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?"
Raising MyFather
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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