Dad's Luggage (Part Two)
My wife packs all of my father's stuff the night before we leave. She's good that way. She'll pack the stuff he needs, the stuff he wants, and the stuff he wants but doesn't need. She does an excellent job, too. It comes from her years as a Girl Scout.
The next morning, just before we're supposed to leave for the airport, she has one of her "feelings" and rechecks his luggage. His luggage is right where she left it on the floor, so there's no reason to be suspicious of anything, but... well... it's my Dad.
She plops the largest of the suitcases on the bed, opens it, and finds this and that missing. More of this than that, but that's neither here nor there.
She plops the largest of the suitcases on the bed, opens it, and finds this and that missing. More of this than that, but that's neither here nor there.
Gone are his sunglasses, his reading glasses, his shaving equipment, his belts, etc.
Etc. etc. etc.
On and on and on.
For reasons known only to my Dad, God, and John Edwards, he pulled stuff out of his suit case last night, some time after my wife had just finished packing it. Now, why would my Dad lug his suitcase back onto his bed, open it, empty it of stuff he needed for the trip, close it, and then put it right back where it had been? My wife didn't know, and she didn't want to know, so she just repacks everything without saying a word. If she made the mistake of engaging him in conversation, we'd probably end up missing our flight. Her only mistake was not getting me to carry it into our house out of his reach when she was done.
Meanwhile, my Dad is all underfoot.
He was up early, was wandering from room to room, and is now waiting in the kitchen for my wife to make his morning cup of tea. He doesn't care that she's busy, he wants his tea. I hope, when I get older, that I don't stop doing things for myself.
Unfortunately for him, it's me who walks into the kitchen first. I start to make myself a cup of coffee.
"Dad," I tell him. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Hey, I'm not completely heartless.
My Dad just sits there at the kitchen counter and doesn't say anything. He looks at me with his big eyes bulging out from the pressure of either waiting for me to ask him again or waiting for me to do it without any prompting from him.
Then again, his eyes could be bulging out because he's trying to control me with his geriatric mind powers. I've seen it happen. In the movies.
"Dad," I ask him again, "would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"
"No, no," he says. "I'm fine."
"But don't you have a cup of tea every morning?"
"Yes."
"Wouldn't you like one this morning?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I'll make it for you."
"No, no. I'm fine, I'm fine."
I make him his tea anyway, because I know what he's waiting for. He's waiting for my wife to come into the kitchen and make it for him. The problem is, my wife is busy in his little father-in-law house in front of our property repacking his suitcase.
It's no problem, really. I grab a teabag, steep it in a cup of hot water for three minutes, and place the cup in front of my Dad. He doesn't add any sugar or honey, so I don't know how my wife can make it better, but apparently she does.
"Here," I tell him. "Drink up, because we have to leave for the airport in a little while."
My dad doesn't say anything. No "Thank you." No "Screw you." No "Why are we going to the airport?" He takes a sip of his tea, and then asks me, "Where's your wife?"
"She's busy, Dad," I tell him.
"Doing what?" and he takes another sip.
"She's repacking your suitcase."
Why lie, I figure.
"Why would she do that?" he asks, innocently.
I stand there and seriously consider asking him why he unpacked his suitcase. Not just to be a jerk, but because I really want to know. The only problem is I don't have time to listen to his explanation.
"She wanted to make sure you have everything you need," I tell him, and he seems satisfied with my answer.
He takes another sip of tea.
Meanwhile, I take my and my wife's luggage to the car and pack it in the trunk. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. I go get my Dad's luggage and pack it in the car. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. My wife and I go through the house making sure everything's locked and put away. We turn off what's supposed to be turned off and turn on what's supposed to be turned on. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. I look at my watch.
Man, we really have to leave right now if we want to get to the airport in time. My wife agrees, because I can see her pointing sternly to her wristwatch. It's my job to get my Dad. He doesn't listen to my wife because, well, she's a girl. My Dad is old-school that way. My wife doesn't feel bad, because my Dad doesn't really listen to me, either.
I go into the kitchen to get my Dad, only... there's no Dad. I look in the great room where he's usually sitting, but he's not there either.
"Sweetie," I'm embarrassed to ask, "have you seen my Dad?"
"Isn't he there?" she asks me back.
"No. Isn't he with you?"
"No. Isn't he with you?"
I'm sure the same thing goes though both of our minds, but neither of us want to say it. We're both thinking he's gone on his morning walk without telling either of us, and when he's gone, sometimes he's gone for a long, long time. When he gets back, he'll be tired and sweaty and want to take a shower.
"Let me check in his house," my wife tells me.
We both go there.
No Dad.
Man, I think to myself, if we have to drive around searching for my father there's no way we'll make the airport in time.
"What choice do we have?" my wife says, reading my mind. I'm sure she's just as pissed off as I am at my Dad, but neither of us say anything. If there's one thing you learn when you're a mother, it's how to store your anger so you can take it out on your husband later.
