I thank him, but tell him no. If my Dad went under the sink, he'd never come out alive.
I taped the sink off to make sure no one used it, and I make it a point to tell my Dad several times that the sink couldn't be used, because, even though he NEVER uses the sink, now that it's broken, he'll want to use it every five minutes.
"Dad," I told him. "The faucet's broken, so we can't use the sink."
"What?"
"The faucet's broken."
"Oh... I thought so. What's the tape for?"
"It's so no one will use the sink."
"What?"
"It's so no one will use the sink."
"What?"
"IT'S SO NO ONE WILL USE THE SINK!"
"What are you yelling at me for?"
Pause. Take a deep breath.
"It's so no one will use the sink."
"Oh... I thought so."
I couldn't fix it right away, so the tape had to stay on for a few days.
"What's the tape for?" my Dad would ask my wife.
"The faucet's broken," my wife would tell my Dad, and then some time would pass.
"What's the tape for?"
"Um... the faucet's broken." Some more time would pass.
"What's the tape for?"
I don't mean to give the impression that my Dad is senile, forgetful, or addle-brained. He's not. He's just trying to make conversation in his own unique way. As a result, he was slowly driving my wife nuts. I always find it funny when he does that to her. I don't find it quite as funny when he's doing it to me.
"Fix the sink. Please!" my wife pleaded when we had a quiet moment together without my Dad adjusting the volumn control on his hearing aid so he could pick up what we were saying.
I go back downstairs, and take my place under the kitchen sink. There's always one screw or bolt that won't come off. So far, the bolt is winning.
After about five minutes--I don't know how my Dad does it--I hear the kitchen door.
I can feel someone hovering over me, and I see a pair of skinny legs in polyester pants standing nearby.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm fixing the sink, Dad."
"Oh... I thought so."
Raising My Father*
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
The More They Stay The Same (Part Two)
Telling you guys my muffin story a few weeks back put me in the mood for some, so, on my way home recently, I stopped and bought some, because, not only was I in the mood for something sweet, but my much-older brother was coming in from out of town and it would be something nice for us to nosh on while we're having our morning coffee. My brother loves coffee, too, but next to me he's an amateur.
When my brother comes into town he usually stays with us. He says it's because he doesn't see us often and wants to make up for lost time. I tell him it's because he's too cheap to stay at a hotel, and we both laugh.
He thinks I'm joking.
The one time he did stay at a hotel it was a real nice one that served a nice, hot breakfast. I went to see him one morning, and he took me to where it was served. I enjoyed myself so much that I still go there on occassion to eat, even though nobody I know is staying there, least of all me. My wife tells me I'm going to be arrested, and I tell her that I can't. I've eaten the evidence. But I digress...
Molly's muffins are good, in fact they're great, but they're not the only place that has good muffins. I've had some from one particular bakery that are very good, in fact they give Molly's some competition. So I bought a half dozen, and I took them home.
When I walked into the kitchen, my Dad must have seen me on the security screen I swear he has in his room to keep an eye on any activity in our house, and he walked in about sixty seconds after I did. He saw the muffins and licked his lips.
"Are those muffins?" he asked me.
"Yeah, Dad," I told him.
"Molly's?"
I had to break his heart and tell him no, but that didn't diminish his enthusiasm.
"Yeah, boy," he said, rubbing his hands together. "They look good."
I guess you could say that, next to coffee, we are a muffin-loving family.
He walked over to the container, which is made of a clear plastic like Molly's, and opened it up. Did I mention that my Dad is still recovering from that nasty cold he was suffering from a few weeks back? He's no longer sick, but he still coughs up phlegm and has to blow his nose constantly. Maybe it's just his allergies. Who knows?
So then my Dad, for some unknown reason, bends down and puts his nose right on top of the muffins, not quite touching them, and smells them. Each one.
Inhale/exhale. Inhale/exhale. Cough, cough, cough!
"Mmm..." he says, "they smell good."
