On Christmas Eve Day (Part Two)

On Christmas Eve Day, while my father has been enthusiastically zzzzzzing, I have been in the attic busy finding and separating and rearranging all the holiday boxes that contain our holiday decorations. Boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Once Christmas is over, and we pack everything up, there will be still more boxes.
     Where do they end?
     I'd ask my wife, but she'd only get mad. I don't mind the silent treatment, what I mind is the lack of womanly affection that comes with the silent treatment at no extra cost.
     Every year, when I put them back in our attic, I stack them neatly and with great care. When the holiday comes rolling back around, I don't know how they get mixed in with all the other holiday boxes we have there, or who goes up there and mixes them in with all the other holiday boxes, but mixed in is the condition I find them in.
     I don't ask anybody about this. Why bother? If I did, I'd start sounding like my Dad, and pretty soon I'd be blaming my grandson.
     Meanwhile, my wife has been busy, too. She's been busy cleaning and cooking and cleaning some more. She likes to clean the way I like to drink coffee.
     Like most women, she is a multi-tasker. At my age, she's lucky to get me to do one thing at a time, much less several things at once. In my defense, whatever I do, I do very well.
     When I finally take a break to do what real men do (i.e. watch sports) my Dad walks into the kitchen. He stands at the entrance and looks around for a few minutes. I'm thinking he was probably on his way to the restroom and forgot where it's at. It's in his room. Somehow he took a wrong turn, ended up in the kitchen, and is now really confused. The look on his face tells me he's probably thinking, "I better not sneeze, because I have to empty my bowels, but how did I end up the kitchen?"
     If there's one thing my Dad knows what to do, it's make lemonade out of lemons.
     "I'm hungry," he tells my wife.
     "Good," my wife says, "because I've just finished cooking. Do you want me to serve you a plate?"

     My Dad is now really confused.

     "Hmmm, ahhh, well," he says. Click, click, click. Smack! Smack! Smack! He blows his nose, which is a new addition to his repertoire, and tells her, "I think I'll go for a walk."
     Say what?

     Now I have to wait to eat.
     My wife had wanted to serve me earlier, but out of the kindness of my heart, I told her that I would wait for my father. Today, I had decided that I would not only eat with my father, but actually sit at the table with him. I've stopped doing that for awhile now, because of all the noises my Dad makes when he eats. It's hard for me to even sit with him to watch his beloved baseball on TV, but I try because that's what good sons do.

     As my father is on his way out, his bug eyes tell me that someone is wrong. He starts digging in his pockets, patting his pants, checking the top button of his shirt and the top of his head.

     "Where are my sunglasses?" he says, but it sounds more like an accusation. "I just had them in my hand. Someone must have taken them from me. Where's the baby?"
     "The baby" is what he calls my grandson--his great-grandson--whom he's always accusing of taking things like a toddler wraith from his little father-in-law house.

     He's checked everywhere, and, like Santa, he's even checked twice. My wife walks over to help him.
     "What are you going to do?" he tells her. "I've looked everywhere."
     She immediately finds his sunglasses in the front pocket of his shirt. The ONE place he didn't look.
     "I didn't look there," he says, sheepishly.
     "I'll serve you when you get back from your walk," she tells him.
     "Serve me what?"
     "Food."
     "I have to go to the bathroom," he says.
     Now I have to wait even longer to eat.
     Is all this really worth the inheritance he's going to leave me?
     I've seen his bank statements.
     Yes, it is.
 
 

RaisingMyFather

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
 

 

"You Know What I Want For Christmas?" (Part One)

Life does take some strange turns, and, unfortunately, we have no control of the steering wheel.
     The other day I told my wife, "Honey, I'm not complaining, but babysitting an old man was not what I had in my mind when I retired."
     She gave me The Look. I think the flowers on our kitchen table began to wilt from the invisible lasers that were emanating from her eyes.
     "You can make your own coffee," she told me.
     "That's not the only thing you'll be making on your own," her Look interjected.
     "Honey, sweetie, baby" I interjected myself, "I'm just joking. You know me. I like to joke."
     Hey, I like my coffee in the mornings. Among other things.
     But it's true. I had no idea I'd be taking care of an almost 100-year-old man who eats more in three meals than I do in three days. He snacks all day long. Complains if we don't have at least five different flavors of ice cream for him to choose from. He counts his money more often than Scrooge McDuck. He receives three retirement checks, has no obligations or bills, and apparently no wallet as well, because he never seems to reach for one when the time comes to pay for anything.
     Myself, I see Wings, the Complete Series for $39.99 at Wal-Mart, and have to talk myself out of buying it even though it was one of my favorite TV shows. Plus, I really had a thing for the actress who plays Helen. Of course, this was back before I got married for the second (and last) time to my current (and only) wife.
     "You don't really need it," I tell myself. "It'll come back out on TV some day. Don't they all come back?"
     Not to mention, we get zero help from the rest of his kids, even the illegitimate ones. Hmm... my wife just looked up from the book she's reading. I don't know how she does that. If I know what's good for me, I better tell you that that was just one of the jokes I like to make. Am I afraid of my wife? Heck, no. I could beat her up if I had to. The problem is that I'm in love with my wife.
     "Love stinks," as The J. Geils Band once sang. "Yeah, yeah."
     The way I figure it, if I out-live my Dad, I will finally be able to afford that DVD box set of Wings. Either with the inheritance I'll receive from him or the money I'll save on the food I'll no longer have to buy (Anybody want to buy a box of 120 cream puff rolls... cheap?). I might even buy myself three 45-90's--Dinosaur Rifles (Private joke. Ask my grandson.)--in honor of his memory. The next thing I'll do is then book the next flight to China. I'll even fly first class, that way I can wine and dine in his honor. Once in China, I'll run The Great Wall, skipping over the gobs of spit the Chinese are so fond of littering their pathways with.
     But first I have to outlive him.

     My grandson and I went mountain climbing a Friday or two ago. We climbed Mt. So-N-So at Such-N-Such. I think it's higher than Mt. Franklin, which is in El Paso. My grandson is one tough kid. He's not a whiner, a crier, or a complainer. My Dad could learn a thing or two from his great-grandson, because that kid just keeps picking them up and putting them down.
     On the way home, he was telling me that he wants to go back and hike to the top. The mountain is 120 miles away, so it would be an all day trip for us.
     Do you know what my father told me the last time he was in the car with me?
     "Are we there yet?"
     No, really. He did. Of course, he followed that with, "It's taking longer than it did the last time. Are you sure you're not lost?'
     We were going to the doctor. Well, to be more specific, HE was going to the doctor. I've driven him there before. I know where it is.
     "I'm not lost, Dad," I told him.
     "Then why's it taking so long?"
     "It's taking the same amount of time it did the last time, Dad."
     "I'm glad you think so," he said.
      That's when he told me he wants a watch for Christmas.
     A watch?
     Yes, a watch.
     I have no idea what happened to the watch he used to have. One day it just... disappeared. I looked for it. My wife looked for it. My father didn't look for it, however, because looking for his own watch would be beneath him. There are only two places my Dad is ever in. His little father-in-law house in the front of our property, and in his --my--favorite chair in front of the TV in our great room. Besides all that, where is he planning to go that he has to be on time?
     He only has one appointment every three months and he can't keep track of that one. There are clocks all over our house and his, but he'll still show up too early for us to leave, and then disappears on us when it's time to go.
     Maybe he wants to count the seconds as they tick by so he knows exactly when he should go to the bathroom before his next doctor's appointment. There's a longer story somewhere in here. I'd tell it to you, but I don't want you to see me cry. 