She walks to the car, and I go to lock the back door of our house.
"Honey!" I hear her calling from the driveway. "Honey!"
"Shoot!" I think to myself (only I don't think, 'shoot'). "What now?"
I rush over to the car, and my wife is standing on the outside of the passenger side. She nods her head toward the car, indicating she wants me to look inside, so I do. And there's my Dad. Already sitting inside the car.
Waiting for us.
Etc. etc. etc.
On and on and on.
For reasons known only to my Dad, God, and John Edwards, he pulled stuff out of his suit case last night, some time after my wife had just finished packing it. Now, why would my Dad lug his suitcase back onto his bed, open it, empty it of stuff he needed for the trip, close it, and then put it right back where it had been? My wife didn't know, and she didn't want to know, so she just repacks everything without saying a word. If she made the mistake of engaging him in conversation, we'd probably end up missing our flight. Her only mistake was not getting me to carry it into our house out of his reach when she was done.
Meanwhile, my Dad is all underfoot.
He was up early, was wandering from room to room, and is now waiting in the kitchen for my wife to make his morning cup of tea. He doesn't care that she's busy, he wants his tea. I hope, when I get older, that I don't stop doing things for myself.
Unfortunately for him, it's me who walks into the kitchen first. I start to make myself a cup of coffee.
"Dad," I tell him. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Hey, I'm not completely heartless.
My Dad just sits there at the kitchen counter and doesn't say anything. He looks at me with his big eyes bulging out from the pressure of either waiting for me to ask him again or waiting for me to do it without any prompting from him.
Then again, his eyes could be bulging out because he's trying to control me with his geriatric mind powers. I've seen it happen. In the movies.
"Dad," I ask him again, "would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"
"No, no," he says. "I'm fine."
"But don't you have a cup of tea every morning?"
"Yes."
"Wouldn't you like one this morning?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I'll make it for you."
"No, no. I'm fine, I'm fine."
I make him his tea anyway, because I know what he's waiting for. He's waiting for my wife to come into the kitchen and make it for him. The problem is, my wife is busy in his little father-in-law house in front of our property repacking his suitcase.
It's no problem, really. I grab a teabag, steep it in a cup of hot water for three minutes, and place the cup in front of my Dad. He doesn't add any sugar or honey, so I don't know how my wife can make it better, but apparently she does.
"Here," I tell him. "Drink up, because we have to leave for the airport in a little while."
My dad doesn't say anything. No "Thank you." No "Screw you." No "Why are we going to the airport?" He takes a sip of his tea, and then asks me, "Where's your wife?"
"She's busy, Dad," I tell him.
"Doing what?" and he takes another sip.
"She's repacking your suitcase."
Why lie, I figure.
"Why would she do that?" he asks, innocently.
I stand there and seriously consider asking him why he unpacked his suitcase. Not just to be a jerk, but because I really want to know. The only problem is I don't have time to listen to his explanation.
"She wanted to make sure you have everything you need," I tell him, and he seems satisfied with my answer.
He takes another sip of tea.
Meanwhile, I take my and my wife's luggage to the car and pack it in the trunk. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. I go get my Dad's luggage and pack it in the car. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. My wife and I go through the house making sure everything's locked and put away. We turn off what's supposed to be turned off and turn on what's supposed to be turned on. My Dad is still sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying his tea. I look at my watch.
Man, we really have to leave right now if we want to get to the airport in time. My wife agrees, because I can see her pointing sternly to her wristwatch. It's my job to get my Dad. He doesn't listen to my wife because, well, she's a girl. My Dad is old-school that way. My wife doesn't feel bad, because my Dad doesn't really listen to me, either.
I go into the kitchen to get my Dad, only... there's no Dad. I look in the great room where he's usually sitting, but he's not there either.
"Sweetie," I'm embarrassed to ask, "have you seen my Dad?"
"Isn't he there?" she asks me back.
"No. Isn't he with you?"
"No. Isn't he with you?"
I'm sure the same thing goes though both of our minds, but neither of us want to say it. We're both thinking he's gone on his morning walk without telling either of us, and when he's gone, sometimes he's gone for a long, long time. When he gets back, he'll be tired and sweaty and want to take a shower.
"Let me check in his house," my wife tells me.
We both go there.
No Dad.
Man, I think to myself, if we have to drive around searching for my father there's no way we'll make the airport in time.
"What choice do we have?" my wife says, reading my mind. I'm sure she's just as pissed off as I am at my Dad, but neither of us say anything. If there's one thing you learn when you're a mother, it's how to store your anger so you can take it out on your husband later.
She walks to the car, and I go to lock the back door of our house.
"Honey!" I hear her calling from the driveway. "Honey!"
"Shoot!" I think to myself (only I don't think, 'shoot'). "What now?"
I rush over to the car, and my wife is standing on the outside of the passenger side. She nods her head toward the car, indicating she wants me to look inside, so I do. And there's my Dad. Already sitting inside the car.
Waiting for us.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
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