Cough, cough! He covers his mouth with his hands, not wanting to spread his germs. Then he takes out his old, well-used handkerchief and blows his nose.
His nose has been running, whether due to the cold or his allergies, like I said, I don't know. All I know is that I had seen a clear liquid collecting around the rims of his two nostrils.prior to his smelling the muffins.
With a final blow, his nose is clean. He crumples up the handkerchief and stuffs it back into his front pocket.
He then checks the muffins for freshness. It's a habit he's developed that tends to ruin my appetite. I know it ruins my wife's appetite, too, although she doesn't admit to it.
What he does is he places the fingertips of his middle three fingers on each muffin and presses down. First one, and then the other, until he's checked them all. Maybe it's just something that amuses him, seeing the muffins go down and then rise back up, or maybe that's how he decides which one to eat.
One in particular he pokes with his forefinger a few times.
"Oh, yeah, this is the one," he says, and then helps himself to it. After all these years my Dad still teaches me things. What he taught me this time around is...
I've got to learn to eat my muffins where I buy them.
In the meantime, I'm saving the rest for my brother.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
When my brother comes into town he usually stays with us. He says it's because he doesn't see us often and wants to make up for lost time. I tell him it's because he's too cheap to stay at a hotel, and we both laugh.
He thinks I'm joking.
The one time he did stay at a hotel it was a real nice one that served a nice, hot breakfast. I went to see him one morning, and he took me to where it was served. I enjoyed myself so much that I still go there on occassion to eat, even though nobody I know is staying there, least of all me. My wife tells me I'm going to be arrested, and I tell her that I can't. I've eaten the evidence. But I digress...
Molly's muffins are good, in fact they're great, but they're not the only place that has good muffins. I've had some from one particular bakery that are very good, in fact they give Molly's some competition. So I bought a half dozen, and I took them home.
When I walked into the kitchen, my Dad must have seen me on the security screen I swear he has in his room to keep an eye on any activity in our house, and he walked in about sixty seconds after I did. He saw the muffins and licked his lips.
"Are those muffins?" he asked me.
"Yeah, Dad," I told him.
"Molly's?"
I had to break his heart and tell him no, but that didn't diminish his enthusiasm.
"Yeah, boy," he said, rubbing his hands together. "They look good."
I guess you could say that, next to coffee, we are a muffin-loving family.
He walked over to the container, which is made of a clear plastic like Molly's, and opened it up. Did I mention that my Dad is still recovering from that nasty cold he was suffering from a few weeks back? He's no longer sick, but he still coughs up phlegm and has to blow his nose constantly. Maybe it's just his allergies. Who knows?
So then my Dad, for some unknown reason, bends down and puts his nose right on top of the muffins, not quite touching them, and smells them. Each one.
Inhale/exhale. Inhale/exhale. Cough, cough, cough!
"Mmm..." he says, "they smell good."
Cough, cough! He covers his mouth with his hands, not wanting to spread his germs. Then he takes out his old, well-used handkerchief and blows his nose.
His nose has been running, whether due to the cold or his allergies, like I said, I don't know. All I know is that I had seen a clear liquid collecting around the rims of his two nostrils.prior to his smelling the muffins.
With a final blow, his nose is clean. He crumples up the handkerchief and stuffs it back into his front pocket.
He then checks the muffins for freshness. It's a habit he's developed that tends to ruin my appetite. I know it ruins my wife's appetite, too, although she doesn't admit to it.
What he does is he places the fingertips of his middle three fingers on each muffin and presses down. First one, and then the other, until he's checked them all. Maybe it's just something that amuses him, seeing the muffins go down and then rise back up, or maybe that's how he decides which one to eat.
One in particular he pokes with his forefinger a few times.
"Oh, yeah, this is the one," he says, and then helps himself to it. After all these years my Dad still teaches me things. What he taught me this time around is...
I've got to learn to eat my muffins where I buy them.