     Speaking of my Dad, I've been waiting for him to go to bed for his nap, but no such luck. He has been asleep in the great room for three hours.
     Three hours?
     Yes, three hours.
     Doesn't he know I have things to do?
     Maybe that's the problem. He knows, but he just doesn't care.
     He must have seen me cleaning and waxing the downstairs floor, and decided to interrupt. I know he can't be hungry. My wife fed him breakfast at 0900 hours (that's 9am for you non-military types) and at 1130 hours he was eating lunch.
     There are times when I feel sorry for my father.  He'll stand in the middle of the room and go through all of his pockets. He searches every pocket in his shorts and shirt and sweater over and over again. What's he looking for? A watch? Has he lost something I don't know about? He'll take out his pre-used handkerchief, look at it, and then put it back in his pocket. And then he'll continue searching his pockets for something only he knows what it is. He will do this several times a day. Standing and searching. Standing and searching. He searches more than John Wayne in my favorite John Ford movie.
     Yesterday, he was a young USMC Sergeant, commanding men and jumping out of airplanes behind enemy lines. Today, he stands in the middle of the room, searching his pockets for something he has not lost.
     Well, he's lost his youth, but that's one thing he definitely won't find in his pockets.
     No matter how hard he looks.

 

 

Raising My Father

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For The Record

Yesterday Morning

 
My wife to my father: "Tomorrow you have a doctor's appointment."

     My father to my wife: "Who has a doctor's appointment?"
     "You have a doctor's appointment."
     "I have a doctor's appointment?"
     "Yes, you have a doctor's appointment."
     "Why?"
     "It's your yearly check-up."
     "My what?"
     "Your yearly check-up."
     "There something wrong with me?"
     "No, it's just your yearly check-up."
     "My yearly check-up?"
     "Yes, your yearly check-up."
     "Then there's nothing wrong with me?"
     "No, Dad. there's nothing wrong with you."
     "If there's nothing wrong with me, then why do I have to go to the doctor? I don't trust that character."
     "It's just a check-up, Dad."
     "Yes... but a check-up for what?"
     My wife goes through another fifteen minutes of verbal ping-pong before my father finally walks away, shaking his head and mumbling, "Yeah, but a check-up for what?"
 

This Morning
 


     My father strolls into the house the next morning wearing an old t-shirt, shorts, white knee socks, and white walking shoes. Your standard issue senior citizen outfit. By the look on his face, he didn't have a care in the world.
     I chuckled to myself. I knew he had forgotten that he had a doctor's appointment.
     Me to my father: "Dad, are you ready for your doctor's appointment?"
     My father to me: "What? You have a doctor's appointment?"
     "No. I don't have a doctor's appointment. You have a doctor's appointment."
     "Who has a doctor's appointment?"
     "You have a doctor's appointment?"
     "I have a doctor's appointment?"
     "Yes, you have a doctor's appointment.
     "Why do I have a doctor's appointment?"
     "It's just a check-up"
     "A check-up? But there's nothing wrong with me. Why do I have to go to the doctor if there's nothing wrong with me?"
     "It's just a check-up, Dad."
     "But I don't trust that guy. He doesn't know what he's doing."
     "You have to go, Dad. It's the law. Obama says so."
     "Ahhh... uhhh... wellllll..." Smack! Smack! Smack! "A check-up for what?"
     "For you."
     "For me?"
     "For you."
     "But I'm not sick."
     "It's just a check-up, Dad."
     "It's just a check-up. It's just a check-up. Why didn't anyone tell me yesterday that I had a doctor's appointment?"
 

A Few Minutes Later

 

     My wife walks in.
     I walk away.
     She looks at what my father is wearing.
     "Dad," she tells him, "did you forget you have a doctor's appointment?"
     "I don't have a doctor's appointment." he tells her.
     "Yes, you do."
     "No, I don't."
     "Yes, you do."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Yes, I am."
     "But I feel good."
     "Are you going to change?"
     "Change what?"
     "Your clothes."
     "My clothes? Why would I want to change my clothes. This is what I want to wear."
     "That's what you want to wear?"
     "Yeah, what's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
     "Why don't you put on that nice shirt that I bought you."
     "Which one?"
     "The white one."
     "You bought me a white shirt? When did you buy me a white shirt? I don't remember you buying me a white shirt." (Of course he doesn't remember the white shirt. I paid for it. Anyway, he goes on,) "Why do you want me to change clothes?"
 

Twenty Minutes After That

 
     Twenty minutes later, he finally goes back to his room to change. My wife tells him to wear a nice shirt.
     "The white one?" he asks her.
     "That would be nice," my wife answers.
     A few minutes later, my father walks back into the house wearing a multi-colored shirt. Blue, white, red, and some colors that I didn't even know existed in the color spectrum. He's got on plaid shorts over his skinny legs, black ankle socks stretched into knee socks over his skinny calves, and pre-1941 black military dress shoes.
     I look at my wife and smile.
     She turns her head away from me because she doesn't want to make eye contact.
     Deep down, I know she's laughing.
 

For The Record

 

     For the record, we never get to any of my Dad's doctor appointments on time.
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

I Bet It Was HIM!

Once upon a time, two Saturdays ago, my grandson had just been dropped off for a visit and wanted to race.
     "Why not?" I thought to myself. He's only four-years-old. What chance does he have of beating me, The Great One? That's what they used to call me in back in school when I was on the track team. Well... that's what I used to call myself, but the nickname never stuck.
     My grandson yells "GO!" and we're off like a flash. Make that two flashes.
     My mind was working like the computer Steve Jobs could only dream about making, analyzing every movement of my body and making adjustments as required. My legs were moving like pistons in the engine of a Lamborghini. My lungs, taking in huge gobs of air, were like the after burners on the SR-71 Blackbird flying at MACH 3.
     Man, I was in The Zone.
     When--all of sudden--I see my grandson (Did I mention he's only four-years-old?) moving away from me. Man, that kid is fast--sonic fast, moving away from me as if I'm standing still. That's when I realized my believing that I'm still seventeen is just an illusion. My body was barely moving. My legs were pumping in slow motion. My mind was misfiring information to my body, registering pain rather than elation. My lungs were burning like the Hindenburg. I was moving like my Dad when he's high-stepping it in the kitchen. Only slower, if that was possible. I probably looked as if I was moving backward.
     I found myself down-shifting to a stumble and yelling at my grandson shrinking in the distance, "Hey! Hey! STOP!" Yeah, please stop, and, when he wouldn't, "I'm going to tell your father."
     Getting old stinks. It's right up there with Death and Taxes.
     Speaking of my grandson, that just wasn't his day. First, he had to live with the shame of embarrassing his loving grandfather in a race, and then he had to listen to his great-grandfather's semi-complaints that his alarm clock had gone off early that morning. I thought that was funny.

     "Are you scheduling your dates in the morning now?" I joked with him. He hasn't been on a date since the Japanese invited him to the Philippines to play with guns.
     Then he blamed his great-grandson, and I didn't find it quite so funny anymore, because his great-grandson is my grandson, the one who beat me in the race. He said that it must have been him because he's always in his room messing with his radio.

