A hike without water. Across the Mojave Desert. In the middle of summer. I'll start at high noon. I won't take my hat or my sunglasses or my Under Amour t-shirts that make me feel like a superhero because they're so tight. I won't wear my super-duper hiking boots. Instead, I'll wear my 1960's black-cloth Chuck Taylor Converse high-top all-purpose sport shoes.
And nothing else.
Now, why do I want to go on such a hike? Because this morning I walked downstairs, and--you guessed it--all the lights were on. Every frakking light. The TV blasting. My Dad MIA. The only physical trace that he was there were the dirty dishes, cups, utensils, etc. left on the kitchen table.
Okay, I guess I can live with all that. I guess I have to. I get to work turning everything off, and cleaning everything up. My wife's a saint, I've told you that. But I'm not too shabby myself.
Hours later, however, I'm working my tail off watching my grandson. He's only three, but he tells me, "Lito," which is short for abuelito, which is Spanish for grandfather, "you need to exercise."
He knows that since I've had surgery on my shoulder I haven't been able to exercise that way I usually do. So he instructs me to lay on my back, lift him above me, swing him back and forth, forward and back, Simon and Garfunkle. I lift him with my arms, then I lift him with my legs.
I really shouldn't have been doing it, but life is short, and my grandson's happiness is good medicine, too. When I'm done, he sees me rubbing my sore shoulder.
"Lito," he asks me, "is that your bum arm?"
"Yes, it's my bum arm."
"Does your bum arm hurt?"
"Yes, my bum arm hurts."
My Dad comes into the kitchen and he begins searching for who knows what? Maybe he hid my inheritance in the kitchen, and forgot which drawer or cabinet. He's like a very old Energizer Bunny.
He keeps going and going and going.
"What are you looking for, Dad?" I ask him.
"Huh? Oh, wha...?"
"Sorry, Pop, but I don't speak Star Wars," I wanted to say. What I actually said was, "What?"
"Nothing," he says, and keeps on going from drawer to drawer, cabinet to cabinet. And then he stops. If he was looking for nothing, I guess he found it.
"Is your wife here?" he finally asks me.
"Nope," I answer.
"No?"
"No."
He stands there, but his eyes keep darting around.
"Do you... ah...?"
Star Wars again.
"She went shopping," I told him, figuring that's what he wanted to know.
"Shopping?"
"Shopping."
"Shopping?"
"Shopping."
He continues to stand there, but again his eyes are going up and down, this way and that, Abbott and Costello.
"Oh," he says, "you say that she's out? Where?"
Where? How would I know? When she goes out shopping, I don't ask her where. I just ask her if there'll be enough money to make our house payment when she's done. At the end of the month, if I check my bank statement and there is, then I do. But I don't tell my Dad all that.
I just tell him all I know is she's out spending my money.
"Your what?"
"Shopping," I tell him. "She's out shopping."
The last thing I need is for him to tell her what I just told him. My wife appreciates my sense of humor, but not when it comes from a third party.
"Oh... oh..." he says, but I know what he's thinking. He's thinking, "How can a man not know where his wife is? Son, if you don't know that, then you don't know shitski, as the Russians say."
Okay, maybe he wasn't thinking all that, but that would have been more interesting that the rest of our conversation.
"So you don't know... hmmm..." Click, click, click! "Ahhh... mumble, mumble, mumble."
"Sorry, Dad."
Click!
In case you're wondering what those clicking noises are, they're a sound my Dad makes, and I have no idea why he does. He's got all his teeth, so it's not from ill-fitting dentures. It's just a noise that he enjoys making. Maybe it helps him to think.
I guess he thinks, "I better leave," because that's what he does. He exits the kitchen, and walks over to his little father-in-law house at the front of our property.
I continue watching my grandson. After awhile, I take him upstairs and try to put him down for his afternoon nap. That kid's got a lot of energy, but eventually he does nod off.
The older I get, the more I've learned to appreciate the value of a good nap. Unfortunately, there's cleaning left to do downstairs. My grandson tends to make a mess, too, but I don't mind cleaning up after him. He's not a grown man who can clean up after himself.
I'm not heartless, but if I can clean up after myself, then I expect everybody else to, as well.
I go downstairs, and walk into the great room. I hear a mumble. I stop in my tracks and look around. I see my Dad sitting in his (my) favorite chair. The lights are off. The TV is off. The drapes are all closed. I had left the door to our backyard open to let some fresh air in, and I see my Dad covered up in one of the blankets we keep downstairs in a wicker basket for just such a chilly occasion.
I take a closer look. Yeah, the old guy's awake.
My Dad. Most times he comes in, turns everything on, and then leaves. Other times, he comes in and sits in the darkness. I can't figure him out, and he won't explain himself.
I walk back upstairs, leaving him to his thoughts and his privacy. My shoulder still aches from "exercising" with my three year-old fitness trainer. I rub it gingerly. Check in on my grandson. He's still asleep.
I have a baby upstairs, and one downstairs, as well. However, I can figure out why the one upstairs does what he does. The one downstairs... well, at least he's saving me money by sitting in the dark.
You know, I never did find out what he was looking for.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
@JimDuchene
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