In the meantime, I'm saving the rest for my brother.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Saturday, March 9, 2013
The More Things Change (Part One)
Yesterday, when I took my Dad to his doctor's appointment, he came out of his room smelling like he had bathed in Listerine. Needless to say, the smell of Listerine was so overwhelming on the trip there that it was almost more than I could take.
The ride to the doctor's office was a bunch of "...ahhh's..." Clicks. "...hmmm's..." Smacks. "...ooohwee's...." Not from me. From my Dad. But if I live long enough I can see myself making all those same noises.
Which brings me to today. We've had some warm weather here, lately. High 70's to mid-80's, but starting tomorrow the weather will cool down. It will drop to the mid-60's with a chance of rain. Enough rain to dirty my black SUV. Why did I buy black. I knew better, but I still did. You know, I used to think that SUV's were only for families with kids, but they're also for families with 90 year-old kids. A 94 year-old kid, to be exact.
Life doesn't change much. The way television shows are rerun over and over again, so are the habits of the elderly. For example, my Dad usually wants to go for his walk in the mid-afternoon. Today, the sky is cloudless, and it's pretty warm.
"It's hot, Dad," we warn him.
"It doesn't feel hot," he tells us.
The reason it doesn't feel hot, is because we're inside a nice, cool house. Outside of the nice, cool house it's warm. Too warm for a 94 year-old.
My Dad leaves anyway, and returns 30 minutes later soaking wet with perspiration. Even the rim around his hat is soaked through.
"Man, it's hot out there," he says.
My wife and I just look at each other. I notice for the first time that she's wearing a light sweater. My dad continues.
"My poor dog couldn't take it," he says, wiping his forehead and shaking his head. He's laughing. "He wanted to come home. Silly dog."
He looks at his dog, who's trying to cool himself off by lying on his belly on the cool kitchen floor.
"Can you get me something cold to drink?" he asks my wife. She gets up, and she does. "And some fresh water for the dog?"
My wife looks over at me. Our eyes meet for a second. Hidden just behind the look of sweetness and passivity there's another look. I know what that look means. It means: He's YOUR dad. Why aren't YOU getting his dog some water?
"Oooweee, it's hot!" my Dad says.
My father's still getting over a nasty cold that almost laid him low awhile back, and one would think that he would learn from the last thousand times we've told him to wait for his walk because it's either too hot, or it's too cold, or it's too windy, or it's too wet.
"Dad," we plead with him, "why would we lie to you?"
"I'm looking out the door," he tells us. "It's not (insert whatever weather report we've given him for the day)."
How my father can look at the rain, and say it's not raining is beyond me. He hates to be wrong, he hates to be told what to do, and he hates not getting his way. My own kids didn't give me this much trouble, even when they were teenagers. If I told them they couldn't go outside because it was raining, they would look outside and acknowledge it was raining. My Dad doesn't acknowledge the rain. Or any of the other elements, as well.
Now, my youngest grandson is smart, daring, and good-looking... just like his grandfather. Did I mention he was smart? Yeah, he learns fast.
In our backyard we have several ground spotlights that light up our water fountain. My grandson, who was only a year old at the time, found the spotlights very interesting, but like a moth, he only found them interesting when they were on. I caught him several times reaching over to touch them with his little fingers. I warned him that the light bulbs were hot.
One day, I lose sight of him for a split second, and it happens. He touches the bulb and it burns his finger. He cries for a little bit, and and then tells me, "Grandpa, hot."
"Yes," I tell him back. "It's hot."
"Hot."
"Yes, hot. I told you."
"Yes. Hot."
"Don't touch, okay? Don't touch."
"Hot."
After that day, when he sees them light up, he'll tell me, "Grandpa... HOT!"
"Yes, hot. Don't touch."
And he's never touched them again. He learned. Even at a year old, he learned. My Dad, on the other hand, is a different story.
He's 94 years-old and still hasn't learned, time after time after time, that when we say it's hot it's hot. So now we go along with him, what else can we do? When he returns from his walk on a warm day, he'll tells us, "Ooooweee, it's hot."