     What? My grandson never goes into his room. In the first place, he's not allowed to go into his great-grandfather's little in-law house in the front of our property. In the second place, my Dad's nuts. He never likes to admit he's done anything wrong. He sounds like me when I was still in single digits. He'd accuse me of something--something I obviously did--and I'd deny it. My motto as a kid was: "I wasn't there. I didn't do it. That's not me in the video."
     "Besides," I told my father, "he hasn't been here in three days...
     "I don't know how he did it, but he did it."
     "...and the day he was here, his mother brought him at 9pm, and he and I were out the door the next morning at 10.
     My wife--his daughter-in-law-- just looks at me and shakes her head. She loves my Dad to death, but even she could tell my Dad was stretching it. My father probably fiddled with it the night before for some reason and changed the setting himself.
     You know, I don't even know what my Dad even needs an alarm clock for. It's not like he has anything to do that early in the morning, but he insists on having one, so my wife makes sure he has one.
 
     My dog (We have two, and mine's the big one. My Dad owns the small, yappy one.) has been sick with diarrhea, so the poor guy has to stay outside At night he sleeps in the garage.
     My wife and I went to Costco and told my father several times, "Dad, the dog is sick. Don't let him inside."
     "What?"
     "The dog is sick. Don't let him in."
     "What are you talking about? My dog's not sick."
     "Not your dog, Dad. Mine."
     "See? I told you my dog wasn't sick."
     "And we're going out."
     "You're going where?"
     "Out," I tell him. If I said the magic word--abracaCostco!--my father would insist on going, and a quick trip would turn into hours of him wandering around wanting things. My grandson doesn't want so many things when we take him shopping with us, not even in the toy department. My father, on the other hand, likes to go up and down each aisle, picking up items that catch his attention, and putting them in my wife's cart. I follow him around, take those items out of the cart without him seeing me, and I put them back on their shelves.
     "He doesn't need that junk," I tell my wife, and laugh to myself. It reminds me of when I was a kid and wanted something like The Man From Uncle camera that turned into a gun.
     "You don't need that junk," he would tell me.
     My wife, on the other hand, will buy him anything he puts into her cart. She'll buy it for him, and he'll show his gratitude by not using it or eating it, depending on what "it" is. Anyway...
     "He's sick," I told him again.
     "Who?"
     "The dog. And we're going out. So don't let him in."
     "Don't let who in?"
     "My dog. Because he's sick."
     My Dad took a dramatic pause as he took that information in. He took it, considered it, chewed it around a little bit, and then said, "But my dog's not sick."
     Eventually, he understood, and, when we got home, who did we find inside? We found my dog, sleeping in the great room. Fortunately, there wasn't a mess for me to clean up, because my dog is a BIG dog, so the mess would have been a BIG mess.
     I, asking no one in particular because I knew the answer, said, "How did my dog get inside?"
     My father looked around.
     "Huh? Ah? Wha?" he said, pretending to be surprised. "He's inside? Who let him inside?"
     He looked at me and then at my wife and then back at me, his big eyes bulging with sincerity. My wife and I looked at each other. She lifted one eyebrow, I lifted the other.
     "You know," he tells me confidentially, and nods in the direction of my grandson whom we have just picked up, "I bet it was him."
 
 

Raising My Father

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@JimDuchene

   

First... Do No Harm

I regret making fun of my father in the last story because God punished me for it.

     This morning I went outside to pick up after my dog, when I was attacked--ATTACKED, I tell you--by a tiny moth. I didn't even notice it until it flew right into my ear. My left one. It didn't even give me a chance to swat it away by buzzing around annoyingly first. No, it was like one of those Smart Missiles that locates and then heads straight for its target.

     One moment my ear was blissfully empty, and the next it had a moth in it. I didn't see it or feel it flying around, but I felt it go in my ear, so I did what anybody else would have done, I immediately used my finger to get it out. Unfortunately, I probably wedged it even further inside. The fortunate thing is that, even though it was small enough to fit in my ear, it was too big to go all the way down. With the exception of bumble bees, nothing that flies is able to fly backward. If it had been smaller, it could have gone all the way down to my eardrum, and who knows what kind of damage it could have done.

     You see, that was my big worry. Losing my hearing. Even if I only lost it out of one ear. So I went over to the boss--my wife--and told her what happened.
     "I have to go to the ER," I told her, and she said, "Go."
     She couldn't go with me because she had to stay behind to feed my Dad. This is a guy who saved the world from the Japanese in World War Two, but at the age of 95 he's become helpless in the kitchen. I pray nothing ever happens to my wife and I when we're out by ourselves some time, because they'd find a 95-year-old skeleton sitting at my kitchen table waiting to be served dinner.
     I should have also told my wife not to tell my father what happened, because the last thing I wanted (besides losing my hearing) is becoming known as My Son With The Moth In His Ear.

     At the ER there was only one lady with two kids sitting in the waiting area. I thought to myself, "This should be quick."
     They didn't call me in until an hour later.
     Other people eventually showed up, and we all just sat there. With me, they probably figured, "He's just got a moth in his ear. He can wait." I tried to stress how worried I was that the moth would rupture my eardrum, I even told them that I could feel it pressing up against something, but, while I'm sure that they're all good people, they weren't in any rush to treat any of us.
     You would think they would have a faster response time, especially since the place could fill up. If you take care of people as they come in and get them out as soon as possible, then you don't end up with a waiting room with a backlog of people.

     But that's just me.
     The only time they hurried was when they herded me over to see the guy who wanted to know how I was going to pay for the whole affair.

     The nurse that initially helped me was a guy from Africa. Don't take this the wrong way, but he had that starving-African look and a pretty thick accent, but was a friendly guy just the same. I know there are a lot of people out there who are going to call me a racist for saying things the way they were (and I would call those people "white liberals"), but when did saying the truth become an act of racism? If he told somebody about the crazy guy with the bug in his ear, I wouldn't think he was performing an act of medicism or anything. Anyway...
     He came out into the waiting area, got three of us, and then took us to our rooms. When he walked back in a few seconds later he had my chart and asked me, "What's the problem?"

     I told him, "Something flew in my ear."

     "SOMETHING FLEW IN YOUR EAR?" he said, shocked.

     "Yes," I told him again, trying to stay calm so that he would stay calm. "Something flew in my ear."

     That's what I told him. What I thought was, "Hey, buddy, YOU have my chart in your hands. Why don't you READ it?"

     He decided to take it out by filling my ear with some kind of liquid. I forget what it's called. It began with an "L" if that helps any.

     "That will get the bug out," he assured me.

     "I don't think it's a bug," I told him, "because it FLEW in. I think it's a moth. Moths only fly in one direction--forward--so I don't know if it'll come out."

     "Don't worry," he assured me, "it always works. We do it all the time. That bug will come right out. One time we had to do it to a little boy who had a cockroach in his ear, and the cockroach came right out."

     I wasn't so sure.

     "I thought you'd probably use tweezers to pull it out," I said, but was really making a suggestion.

     "We might push it further inside," he explained, and I couldn't argue with the logic. So he put the liquid that began with an "L" in my ear, and told me he'd be back in a few minutes. He came back and asked if the bug was still in my ear.

     "Yes," I told him.

     He left and after awhile a doctor came and put MORE of that liquid in my ear.
     "We need to drown it and then the bug will come out," he told me.
     "I don't think it's a bug," I said, telling him the exact same thing I told the nurse, "because it FLEW in. I think it's a moth. Moths only fly in one direction--forward--so I don't know if it'll come out."

