Today, he had been in his room for a couple of hours. I know it was that long, because I have to turn off all TV and lights when he exits my house and enters his. It would take him less than two seconds to turn the TV off, as well as the lamp next to his (my) favorite chair. It would take him no seconds to flip the switch to the kitchen lights as he walks past.
My wife, bless her heart, will leave everything on for him. Me? Well, since I pay the bills, I turn everything off.
So, two hours after I've turned off the TV and all the lights, I go back downstairs to heat myself a frozen burrito from Costco. I grab it from the freezer, toss it into the microwave, and set the timer for two minutes. No sooner do I press the "start" button, than I hear the kitchen door open, and in walks my Dad.
"Hi, Dad," I say.
"Ohhh..." he answers, and walks in, mumbling the usual. I don't know what that "ohhh" means, and he doesn't care to elaborate.
He walks over to his kitchen corner. That's where my wife keeps all the fixings to make his tea. He gets his cup, gets his teabag, gets his honey (Which not only sweetens his tea, but also--he swears--gets rid of his allergies.), and pours some filtered water into his cup. He brings it to the microwave, and sees that something's already percolating inside. He stops for a second. Frozen. Unsure of what to do.
"Ohhh..." he says to nobody in particular, "the microwave is on."
Since he's not really talking to me, I act like I don't hear. It's not that I'm ignoring him, or anything like that, it's just that I've learned the hard way to speak when spoken to. By "the hard way," I just mean he makes me regret engaging him when he hasn't asked for my engagement. By "makes me regret," it might be something as simple as having to repeat myself over and over again, until he finally hears what I'm saying. He has a hearing aid, but he refuses to wear it, because "I don't need it." Meanwhile, I can hear the downstair TV all the way upstairs. And by "upstairs," I mean upstairs IN THE HOUSE DOWN THE BLOCK! But anyway...
He stands in front of the microwave for a few moments more, mumbles a few words, and then opens the door.
"Ohhh... there's something in there."
He looks at me, and shuts the door.
"Is that yours?"
"I'm heating up a burrito," I tell him, and I reach over and press the start button again.
"Costco?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, those are good,"
The microwave buzzer goes off, and I check my lunch. It's warm, but it's also still frozen. You know how it goes. So I turn the burrito around, and put it back in for another minute.
My Dad waits five seconds--FIVE!--and then he takes it out.
"Ummm... ahhh..." smack, smack, smack "It's ready."
This catches me by surprise.
"I just put it in there," I tell him. "It needs another minute."
Click, click! Smack, smack! "No, no... it's ready."
He places it on the counter top right next to the plate I had put down for my feast. Why didn't he put it on the plate?
Hey, YOU ask him.
My dad put in his cup, and set the timer for one minute. He heats his tea in one minute increments, so that he can get it at just the right temperature.
He's looking at the digital timer as he presses the "start" button.
"Your microwave is broken," he tells me.
"What?"
"You're microwave. It's broken. I've been meaning to tell you."
I look at my almost heated burrito. It's not the burrito's fault it wasn't heated properly.
"What do you mean it's broken?"
"The timer," he tells me, and points to the timer as if I don't know where it is. "Every time I press in a hundred, it jumps to fifty-nine."
"It jumps to fifty-nine?" I ask, trying to figure out what he's talking about. And then, once I do figured it out, I immediately wished I hadn't, because the answer made me sad.
"That's because you're pressing in a minute, Dad," I say, gently, "not a hundred."
"A minute?"
"Yeah, Dad. One-oh-oh means one minute. Sixty-seconds. That's why it jumps from one-oh-oh to fifty-nine."
The buzzer went off again. He tested his water. Nope, still too cool. And then set the timer again for a hundred. And watched it jump to fifty-nine. And then I could see the light bulb go off over his head. Sixty, fifty-nine. Sixty, fifty-nine.
"I know," he said. "I just meant, if somebody didn't know it, they might think it was broken."
My Dad. He can never admit not knowing anything.
...to be continued...
RaisingMyFather
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
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