And we'll agree with him. My wife will hand him a cool glass of something to drink, and then she'll make sure his dog has some fresh water as well.
"Yes, Dad," we'll say, "it's hot."
Not "we told you," or any variation of that phrase.
If there's one thing I can count on in life, it's that my Dad will do what he does the way he does it for however long he wants to do it. Death and taxes will give in before he does.
Yesterday, when I took Dad to the doctor, he smelled like Listerine. Next week, when I take him to the dentist, he'll probably smell of Lysol
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
The ride to the doctor's office was a bunch of "...ahhh's..." Clicks. "...hmmm's..." Smacks. "...ooohwee's...." Not from me. From my Dad. But if I live long enough I can see myself making all those same noises.
Which brings me to today. We've had some warm weather here, lately. High 70's to mid-80's, but starting tomorrow the weather will cool down. It will drop to the mid-60's with a chance of rain. Enough rain to dirty my black SUV. Why did I buy black. I knew better, but I still did. You know, I used to think that SUV's were only for families with kids, but they're also for families with 90 year-old kids. A 94 year-old kid, to be exact.
Life doesn't change much. The way television shows are rerun over and over again, so are the habits of the elderly. For example, my Dad usually wants to go for his walk in the mid-afternoon. Today, the sky is cloudless, and it's pretty warm.
"It's hot, Dad," we warn him.
"It doesn't feel hot," he tells us.
The reason it doesn't feel hot, is because we're inside a nice, cool house. Outside of the nice, cool house it's warm. Too warm for a 94 year-old.
My Dad leaves anyway, and returns 30 minutes later soaking wet with perspiration. Even the rim around his hat is soaked through.
"Man, it's hot out there," he says.
My wife and I just look at each other. I notice for the first time that she's wearing a light sweater. My dad continues.
"My poor dog couldn't take it," he says, wiping his forehead and shaking his head. He's laughing. "He wanted to come home. Silly dog."
He looks at his dog, who's trying to cool himself off by lying on his belly on the cool kitchen floor.
"Can you get me something cold to drink?" he asks my wife. She gets up, and she does. "And some fresh water for the dog?"
My wife looks over at me. Our eyes meet for a second. Hidden just behind the look of sweetness and passivity there's another look. I know what that look means. It means: He's YOUR dad. Why aren't YOU getting his dog some water?
"Oooweee, it's hot!" my Dad says.
My father's still getting over a nasty cold that almost laid him low awhile back, and one would think that he would learn from the last thousand times we've told him to wait for his walk because it's either too hot, or it's too cold, or it's too windy, or it's too wet.
"Dad," we plead with him, "why would we lie to you?"
"I'm looking out the door," he tells us. "It's not (insert whatever weather report we've given him for the day)."
How my father can look at the rain, and say it's not raining is beyond me. He hates to be wrong, he hates to be told what to do, and he hates not getting his way. My own kids didn't give me this much trouble, even when they were teenagers. If I told them they couldn't go outside because it was raining, they would look outside and acknowledge it was raining. My Dad doesn't acknowledge the rain. Or any of the other elements, as well.
Now, my youngest grandson is smart, daring, and good-looking... just like his grandfather. Did I mention he was smart? Yeah, he learns fast.
In our backyard we have several ground spotlights that light up our water fountain. My grandson, who was only a year old at the time, found the spotlights very interesting, but like a moth, he only found them interesting when they were on. I caught him several times reaching over to touch them with his little fingers. I warned him that the light bulbs were hot.
One day, I lose sight of him for a split second, and it happens. He touches the bulb and it burns his finger. He cries for a little bit, and and then tells me, "Grandpa, hot."
"Yes," I tell him back. "It's hot."
"Hot."
"Yes, hot. I told you."
"Yes. Hot."
"Don't touch, okay? Don't touch."
"Hot."