     I wasn't so sure about that liquid doing any good, because I was a little boy once, and as a little boy I tried to drown a few bugs in my time, and--take my word for it--they take A LONG time to drown. Another part of me was worried that the liquid was going to make my ear canal so slick that the moth would be able to squeeze its way even further down my ear canal and try to force its way through my eardrum.

     I guess the doctor realized that the moth wasn't going to drown any time soon, so he decided to use suction to get it out. And get it out he did. Piece by piece. One time he came a little too close to my hearing apparatus, and that was kind of painful, but fortunately he didn't suck anything out except the liquid that begins with an "L".
     And the moth.

     "Was it a moth?" I asked, wanting to hear him say it.

     "It looked like one," he told me, not quite saying yes, but not quite saying no.

     Well... what can I say?
     I went there because I needed a doctor, not an expert on flying insects.

     All's well that ends well, I suppose.

     The doctor prescribed some eardrops for me, because I jerked when I felt that pain and the suction-tube he was using gave me a little abrasion inside my ear, or, to use the doctor's medical terminology, it "screwed up your ear, dude."
     He didn't really say that.
     But I know that's what he meant.

    
    

Raising My Father

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Blazing Nostrils

There's a joke by a very funny and very dead comedian, Henny Youngman. He was known as the king of the one-liners. It goes (and I'm paraphrasing here):

 

     "I went to the doctor the other day. I told him, 'Doc, it hurts when I do this.' He said, 'Then don't do that.'"

 
     Did I ever tell you that several years back, I was having dizzy spells? Every time I stood up, if I got up too fast, my head would spin and I'd have to sit back down until I got my sea-legs again.
     So I went to my General Practitioner. My family doctor, in other words. He's a good doctor. He's took the Hippocratic Oath and everything. Anyway...
     At the office, I tell him, "Doc, I'm having dizzy spells. Every time I get up, I have to sit back down, because my head starts spinning. I don't know what's wrong."
     So the doctor does what doctors do. He hems and haws, adjusts his glasses, and looks over my file. Then, without asking any questions or missing a beat, he tells me, "Well, don't get up so fast."
     Since I had his attention, I thought I'd ask him another question.
     "Doc, is petroleum jelly flammable?"
     "As a matter of fact, yes, petroleum jelly is flammable," he informed me, "but only when it's heated to a liquid. When it's heated to a liquid, the fumes will catch fire, but not the liquid itself. However, a wick material--like leaves, bark, or small twigs--is needed to ignite the petroleum jelly. And don't call me 'doc'."
     Who knew he'd know so much about petroleum jelly?

     The reason I asked him that was because years ago when my Mom was still alive, she once told me that my Dad's nose used to dry up. Dad, being the medical man that he wasn't, would treat the dryness with Vaseline.
     I don't know why she felt the need to tell me all that, especially while I was eating breakfast, but I just filed it away with all the other odd information she was fond of passing on. Like if you go outside with your hair wet you'll catch a cold and die or if you eat a watermelon seed it will sprout inside your stomach or if you look at a dog go to the bathroom you'll get a sty in your eye. As a kid, I didn't even know what a sty was, so I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
     One day soon after, I'm talking with my Mom and she tells me that she is worried about my father.
     "Worried about what, Mom?"
      My mother tells me she's afraid my father's nose will catch on fire.
     What?

     "His nose will catch on fire?" I ask, wanting to make sure I heard what I heard.
     I also laughed, but to myself.

     She explains to me that my father--her husband--has a jar of Vaseline next to his bed.
     "And?" I ask.
     And he uses it for his nose. When my father's nostrils dry up, you see, he'll put some Vaseline up and all around his nose.
     "What's wrong with that?" I ask her. "I mean, if it keeps his nose, um, moisturized."

     What's wrong with that, she tells me, is that my father's nose could catch on fire.
     What?
     "Vaseline is petroleum jelly," she tells me like I'm an idiot, "and petroleum jelly is made from petroleum. You know, they make gasoline out of petroleum, so I'm afraid that if Dad gets too close to a flame, his nose will catch on fire and he will burn up. Then the container next to the bed could catch on fire and I'd burn up, too. I was told to put the jar in a safe place. and to keep dad away from any open flames."
     "Who told you that?"
     "Somebody."

     Hmmm... I'm thinking to myself... could that somebody have been Smokey Bear?
     I look at my mother. Could she be smoking something one of my younger brothers might have given her for Christmas? Should I have her checked out to make sure she isn't a danger to herself or to my father?

     I asked my mother, "Somebody who?"

     "Well," my Mom said, not really wanting to drop a dime on anyone, "your brother is the one that told me."
     "Which one?"
     "The middle one. He's worried about dad having the Vaseline in his nose and next to the bed. He's afraid that Dad's nose might catch on fire if he gets too close to a flame. Then, with his nose on fire, the jar would catch on fire and spread onto the bed. I would die in that fire!"

     What?
     "Are there any flames near your bed?" I asked her.
     "No," she said.

     I pretty much left it at that.
     I knew it was a subject way over my ability to explain to her that her middle son, who has no medical degree of any kind, was full of crap. I just told her that since Dad doesn't smoke any more and since he doesn't have the habit of holding lit matches up to his nose, everyone, including my younger brother, should be safe.
     I think she slept well for the first time in a long time that night.
 
 

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Eating Interrupted

Once upon a time, oh, say, three nights ago, my wife had made some menudo for Halloween Eve. Menudo is a Mexican stew made with hominy and tripe.
     What?
     You don't know what tripe is?
     Trust me, you don't want to know.
     My wife? She's a pretty smart lady. Menudo is exactly the right thing to eat on a cold, cold night when you're busy handing out candies for Halloween. And if you spill the red broth on your shirt, you can even tell the innocent young trick-or-treaters it's blood.
     Hang on a second... did I say "we"?
    I meant "me".
     Somehow, when it comes to getting off the couch to hand out the treats, my legs seem to be the only ones that work. But I don't mind. I've lost a lot of things when my Dad moved in with us. The use of the TV in the great room. The use of my favorite chair in the great room. The use of oxygen when my Dad leans to the side. I tell my wife to quit serving him the usual suspects of the gas-producing vegetable world, but she insists he needs the fiber.
     My Dad, he usually has his nose in everything. If I accidentally leave my mail within reach, he'll go through it like he works for the government. All except for my bills, however. I leave my bills out on purpose, but those he wants to remain ignorant about. And every morning, even when the weather's bad, despite our pleading and good sense, he'll insist on going on his walk, but any time the doorbell rings he'll stay sitting right where he's at and inform me, "There's someone at the door."
     The one thing I didn't lose, however, was my role as the primary candy-giver-outer on Halloween, and, to tell the truth, I love giving out candy for Halloween. I loved getting candy when I trick-or-treated when I was a kid, and I like thinking I'm adding to this generation's future fond memories of the ghoulish holiday. Also, I like the leftover candies.
     But getting back to the menudo... man, was I HUNGRY. When I finally served myself a bowl, I sprinkled some oregano on it and started spooning it down. On the second spoonful, a little oregano twig got stuck in my throat, kind of like a tiny splinter. I swallowed and swallowed, but it was stuck good.
     My wife was busy spooning down some menudo of her own and she saw me in distress. She asked me what was wrong. I told her I had an oregano twig stuck in my throat from the menudo. It felt like it was stuck at an angle, so I was afraid to swallow anything else, because I didn't want a big old piece of tripe to get caught on the twig and choke me.
     My Dad was also there, sitting by us and eating his own bowl. He heard my sad story and told me, "Why don't you eat a banana? That will make the twig go down."
     I tried to be polite, but I know I probably made an are-you-stupid-or-what? face. My wife even sat there looking at him because of his suggestion. I'm sure he must have given me that advice with the best of intentions, but why would I take the chance of swallowing anything and choking? If something's going to get stuck, it's going to get stuck. It doesn't matter if it's a piece of tripe or a piece of a banana, the twig doesn't care or know the difference.
     Now, don't get me wrong, I knew the chances of actually choking because an oregano twig was stuck in my throat were pretty slim. It was a twig, after all. And tiny But why did I want to take a chance?
     I don't remember how I answered him, as I was still worrying over my dilemma, but I'm sure part of my response was that I wasn't going to eat a banana because I didn't want to die.
     After that, he didn't make any other suggestions that could potentially kill me.
     My wife, in sympathy, stopped eating. My Dad, on the other hand, quickly forgot my rudeness and continued to eagerly chow down.
     "This is really good!" he said between enthusiastic spoonfuls.
     When he's eating, he'd be unaware of the world if it was ending.
     Meanwhile, my wife just looked at me with pity in her eyes and said, "Aw, and you were really enjoying that menudo."

