Just like Justin Bieber.
Am I showing my age? Sometimes I feel like those parents from the 50's calling rock & roll the devil's music or those parents from the 60's yelling at hippies to "get a haircut!" But one thing I can count on not to change is my Dad. The older he gets, the more he becomes a caricature of himself (which is something I'm sure my children think about me). What am I talking about?
My Dad's new TV has logged
in less then 10 minutes since I paid for it, and those were the 10 minutes my wife spent loading the channels after I had hooked it up. When I complain to her about how I have to watch a 18 inch TV with no convertor, she always reminds me, "You'll get it soon enough." Meaning my Dad's TV set. Meaning, when he passes away. I don't think so. Like Michael Corleone said about Hyman Roth when he was playing The Godfather Part, Too: "He's been dying from the same heart attack for 20 years."
I think my father is waiting for me to go first.
I gave my Dad's old TV to my daughter, who needed one. Why didn't I keep it for myself, since all I do is complain about my old 18 incher? Well, she's my daughter and she needed one. If you're a parent, you'll understand. If you're not, then you're probably not reading this.
She was very happy with it and kept thanking me for it. I told her, "That's an $800 TV I just gave you," which was what I had to pay for my dad's new, terminally unwatched one. Speaking of my Dad, I'm still waiting for a thank you from him.
Waiting for a thank you from my Dad is what I do best.
Meanwhile, every time I walk into the great room who do I find sitting in his--my--favorite chair watching baseball? Yep, my Dad. Sometimes he's not even watching it. He'll be wherever he'll be and the great room will be empty. The TV will be on, as well as every single light on the path he has to walk between his father-in-law house and the great room.
Dad has a TV larger than the one I'm usually stuck watching. Do I sound like I'm complaining again? That's because I am.
Today at 1400 hours (which is 2 in the afternoon to you non-military types), Dad
went on his walk. I warned him that it was hot. My wife warned him that it was
hot. His dog didn't even want to go.
"It feels cool to me," he said, as he stubbornly walked out the door.
When he returned, I asked
him "How was it?"
I had to laugh at his
response.
"Man, oh man. It was hot," he said, shaking his head. He then took off the old, grey sweater he likes to wear on his walks. "Very hot."
If he was one of my kids, I would
have laughed and answered, "I told you it was hot." It didn't help that he was
dressed as if he was an extra in the movie Ice Station Zebra.
Later that day, I'm polishing
the wood floors leading from the hall way to the kitchen to the great room. Dad is in his--my--favorite chair watching TV. His new TV--the one that cost me 800 bucks--sits in his room. Lonely.
I have no choice, I have to polish the floor but I don't want to do it in a rude way. So I start in the hall way and slowly make my way to the great room. I'm trying to give him plenty of warning.
Here I come, Dad. You might want to make some other arrangements in your baseball-watching routine.
I know he can hear me, but he can't see me. After a long 30 minutes, he finally gets up and goes to his room.
Leaving the TV and all the lights on, on his way out.
Click, click, click!
Smack, smack, smack!
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
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