After that day, when he sees them light up, he'll tell me, "Grandpa... HOT!"
"Yes, hot. Don't touch."
And he's never touched them again. He learned. Even at a year old, he learned. My Dad, on the other hand, is a different story.
He's 94 years-old and still hasn't learned, time after time after time, that when we say it's hot it's hot. So now we go along with him, what else can we do? When he returns from his walk on a warm day, he'll tells us, "Ooooweee, it's hot."
And we'll agree with him. My wife will hand him a cool glass of something to drink, and then she'll make sure his dog has some fresh water as well.
"Yes, Dad," we'll say, "it's hot."
Not "we told you," or any variation of that phrase.
If there's one thing I can count on in life, it's that my Dad will do what he does the way he does it for however long he wants to do it. Death and taxes will give in before he does.
Yesterday, when I took Dad to the doctor, he smelled like Listerine. Next week, when I take him to the dentist, he'll probably smell of Lysol
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Good Steaks. Or Are They?
Yesterday, my wife and I went out and bought some good steaks. The weather's been kind of nasty lately, with high winds and heavy dust, but the gods have given us a respite, so we thought we'd take advantage of it and barbecue.
When I say "we," what I actually mean is "me." Not that I'm complaining. My wife is in charge of all the cooking that goes on inside of the house, and tells me that I'm in charge of all the cooking that goes on outside of the house. I do what I'm told. It's easier to barbecue, than to spend the next few days hearing about why I didn't.
My wife loves my Dad. He's cranky, cantankerous, and curmudgeonly... but he grows on you. So she really goes all out when she serves him.
"You won't have him forever," she tells me, as she looks over the cooked beef.
"Showing preference to your father-in-law over your husband goes against the Bible," I tell her back. I'm kidding. Sort of.
My wife? She doesn't buy it. She gives him the best piece of meat.
My Dad appreciates it, and shows his appreciation by really chowing down. Chomp, chomp, chomp! He keeps telling us how good it is. And, you know...
It is pretty good. Even with my inferior piece.
The next morning my wife and I are in the kitchen drinking our first, but not our last, cup of coffee. We're both sharing the newspaper. We can do that when we beat my Dad to it in the morning. Otherwise he hogs it until he's done.
My Dad walks in shaking his head. Shake, shake, shake! It's not a good sign when he starts shaking his head.
"You know," he tells us, " I was sick all night."
"Really, Dad?" I say. Man, that Marmaduke is one funny dog.
"I've had the runs since yesterday. I didn't sleep all night because I had to keep going to the bathroom."
"That's a shame." Ha! Dilbert. He gets me every time.
"Yeah, it started last night... after I ate the steak."
"Huh? Wha...?" I sputtered, my attention suddenly being taken away from Beetle Baily's latest high jinks.
"It was that steak you gave me. It was bad."
Bad?
"Yeah, it was bad. It made me sick."
"Dad," my wife tried to explain to him, "we all ate the same steak."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"The piece you got couldn't have been bad."
"The piece I got was bad."
"It couldn't have been."
"Well, it was."
"Could it have been something else?"
"Nope. It was the steak."
"Are you sure, Dad?" I ask him, and he turns to me.
"Of course I'm sure. It was the steak. The steak made me sick. I've been sick all night. I couldn't sleep."
It couldn't have been the steak. We all ate steak, and my wife and I are perfectly healthy. My wife suggests to him that perhaps it was the lettuce or something else in the salad, but she's just reaching for straws because we ate that too.
"I think you're still getting over your cold," I told him, "and your tummy wasn't ready for something that heavy."
By heavy, I mean he ate like a pig.
"It wasn't my tummy I was having problems with," he informs me. "It was a little further down. No, it was the steak you barbecued."
I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what else to say. We all ate the same food, and only one of us got diarrhea.* I was sure I was right, that it was a result of whatever residue was hanging on from his brush with the great beyond, but when my dad gets something stuck in his head, there's no unsticking it. His stubbornness is the immovable object, and there is no irresistible force.