 
 

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My Dad, He Knows

Today, I bathed my dogs.
     Well, only one of the dogs is mine. The big one. The one I don't get embarrassed taking for a walk. The little yappy one belongs to my Dad. I feed him, wash him, take him to the vet, pay for his shots... but it's my Dad's.
     When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I know I can count on my dog to protect and defend me. My Dad's dog? The only thing I can count on him doing is giving away my hiding place with his incessant barking. Anyway...
     I tell my father, "Dad, the dogs are wet. Don't let them in the house."
     My father says, "What?"
     I tell him, "I just washed the dogs. Don't let them in the house."
     "Oh," he tells me back, "you washed the dogs? Where are they? I don't see them."
     "They're outside, Dad. Don't let them in. They're still wet."
     "Are they wet?"
     Twenty minutes later he finally understands: No dogs in the house.

      At twenty-one minutes, I see his dog in the house.
     He's still wet.

      I don't bother saying anything. I don't bother asking anything. What good would it do me? How did the dog get in the house? He must have let himself in.
     Yeah, I'll go with that.
     My Dad's dog runs up to me happily wagging his tail. He wants a snack, or maybe a pat on the head. What I want to give him concerns my foot and his ass, but... it's not his fault, so I don't. I look at my Dad. There's not a court in the world that would convict me. I look back at the dog. Hmm, a potential  witness. A WET potential witness.
     (Do you know why the Mafia doesn't like Jehova Witnesses? Because they don't like any witnesses.)

     "Oh," my dad says when he sees me, "he wanted to come in."
     I don't know why he feels the need to explain anything to me. If he knew he was doing something he shouldn't have been doing, he shouldn't have done it. What really bugs me is he does nothing for his dog. Under normal circumstances, he would have let his dog stay outside. What normal circumstances? you ask. When the dog's dry. Or hungry. Or sick. Or any other time besides that.

     My Dad looks at me like he just did something he should receive a Scooby Snack for. He waits for me to give him a verbal pat on the back and the Nobel Peace Prize for Letting the Dog Into the House.
     "The dog's wet, Dad," I tell him.
     "I knew that," he says.
 
 

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Is It True? (Part Nine)

My Dad hasn't been his typical self since we got back from the family reunion. He sniffles, he snots, he clears out a lot of phlegm from his throat with a lot of fanfare.
     It doesn't do much for my appetite.
     Under the best of circumstances, I don't sit at the table to eat with him anymore and I haven't for several years. I've moved to the kitchen counter, that's where I now sit and eat. It started a while back when my Dad started sneezing and blowing his nose at the table, using the same dirty handkerchief I think he's had since he was stationed in the Philippines during World War Two, where it was so crusty and hard it saved his life by stopping a bullet shot from the gun of a Japanese soldier. I'm sure he must get new ones and throw the old ones in the hamper or the trash, but the thing is... I never see him do that.
     Now, it's gotten worse. Sometimes I even have to eat up stairs. It's tough to keep a healthy appetite when someone in the same room is sneezing, blowing their nose, and now coughing. Coughing and choking and spitting out whatever he can into that dirty handkerchief.
     I'm even losing weight from this loss of appetite. Now that I think about it, however, it sounds like a potential business opportunity. If a morbidly obese person wants to lose weight, say like Oprah or Rosie O'Donnell, they can hire my guaranteed weight-loss company. I'll just send my Dad over and he'll ruin their appetite with his loud noises and excretions. You can't gain weight from food you don't eat.  I kid, of course, but it could work. Unfortunately, at my father's age, there are probably laws against that sort of thing, but to get back to my main point...
     I feel sorry for my Dad, but feeling sorry doesn't help my loss of appetite.
     My wife, bless her heart, understands.

     And the shenanigans from above his neck aren't the only disgusting things we have to contend with. Just this morning I was out in the yard drinking a hot cup of coffee and watering my yard. Yes, we have sprinklers on timers, but I enjoy watering the plants, drinking a hot cup of coffee, and breathing in the morning's fresh air. In other words, I water the yard because I want to, not because I have to. Plus, it's relaxing.

     I was making my way close to my father's little in-law house in the front part of my property, when, all of a sudden, I inhaled the most disturbing, most pungent, most odorous smell imaginable. It must be what the people on The Walking Dead smell like, only deader and walkinger. It was a combination of decaying, gangrenous, burnt bodies mixed with sewer gases, skunk juice and stagnant water, topped off with vomit, diarrhea, and my brother-in-law's feet, which he swears he got from having served in Viet Nam.
     "Damn that Nixon!"
     It was all that and more.
     It dazed me for a second, but I kept my balance.
     I asked myself, "Am I dead? Did I just die and go to Hell?"
     I checked the area for any zombies or leftover poops from my intestinally-impaired dog. I checked the bottom of my shoes and then I checked them again. I looked around to see if my ex-wife and her relatives were visiting. But I found nothing...
     ...until I noticed that the window to my father's bathroom was slightly open. I couldn't help but notice all the foliage around it had fainted. I thought to myself, "Is he dead?" But, even if he was, he couldn't have decomposed that quick.
     Testing my conclusion, I walked away from my dad's open window, back toward the main house. The smell grew fainter the further away I walked. Then I cautiously moved back toward the open window, and--like a smelly punch to my olfactory senses--the stench hit me again.
     In my delirium, I could swear I heard Howard Cosell yelling, "And he's down! He's down! Look at that little monkey run!"
     I must have been out for the count, until--like Rocky--I got to my feet before the referee could reach 10. I wobbled away, still hearing Cosell yelling.
     "Manos de piedra," he was saying. Hands of rock. "No mas! No mas!"
     It was the worse smell ever.

     There have been times when my wife and I have noticed my father fanning his bathroom with the door after he's done seeing a man about a horse. It's almost funny. He'll stand as far away as he can, extend his arm forward as far as he can, and fan the door back and forth, holding it by the knob. He'll do it for ten or fifteen minutes. Why he doesn't just leave his little house until the CDC can send in a Haz-Mat team, who knows?
     What does this tell you? It tells me he can't even stand the smell of his own bodily functions.
     Is this true? I can hear you ask. Can the stench of his father's bowel movements actually kill plants and cause time to warp?
     Yes, my friend, it's true.
     As true as the stories in your Bible.
 
 

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THIS Button? (Part Eight)

My father wakes up early to go on his walks every morning.
     Sometimes he wakes up VERY early, so it was a surprise that he was sleeping in late THIS morning. Well, not really. He's tired from our recent trip across country to his family reunion and he hasn't quite recovered yet.

     Myself, I was taking advantage of his absence by reading the morning newspaper and enjoying a nice hot cup of the gourmet coffee my wife buys for me. I know she buys it for me, because my father prefers instant coffee. The cheapest brand.

     When I look at my father drinking his fake coffee, I sniff my nose in a let-them-eat-cake kind of way and think to myself, "Man, how can he drink that stuff?"

     My Dad, meanwhile, probably looks my way and thinks the same thing.

     I'm done with the paper and working on my second cup of coffee when my father walks in. He's holding his little credit card-sized Splash unit in his hand. He takes out his handkerchief and blows out quite a bit of snot that he had apparently been saving just for me. There's even more than usual.

     As usual, he's complaining.

     "I don't know why I have to carry this thing," he tells me, looking at the little doo-hickey. He puts his well-used handkerchief back into his front pocket.

     If he's expecting an answer from me, well, I'm tired too.

     "I don't even know how to use it," he continues.

     We've only explained to him TEN times how to use it. It's easy. No, really. Easy. You press the one button it has and help is on the way. It's ONE button. All you have to do is PRESS it. Somehow this seems beyond him.

     My wife walks in right then. She must have a sixth sense when it comes to my father. She always seems to know when he hungry. And she feeds him accordingly. The guy eats more than ME.

     "I only go on short walks," he tells her, recognizing a more sympathetic ear when he sees one.

     Unfortunately for him, he doesn't get it.

     "You have to take it with you, Dad," she says.

     "No, I don't," my Dad says back.

     "Yes, you do."

     "No, I don't."

     "Yes, you DO," she says, emphasizing the "do." It's like arguing with a three-year-old. "Even your son," she continues, nodding her head at me, "is going to get one for his hikes in case he gets lost."

     Lost? I've never been lost a day in my life. She must be listening to my brother-in-law.

     My Dad looks at me.

     "YOU got lost?" he tells me, with a big smile on his face. There's nothing more funny than to my Dad than someone else's misfortune. Even if that misfortune isn't true.

     "ME?" I said.

     "I didn't say he GOT lost," my wife breaks in. "I'm saying IF he gets lost."

     "When did he get lost?" me Dad asks, turning his attention back to my wife. She's always good for the latest scoop.

     "No, Dad. IF he gets lost. IF he gets lost."

     "Oh," my Dad says finally, "if he gets lost."

     "Yes," she says, "if he gets lost."

     My Dad thinks about this a bit. And then...

     "What does this have to do with me?"

     "Well..." she says, slowly. "That means you have to use one, too."

     "I only go on short walks."

     "It doesn't matter."

     "It probably doesn't work."

     "I'm sure it does."

     "Besides, I don't even know how to use it."

     "Dad!" my wife says, exasperated. She was about to say We've only shown you TEN times! but she catches herself, and then says in a more reasonable tone. "It's easy, Dad. All you have to do is press the button."

     "THIS button?" my dad asks, pressing it.

     "No!" my wife says, moving toward him.

     "No!" I say, getting halfway out of my chair, but...

     ...it's too late. My Dad has already pressed the button. Almost immediately a highly-trained voice comes through the little speaker.

     "This is so-and-so with blah-blah-blah," the voice says. "Is everything okay?"

     I assume that's the routine. First the operator tries to make contact with the owner of the Splash unit, and then, if they can't, they try to make contact with the people actually paying for the darn thing--namely me--and if they still they can't make contact, then they call 911. I'm assuming the reason they don't call the police directly is because they'd first have to identify themselves as Dunkin Donuts to get them to answer.

     Of course, I'm only joking.

     My wife, meanwhile, takes the Splash unit out of my Dad's hand.

     "What?" he says, looking at me.

     "You only use it in case of emergencies," my wife chastises him in a harsh whisper.

     "What?" he says, looking at her.

     My wife then busies herself explaining to the operator that the unit was pressed by accident. Taking into account the people these units are intended for, I'm sure the operator has heard it a thousand times before.

     "I was just seeing if it worked," my Dad makes up on the spot.

     "Dad, you know better than that," I tell him.

     "What?" he says.

     My wife, meanwhile, is finished with the operator and hands my Dad back his Splash unit.

     "Here, Dad," she tells him. "Now, whatever you do, don't press that button."

     "THIS button?"

 

 

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Searching for the Lost Ark of the Convenant (Part Seven)

After my Dad went off to search for the Lost Ark of the Covenant at his family reunion--and, unlike Indiana Jones, got lost--my wife thought it would be a good idea to buy him a Splash unit.
     When I say she thought it would be a good idea, what I mean is I made the mistake of going for a long hike, and, while I was gone, that gave her enough time to go out and buy one without my permission. A Splash unit, I mean.
     What's that? you ask.
     Well, it's an expensive little doo-dad with an emergency button that, when pressed, is answered by highly trained emergency certified personnel who all probably make minimum wage. When you advertise that your personnel is highly trained that usually means they're poorly paid.
     When the button is pressed, whoever answers has a list of phone numbers they're supposed to call. Mine, my wife's... the Pope's. The unit even has a GPS tracker that will pin-point my father's whereabouts the way those white supremacists were able to pin-point Walter White's buried drug fortune toward the end of Breaking Bad.
     Even before the reunion, my wife and I have been worried that if he was to fall, even in his room, he would not be able to call for help. On his walks, if he was to take a left turn instead of a right, he might get so turned around that he could end up at your front door.
     No, really. I'm talking about your front door. (And, speaking of you, you should make your kids and loved ones carry one. You know the drill. Do as I say, not as I blah, blah, blah.)
     With this unit, all he has to do is push the button and they'll be able to pinpoint him. After they pinpoint him, they can call us or they can call 911, or they can do any variation of the two. In case he gets confused and walks into the ocean or accidentally drops it into the toilet, it's waterproof. It even has an app that lets me check on my computer for his whereabouts. Unfortunately, one thing it won't let me check is his bank account, so I can take a look at how my inheritance is doing.
     I asked my wife, "Why do we need it?"
     She didn't answer. She just gave me "the look."
     "Don't you love your father?" she asked, finally.
     "What does love have to do with it?" I ask her back. Coincidentally, that's the same line I used after I asked her to marry me.
     Of course, my father was of the opinion that he was above carrying such a tiny nuisance.
     "Blah, blah, blah," he said.
     "Blah, blah, blah?" he wanted to know.
     And, as if we were dealing with a child who's gotten big enough to forget he's still small, we had to come up with answers that made him feel like he was the one making all the decisions.
     My wife told him that the doctor recommended it. She told him that the doctor prescribed it. She told him that the doctor even had one himself.
     She said it had nothing to do with his mental faculties or his physical capabilities. It was for the slim chance there was ever an emergency. If he had one or came across one, he would have a way of calling for help.
     "I can call for help," he informed my wife, and then proceeded to show her. "Help! Help!"
     "Dad, you know that's not what I mean," she said.