My Dad went on complaining about the poison food we fed him the day before.
"Blab, blab, blab! Smack, smack, smack! Blab, blab some more. Click, click click! Smack!"
We just sat there and listened. There was nothing else we could do, but wait for him to run out of steam.
"Ahhh... hmm...," my Dad continued. Cough, cough, cough! "Steak this. Steak that. Blab, blab, blab!"
Next time I'll fry him some baloney.
He likes baloney.
*Do you know the only thing worse than having diarrhea? Trying to have it quietly while your wife's in the next room.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
When I say "we," what I actually mean is "me." Not that I'm complaining. My wife is in charge of all the cooking that goes on inside of the house, and tells me that I'm in charge of all the cooking that goes on outside of the house. I do what I'm told. It's easier to barbecue, than to spend the next few days hearing about why I didn't.
My wife loves my Dad. He's cranky, cantankerous, and curmudgeonly... but he grows on you. So she really goes all out when she serves him.
"You won't have him forever," she tells me, as she looks over the cooked beef.
"Showing preference to your father-in-law over your husband goes against the Bible," I tell her back. I'm kidding. Sort of.
My wife? She doesn't buy it. She gives him the best piece of meat.
My Dad appreciates it, and shows his appreciation by really chowing down. Chomp, chomp, chomp! He keeps telling us how good it is. And, you know...
It is pretty good. Even with my inferior piece.
The next morning my wife and I are in the kitchen drinking our first, but not our last, cup of coffee. We're both sharing the newspaper. We can do that when we beat my Dad to it in the morning. Otherwise he hogs it until he's done.
My Dad walks in shaking his head. Shake, shake, shake! It's not a good sign when he starts shaking his head.
"You know," he tells us, " I was sick all night."
"Really, Dad?" I say. Man, that Marmaduke is one funny dog.
"I've had the runs since yesterday. I didn't sleep all night because I had to keep going to the bathroom."
"That's a shame." Ha! Dilbert. He gets me every time.
"Yeah, it started last night... after I ate the steak."
"Huh? Wha...?" I sputtered, my attention suddenly being taken away from Beetle Baily's latest high jinks.
"It was that steak you gave me. It was bad."
Bad?
"Yeah, it was bad. It made me sick."
"Dad," my wife tried to explain to him, "we all ate the same steak."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"The piece you got couldn't have been bad."
"The piece I got was bad."
"It couldn't have been."
"Well, it was."
"Could it have been something else?"
"Nope. It was the steak."
"Are you sure, Dad?" I ask him, and he turns to me.
"Of course I'm sure. It was the steak. The steak made me sick. I've been sick all night. I couldn't sleep."
It couldn't have been the steak. We all ate steak, and my wife and I are perfectly healthy. My wife suggests to him that perhaps it was the lettuce or something else in the salad, but she's just reaching for straws because we ate that too.
"I think you're still getting over your cold," I told him, "and your tummy wasn't ready for something that heavy."
By heavy, I mean he ate like a pig.
"It wasn't my tummy I was having problems with," he informs me. "It was a little further down. No, it was the steak you barbecued."
I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what else to say. We all ate the same food, and only one of us got diarrhea.* I was sure I was right, that it was a result of whatever residue was hanging on from his brush with the great beyond, but when my dad gets something stuck in his head, there's no unsticking it. His stubbornness is the immovable object, and there is no irresistible force.
My Dad went on complaining about the poison food we fed him the day before.
"Blab, blab, blab! Smack, smack, smack! Blab, blab some more. Click, click click! Smack!"
We just sat there and listened. There was nothing else we could do, but wait for him to run out of steam.
"Ahhh... hmm...," my Dad continued. Cough, cough, cough! "Steak this. Steak that. Blab, blab, blab!"
Next time I'll fry him some baloney.
He likes baloney.
*Do you know the only thing worse than having diarrhea? Trying to have it quietly while your wife's in the next room.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
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