     "I don't need it," my Dad told her.
     "It's only in case of an emergency," she told him back.
     "I don't want it," he insisted.
     "But what if you saw a little boy get hurt?" she insisted back.
     "That's his problem. I'm not interested in carrying that thing around," he was determined.
     "You should be," she was just as determined.
     And then she said those four magic words that made everything all right.
     "We're paying for it," she said, nodding her head in my direction, indicating her and me. Mainly me.
     My Dad looked at her.
     My Dad looked at me.
     And then he looked at her.
     And then he looked at me.
     When he looked at her, I'm sure he probably was thinking, "My daughter-in-law... she's always looking out for me."
     When he looked at me, I know he was thinking, "My son... I always like sticking it to him."
     "Well, if the doctor says so," he said, shrugging his shoulders and finally agreeing. His wallet safely sleeping in his back pocket.
 
 

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Where's Dad? (Part Six)

It was good to see everybody at my Dad's family reunion.
     "Can we leave now?" I asked my wife.
     If looks could kill there wouldn't have been anyone alive within a thousand-mile radius.
     I can't get over it. According to the Law of Diminishing Returns, for every year that passes there should be less people at these reunions, but instead there always seems to be MORE. And all those additional family members are hard on my Dad, who doesn't consider his trip a success until he's unintentionally insulted every relative there. And some who aren't.
     "Stand up straight," he told the wife of one of his brothers as she walked past him.
     She's has osteoporosis.
     "Are you pregnant?" he asked one of his nieces.
     She's close to 60.
     "Well, she looked pregnant," he shrugged as she stormed off.
     I wish I could say that my Dad's verbal boners were something that's developed as he's gotten older, but, no, he's been like that all of his life. He's never had an interior editor. Whatever he thinks, he says.
     There's never been a gift I've given him that he hasn't thanked me for it by giving me a back-handed compliment. One time I got him a box of 12 T-bone steaks for his birthday.
     "Thanks, son," he told me. "They almost look as good as the ones from Costco."
     Another time, when my mother was still alive, my wife and I took them on a cruise. As we walked along the beach of Ensenada, Mexico, my Dad looked out over the ocean and said, "You know, I've been to beaches prettier than this one."
     "Honey!" my Mom said.
     "What?" my Dad said back.
     I know it was my his way of telling us how pretty the beach was, but my wife still had to give my hand a squeeze to make sure I didn't say something that would spoil our nice trip.
     "It's too late," I should have told her. "My Dad has already beaten me to it."
     Still, my father isn't the only one who suffers from diarrhea of the mouth. One of my cousins--who, age-wise, is more like one of my uncles--kept asking my wife, "Didn't you used to have brown hair?" He was thinking of my first wife. The one who, if there ever was a Zombie Apocalypse, would fit right in.
     My wife just smiled and nodded politely. When she's around my family, that's what she does best. Smiles and nods politely.
     Sometime during the reunion, someone told my wife that someone else saw my dad walking away from the gathering.
     "Who saw him?" she asked.
     "I don't know," they answered.
     "How long ago did he leave?"
     "I'm not sure."
     "Which direction did go?"
     "You'll have to ask the person who saw him leave."
     "But you don't know who that is?"
     "No."
     He's now MIA. My wife quickly found me, and, after taking a quick look around and not finding him ourselves, we gathered together a search party. We go up and down the streets, yelling, "Dad! Dad!"
     But no Dad.
     Somewhere along the line, my wife and I split up. She goes one way, I go another. Unfortunately, the way I go... no Dad. I call a few relatives who's cell phone numbers I had the presence of mind to key into my phone. They're back at the gathering.
     "Couldn't find him," was the general consensus. Maybe if my Dad hadn't insulted so many people, they would have tried harder.
     My phone went off. It was from my wife. She and a cousin I don't remember the name of, found him a MILE from where the reunion was being held. What was he trying to do? Walk back home? It was sheer luck and determination that they found him. I think they were looking for a Starbucks.
     "He's okay," she told me, "but his eyes were as big as saucers. He was lost, but he didn't want to admit it."
     My wife had been running all this time in sandals. Her feet were killing her and now had to walk another mile back. Later, she told me, "When I saw him I felt sorry for him, he looked like he was about to cry. He was looking around like he didn't recognize anything."
     Back at the party, he was the belle of the ball, at least until the next stubborn old geezer wandered off. Everybody wanted to know why he didn't tell anyone he was taking off.
     "I wanted to go for a walk," he told them, simply, "so I went for a walk."
     It's amazing how brave a person gets when they're safe and sound.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

     

I'll Buy You Some (Part Five)

After eating all of my wife's breakfast and even some of mine, my Dad goes into the bathroom of the hotel room we're staying in to get ready for this special day. He's in there for over an hour.
     Over an hour!
     I don't know what he's doing in there, especially since he was already in there for half the night keeping my wife and I awake with his midnight shenanigans. After he's done making himself beautiful for the family he hasn't seen since last year's reunion, he comes out and tells my wife that he couldn't find his shaving cream so he used one of her creams.
     My wife's eyes go wide. All of her creams are expensive.
     "Uh, which one did you use, Dad?" she asks him.
     "I don't know," he tells her. "It was the one in the little bottle."
     I know exactly the one he's talking bout.
     It's a little Bobby Brown face cream that sells for about the price of gold and gets rid of wrinkles and makes your skin more youthful.
     "You're already youthful," I tell my wife, but it doesn't work. She continues to spend my retirement on the expensive cream.
     Once, my Dad and I went with her to the mall and we found ourselves over at the Bobby Brown section. My Dad wouldn't normally be interested in cosmetics, but since what we needed was located right next to lingerie department my embarrassed Dad stayed close by.
     "What's that you're buying?" he asked my wife.
     "It's a face cream," she told him.
     He looked at the size, which was very small indeed, and asked her if it was a free sample.
     "No, Dad," she told him. "This is the cream."
     "It's small."
     "Yes, but you only use a little of it at a time, so it lasts."
     "How much is it?" enquiring minds wanted to know.
     My wife told him, and my Dad's eyes popped out like Roger Rabbits.
     "How much?" my Dad asked her again, looking at me, looking at her, and looking back at me. His eyes were bulging out as if we were expecting him to pay for it. "Boy," he said, "when they put the price tag on that cream, they must have saw you coming."
     "That doesn't even make sense, Dad," I told him, because I didn't want him to say something that would hurt my wife's feelings.
     He looked at me with his big bug eyes.
     "It's expensive, because it works," my wife told him. I could tell she was upset, because she didn't call him "Dad" the way she usually does.
     His big bug eyes went back at her.
     "Those expensive creams don't work," he told her. "I saw it on The View. You can use lard or shortening and it's the same thing."
     "Yeah," I interjected, again wanting to head things off at the pass, "but who wants to smell like lard?"
     My wife said nothing. She just stood there holding her cream.
     My Dad just stood there with his eyes still bulging. His wallet still firmly packed into his rear pant pocket.
     I looked over to the lingerie department where I saw... well, it doesn't matter what I saw.
     "Those expensive creams aren't any good," my Dad says finally, and then he wanders off. That's his way of getting the last word.
     "Those creams don't work," I told my wife, "because you're already beautiful."
     My wife looks at me gratefully.
     I don't know how I come up with lines like that some times. Maybe she'll show me just how grateful she is later, when we get home, and then I can use what I saw in the lingerie department to my advantage. Anyway...

     My wife moves quickly and goes into the restroom. I won't say she's in a panic, I'd say she's more afraid to find out what she knows has just happened and wants to get the discovery over with quickly. Like pulling a band aid off. An incredibly expensive band aid.
     She walks out of the bathroom holding a little jar for me to see. Around, it's about the size of an Eisenhower dollar, and about an inch high. She's got the cap off and is showing me that it's almost empty. My Dad has used most of that expensive face cream. I'm guessing as shaving cream, but who knows. He might have used it because he was all out of Preparation H.
     My wife buries the cream somewhere deep in her luggage. A dark labyrinth so packed and foreboding with women's undies that not even my nosy Dad will go there.

     Just as my Dad is putting on his shoes, he remembers something, gets up, and walks into the restroom. We hear him shuffling around and moving things here and there, to and fro, Garfunkle and Oates. He walks out a second later and asks my wife for her cream.
     "What do you want it for?" she asks him right back.
     "I want to use some on my feet," he tells her. "That's good cream."
     There's nothing my wife won't do for my father. If he needed a kidney, even at his age, she would gladly give him one of mine.
     "I'll buy you some," she tells him, and then firmly shuts and locks her luggage.
   

   

Raising My Father

RisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

     

The Most Important Meal Of The Day (Part Four)

The next morning, my wife steps out to get us breakfast.
     The hotel we're staying at has a delicious "free" hot breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, French toast... you know, the works. I say "free," because they're not fooling anybody. You and I both know their just adding the cost of it to the price of the room. Still, the breakfast is delicious.
     Despite this, my Dad tells her, "Nothing for me. I'm not hungry."
     Not hungry? After all that fussing around he did in the bathroom last night? I thought for sure he'd have worked up an appetite.
     "Should I bring him something anyway?" she asks me, not wanting her father-in-law to start his morning without the most important meal of the day. She's good that way.
     I tell her not to.
     "You know how he is," I tell her. "If Dad says he's not hungry, he's not hungry." She's still not sure, so I continue. "Besides, he's always saying you feed him too much."
     That convinces her. Sort of. She turns back to my father, who's busy rubbing his feet.
     "Are you sure you don't want breakfast, Dad?" she asks one last time, giving him a final chance to change his mind.
     "I said I'm not hungry," he grunts, and continues rubbing his feet. That's his way of being polite.
     My Dad? Not hungry? Is this the same man who plants himself at the head of the kitchen table in the morning and won't leave until a huge breakfast magically appears before him? And, after stuffing himself, counts the minutes until lunch magically appears? For a skinny old coot, my Dad can sure pack it away.
     She looks at me. I look at her.
     She shrugs her shoulders. I lift my eyebrows.
     We look at my Dad again. We look back at each other again.
     Finally, with a sigh, she leaves. Meanwhile, taking advantage of my few minutes of down time, I jump in the shower. I'm out by the time she returns with our breakfast. As I towel myself off, she tells me through the door that she's going to get us some coffee.
     "That's fine, sweetie," I say and continue to make myself adorable for her.
     When she returns, I hear her stop just as she enters the room.
     "Honey," she calls in her come-and-see voice. So I come and see.
     My Dad is sitting in front of our food and has eaten all of her breakfast. I say "hers," because I'm an bacon & eggs kind of guy. My Dad used to be one, too. Until my wife began to spoil him. In his prime, my father wouldn't have recognized a blueberry if you had poked him in the eye with one. Now that he's been introduced to my wife's five-star gourmet meals, he doesn't consider pancakes to be complete unless they've been smothered in whipped cream and some kind of sweet fruit topping.
     Anyway...
     "That was good," my Dad tells us, reaching over to my plate, grabbing my toast, and wiping up the last of my wife's egg yoke.

 

   

Raising My Father

RisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

What's Wrong With Motel 6? (Part Three)

We stay at a pretty nice place. For my Dad, it's nothing but the best. As long as I'm paying.
     Kiddingly, before we left, I told him, "I got us a pretty good deal at the Motel 6, Dad."
     "What?"
     "The Motel 6."
     "What about the Motel 6?"
     "That's where we're staying. At the Motel 6. I got us a pretty good deal."
     "We're not staying at the Motel 6."
     "Why not? It's a perfectly good motel."
     "We're not staying at the Motel 6."
     "It's clean. It's cheap. And the guy from those Motel 6 commercials will personally leave the light on for us."
     I laugh at my own bad joke.
     "Well," my Dad says, his eyes starting to bulge out from the anxiety of having to stay at a sub-standard motel. I'm so evil sometimes, it makes me laugh. "YOU can stay at the Motel 6, if you want, but I'm not."
     "You're not what?"
     "What?"
     "You're not what, Dad?"
     "I'M not staying at the Motel 6."
     He says that very forcefully. Determined to get his way. HIS way, or the highway, as the saying goes.
     "Then where are you going to stay?"
     There's a pause that goes on for so long I actually start to hear crickets. And then he says: "What?"
     "If you're not staying at the Motel 6 with us, then where are you going to stay?"
     His eyes start to bulge out a little more. He hadn't thought about this part of the equation. He wants to tell me something, but he doesn't know what. His eyes bulge out in direct proportion with his desire to tell me something.
     "I... I..." he stammers, and then starts looking around for my wife.
     Well, to make a long story short, my wife had already made a nice reservation for us at a very nice four-star hotel. I'd tell you where we stayed, but since they didn't give me the Senior Citizen Discount, I won't. They told me that, even though my almost hundred-year-old father is STAYING with us, since he's not PAYING for us, we didn't qualify.
     "You hear that, Dad?" I asked him in front of the clerk. "You don't want to pay for the room, so we can get the Senior Citizen Discount?"
     "What?" my Dad said, and then started fiddling with his hearing aid.
     Like I said, nothing but the best for my Dad, as long as I'm paying.
     Meanwhile, I go ahead and pay THE FULL AMOUNT, and we go to our room. That's right, you heard me correctly. Room. Singular. With double-beds. We have to get a single room, because we need to keep an eye on my Dad. We don't want him to wander off for a soda at the end of the hall and not find his way back.
     There's a comedian, Mike Birbiglia, and he suffers from a sleeping disorder. His body doesn't produce the enzyme or hormone or chemical that keeps you immobile when you sleep, so, when he dreams, he gets up and acts out his dreams. He has to sleep in a sleeping bag that's zipped up from the inside, and he wears cooking mittens on his hands so he doesn't unzip it. It keeps him from killing himself in his sleep. It must be horrible to live that way, but it gives him great material for his comedy act.
     The reason I mention him is, I think, when you get older, your body stops producing that enzyme, hormone, or chemical and you find yourself off and doing things you shouldn't do--like going down the hall for a soda--only you're awake when you do it. That's because, when you get older, your body also stops producing the enzyme, hormone, or chemical that helps you to fall asleep. That's why...
     In the hotel room, my Dad gets up at 2300 hours (that's 11pm, for all you non-military types). I say "gets" up and not "wakes" up, because the only time I'm sure he's asleep is when he's sitting in front of the TV in his--my--favorite chair in the great room and there's something else I really want to see besides the baseball channel he's so fond of. He gets up, goes into the bathroom, and he stays in there for two hours making all kinds of racket. I don't know what he's doing, and I don't want to know what he's doing. I'm just hoping he's done doing it some time soon.
     Of course, I could ask him what he's doing, but I don't want to spend the rest of the night listening to him explaining it to me. I need my beauty sleep. Or so my wife tells me. Speaking of my wife...
     She also doesn't want to know what he's doing. Since we can clearly hear him, she doesn't get up to check up on him, and, more importantly, she doesn't try to get me to get up and check on him.
     Eventually--and I mean e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y--he finds his way back to bed.
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene