Who Am I Kidding?

I was at the pharmacy earlier today.
     As I stood in the long, slow-moving line, I smelled someone stepping in line behind me. I turned to look and saw that it was an elderly lady. I had seen her when I first walked into the pharmacy. She was walking through the store v-e-r-y-s-l-o-w-l-y. The scent of her liberally splashed-on perfume moved faster than she did.
     Myself, I'm not The Flash by any means, but I walk with a brisk pace. When I have someplace to go, I like to get there, but I must admit that I felt a little (very little) bit guilty when I saw her standing behind me in line. I had sped right past her going Mach One, actually breaking the sound barrier, although that might have just been all the broccoli my wife insists on feeding me, and gotten in line before her brain probably had time to process it.
     Being the good guy that I am (just ask my wife) (um... but not my Dad), I asked her if she wanted to go ahead of me. Her face immediately brightened with a smile.
     "Yes, thank you," she said, and began to make her way in front of me. She was moving so slow that it actually seemed like she was moving backward, but eventually she secured her rightful place in line.
     She looked just as ancient from behind.
     "Thank God I'm not that old," I thought to myself as I told her she was welcome.
     Pharmacies, at least where I live, always ask their customers for their Date of Birth before handing over prescription medicine. When the pharmacist asked that elderly lady for her DOB, I couldn't help but hear her answer. And you know what?
     SHE WAS A YEAR YOUNGER THAN I WAS!
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

"I Can Do That."

Today my wife and I had planned to go shopping.
     It's our usual date of the week.
     There was a time, pre-kids, when our date would have been something more romantic. Such as a candlelight dinner for two. A walk along the beach. A head free of aches.
     Recently one night, as my wife was climbing into bed, I pointed out the two Excedrin Extra Strength tablets on her nightstand that I had left for her.
     "What for?" she asked me, confused.
     "They're for your headache," I explained.
     "Headache?" she said. "I don't have a headache."
     Let's just say she won't fall for that trick again. Anyway...
     My Dad had been "heeing" and "hawing" at the kitchen table after breakfast, when he decided to annoy me from a different room in the house. He slowly got up and walked into the great room and sat in his--my--favorite chair and gargled his tea.
     Gargled his tea?
     Yes, he gargled his tea.
     Why he does this, I have no idea. He'll take a big swig of tea, then swish it around in his mouth back and forth, forward and back, Simon and Garfunkle, and, just as you're wondering if he's ever going to stop, he'll cock his head back and gargle with it. This is something he never used to do, and the noise makes me leave the room.
     Somehow, my Dad knew that my wife and I were going out. He sat like a character from a Robert Ludlum novel and pretended to watch TV. I could see him looking at what we were doing from the corner of his eyes.
     My Dad's vision is poor, but somehow he's able to see into the future at my wife and I leaving for Costco. On a similar note, his hearing is worse than his eyesight, but somehow, when I whisper to my beautiful wife to meet me upstairs, he'll call out from his--my--favorite chair in the great room, "Why are you going upstairs?"
     My Dad--along with my mother, I'd better clarify--had a bunch of kids. I shouldn't have to explain it to him.
     This morning, however, he was complaining about his dentist who supposedly has his money.
     My wife made the loving mistake of trying to explain to him that the dentist does not have any of his money.
     "Yes, he does," my Dad told her.
     "No, he doesn't," my wife told him back.
     "Yes, he does," my Dad said again.
     "No, he doesn't."
     I could see that my wife was already getting tired of this particular conversation, and it had just gotten started. She looked to me for help. I pretended I was looking someplace else.
     "The dentist gets paid for cleaning my teeth, doesn't he?" my Dad argued.
     "Yes, but he's providing you with a service," my wife explained, looking into the future herself and seeing where this was headed.
     "But I'm still paying him for that service, aren't I?"
     "You have to pay for the service, Dad."
     "But he still has my money, doesn't he?"
     I've got to admit, my Dad had a point.
     What he also had, and has, are 95-year-old teeth. They're all perfectly fine, as far as 95-year-old teeth go. In fact, his dentist is always impressed that as old as my Dad is, his teeth are still in such good condition, and always makes it a point to tell him so, so my father usually walks out of the office proud as can be, but he's lately been complaining about one tooth in particular. He can't clean it, he can't reach it, he can't see it but he knows it's there because it's been bothering him. He messes with that tooth so much that his imaginary problem has become a real one and it's begun to hurt. He tells us whenever we'll listen that the dentist has screwed it up and that's why it hurts.
     "And that's why he has my money," he said. "It never used to bother me before."
     The math doesn't add up, however, because the last time we took him to the dentist was about six months back for a cleaning. The problem with my Dad's tooth began late last week. What I think happened was some food got lodged between two teeth and instead of flossing, my Dad tried to fiddle with it. He'd come to our house from his little father-in-law apartment he has in the front of our property, sit at his--my--favorite chair and start making smacking noises. Then he'd make sucking sounds. Then he'd make sucking sounds mixed with smacking noises. I don't think there are letters in the alphabet to spell the kind of noises my Dad was making. Then he'd get a finger in there and aggravate it manually.

     And that's what he's doing as we were getting ready. And that's what he was doing as were getting our coats. And that's what he was doing when my wife was telling him that we were leaving.

     My father looked at her.

     "Wellll... ahhhh... hmmmm," he said. Smack, smack, smack! Slurp, slurp, slurp! "G'almighty, it's cold. I'm taking the dog out for a walk."

     What?

     He had only been sitting and gargling his tea for an hour. Fiddling with his bad tooth, and complaining to us about his dentist. And now he decides to go for a walk? He knows we won't leave the house if he goes on a walk. That didn't bother him. He slowly got up and walked to his little apartment to get ready. Thirty minutes later, we were still waiting for him.

     I told my wife, "Let's go anyway."

     "We can't," she said.

     "Why not?"

     "What if he gets lost?"

     "That will keep him busy until we get back," I told her. She knows I'm joking, but she still gives me a dirty look. Lordy, lordy... I've got vision, but the world wears bifocals.

     He finally came out, grabbed his dog, and left.

     The dog went, "Hey, what's going on? I was taking a nap."

     He didn't really say that, but that was the look on his face.

     My wife and I now had to sit and wait for him to get back.

     Who runs this household?

     Not me.

     Back before I retired, when I would say something at work, it would get done. Now I find myself waiting on the whims of a 96-year-old man.

     When my Dad finally got back, he found me watching the news. He looked, did a double-take, and saw that I was sitting in my--his--favorite chair. He took the leash off his yappy little dog, put it on the kitchen counter for my wife to put away because, as you know, that's her job, and came and stood by me. He didn't tell me to move, but I could see he was a bit irritated. Too bad. If he had let us leave like we wanted to, he'd be the one sitting comfortably on this chair instead of me.

     "Some times you act like a big baby," my wife will tell me.

     "That's because I am a big baby," I'll reply.

     "I am getting such a headache."

     So my Dad has no choice but to stand by me irritably. I take that back, he did have a choice. He could have chose to sit in the chair beside me, or on the couch that, let me assure you, is very comfortable. But he preferred to stand and simmer. Maybe next time he'll let us leave when we're on our way out.

     I guess, I am a big baby.

     On the news there was a special report about a 77-year-old African-American woman who began weightlifting late in life and was very strong. She had just begun lifting weights five years ago and could now dead-lift OVER 200 POUNDS!

     This lady only weighed 105 pounds, and, just like Tom Cruise, was barely over four feet tall. As my father and I watched, she dropped to the ground and started doing one-arm push-ups, like Rocky, back when Rocky was still Rocky.

     This lady did seven one arm push ups.

     Personally, I can do... none.

     "Would you look at that," I told my father, "she's 77 and doing one-arm push ups. I'm pretty fit, and I could do maybe one if someone was helping me."

     "Hmmm," my Dad hmmms. "Ahhh," my dad ahhhs. Click, click, click!  Smack, smack, smack! "I can do that," he said.

     "You can?"

     "Sure. I could probably do four or five right now, if I wanted to. It's not that tough."

     Having put me in my place, my Dad snorted in disgust at his weakling son and high-stepped it to his bedroom to do fifty-six one arm push ups or take a nap.

     A few minutes later, I was outside transporting the trash from the trash container in the kitchen to the trash receptacle outside. If there's one thing I've learned from watching Star Trek, it's that one day we'll have a transporting machine to do this kind of menial labor for us.

     Later that night, I made my wife laugh by telling her that as I passed by his front door I could hear some moaning and heavy breathing.

     "Oh my gosh," I told her. "I knew it wasn't the maid's day to show up, so I thought: Is my Dad doing another kind of one-arm push-up?"

     She punches me in the arm for the disgusting image I gave her that she'll never be able to erase from her mind for the rest of her life. You know, for someone so petite, she sure can punch pretty hard. It wouldn't surprise me if she could do some one-arm push-ups.

    "So I put my ear against his door and I could hear him saying to his dog, "Call 911! Call 911! I think I broke my arm trying to do a one-arm push-up!"

     My wife was laughing at the image, even though she knew I was breaking the Fifth Commandment.

     I was laughing, too, but I didn't care which commandment I was breaking. I already know I'm going to Hell.

     Too bad I'll be taking my wife with me.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

Now... What Really Needed Fixing?

My Dad walked into the kitchen this morning complaining that his electric tooth brush wasn't working.

     Yes, he has a very nice electric tooth brush. A very nice expensive electric tooth brush. One day, my wife and I made the mistake of taking him shopping with us to Costco, and when the cashier was ringing up all of our items, she picked up an electric toothbrush to scan.
     "Don't scan that," I told the cashier. "It's not ours."
     My wife immediately gave me the old elbow-to-the-ribs routine.
     "What?" I said, rubbing my side.
     She discreetly nodded in the direction of my father, who was standing next to me. She was trying not to embarrass him, but he wasn't even paying attention. He was busy looking toward the snack bar and trying to decide whether he wanted pizza or a hot dog on his way out.
     Immediately, I understood.
     My father has the habit of tossing items into our cart when he thinks we're not looking. My wife lets him get away with it. Me? I have the habit of taking those items out when I think he's not looking.
     He must have slipped that one by me.
     Let me take this opportunity to give my Dad credit, just so you won't think I'm always counting my nickels and dimes, he still has all of his own teeth. His teeth have to be--what--91-years-old? He's 96 and should have lost his baby teeth when he was four or five, give or take, carry the one. Well, anyway, to get back to my story...
     My wife told him to let me take a look at it.
     I gave my wife a Why-are-you-involving-ME-in-this-for? look, but she didn't even bother to acknowledge me. There's only one person she has sympathy for in this household, and that one person is not me.
     "You're a big boy," she's told me on more than one occasion.
     "So's my Dad," I've told her in return. Speaking of whom...
     My father left. He returned about ten minutes later empty-handed. Mumbling. Something about his toothbrush.
     "What about your toothbrush, Dad?" my wife asked him with the patience of a saint.
     "It's not working," he said.
     "Why don't you let your son take a look at it?" she suggested again.
     That idea must have appealed to him, because he left our house a second time, walked over to the little father-in-law house he lives in at the front of our property.
     He came back. Once again empty-handed.
     You know, I can sympathize with him. Many is the time I have entered a room and forgotten what I have entered it for. Well, to make a long story short...
     He finally came back with the toothbrush, but when he returned he just stood in the middle of the kitchen mumbling and fiddling around with it. There's two things my dad likes to do. He likes to mumble and he likes to fiddle. Sometimes even in that order.
     "What's that, Dad?" my wife asked him.
     "My toothbrush," he said.
     "What's the matter with it?"
     "It's not working."
     "What's not working?" I chimed in.
     "My toothbrush," and he told me what I already knew. What I've known for the last half hour.
     He pointed the toothbrush toward me and turned the switch from "on" to "off" to "on" to "off" and back to "on" again, showing me that it wasn't working.
     "You see," he told me, "it's not working."
     I was thinking... well, you don't really want to know what I was thinking. Let's just say I was thinking that my coffee was getting cold.
     "Let me take a look at it, Dad," I told him.
     "Yeah, Dad, let your son take a look at it," my wife encouraged.

     My Dad, however, had other ideas, so we stood there while he fooled around with it and then fooled around with it some more. First, he turned it "on," and then he turned it "off." Then he turned it "on." And then he turned it "off." "On." "Off." "On." "Off." This went on for several minutes. And then it went on for several minutes more.
     My Dad finally stopped fooling with it. He looked at me and then my wife, me and then my wife, saw that she was the most sympathetic, and informed her like it was the first time, "See? It's not working."

     I looked over at my wife. She just ignored my stare.

     My wife then decided to try a different track. She told him, "Just leave it on the counter and we'll look at it."

     "I will, I will," he said, "but, you see, it's not working."
     He began to fiddle with even more enthusiasm and we saw something come off in his hand. He turned his back to us so we couldn't see any more of what he was doing. If only crime were that easy to get away with.
     "Now the back part doesn't fit anymore," he finally admitted, turning back to face us. "It should fit, but it doesn't fit."
     He tried to force the part in, and even pounded on it with his hand.

     From where I sat, I could see that he took the back cover off, removed the battery case, and was trying to re-installed it the wrong side up.
     He began hitting the battery case with his fist.
     "That's the problem," he said. "The battery doesn't fit. It's the wrong one!"

     "Dad," my wife told him with too much patience, "it fit perfectly before you removed it."
     My father gave her a Yeah? So? look.
     "The problem is that you put it in backwards."
     The expression on his face didn't change. She must have taken that for a positive sign, because...
     "Look--see this little lock pin?--it goes towards the back of the handle. The lock pin and receiver should match up."
     My Dad's expression still didn't change.
     "Just leave it there and we'll look at it," my wife finally said.

     "I know what the problem is," my father told her, starting to get exasperated. "I can see what the problem is. The problem is the battery case is the wrong one. They sold you the wrong battery case to go with this toothbrush."

     "Dad, you've been using the same toothbrush for months, and it's always worked. It's the right battery case. You're just trying to force it in the wrong way. Leave it there and we'll look at it."

     My father answered by walking outside to get a better look at the situation.
     We could see him hold the toothbrush up to the sunlight. We could see him studying it for several long minutes. Not several short minutes, but several loonnngggg minutes. He looked at it back and forth, up and down, Simon and Garfunkle. He took so long, I began to wonder if time was somehow different for my father than the rest of us.
     I guess he saw what he needed to see, because he started pounding on it again with his hand. I'm sure this was because it worked so well the first hundred times.
     "I think I've got it," he told no one in particular, but it was no use. It's was like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. I'm sure he could have done it, he just needed a large hammer to help him do it with.
     Finally, he came back inside and sat in my favorite leather chair. He managed to turn the lamp on without breaking it and continued to "fix" his toothbrush.
     Every once in a while, he'd look over at us.
     My wife would give him a sympathetic look, but I pretended I didn't notice. I wanted no part of his shenanigans, of trying to fix his electric toothbrush with him looking over my shoulder, or worse, of not being able to fix it and then being the one blamed for breaking it.

     I looked at my wife.
     She gave me an encouraging smile.
     I smiled back...
     ...and I was out of there.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Holidays Wth Dad (Part Four)

Remember the brother I told you about? The one who buys expensive gifts, but gets them at a really good (cheap) price?
     Well, he and his family came by on New Year's Eve to finally celebrate Christmas with us. He was going to wait until after the holidays to visit, but I made the mistake of saying "free meal," and before I knew it he was at my door. I think this is the fourth Christmas gathering we've celebrated this year.
     Anyway, he gave our Dad a single--as in one--shirt for Christmas as a gift from him and his family. He must have still had some stashed away from the fire sale at Macy's where he bought a dozen expensive name-brand shirts for the price of a six-pack.
     "I wanted to buy Dad more than one shirt," his wife told my wife, "but he told me, 'What for? Dad doesn't go anyplace.' "
     And while that's true, he could at least have splurged for some Joint Juice. I hear they sell them for a good price if you buy them at Costco by the case.
     After my brother almost ate us out of house and home, he left. Unfortunately, he took his family with him.
     "Come back when you can't stay so long," I told him. To his family, I said, "But you guys can stay as looong as you like."
     His kids laughed at my joke.
     "Yeah, Dad," his twelve-year-old daughter with the occasional sharp sense of humor repeated, "come back when you can't stay so long."
     It was kind of late when they left, and my Dad was pretty tired.
     "I'm going to bed," he told no one in particular, gathered his gifts, and then looked at my wife with a semi-confused look on his face. You would have thought he was trying to sign up for ObamaCare.
     "Where's my other t-shirt?" he asked her, looking around.
     "What?" my wife asked him, not really understanding.
     Heck, I was watching the whole thing, and I didn't understand what my Dad was talking about. But then, I don't understand what he's talking about half the time anyway.
     "Where's my other shirt?" my Dad repeated.
     My wife looked at me, then she looked back at my Dad--who was pointedly looking around the floor for his phantom 2nd shirt--then she looked back at me, mouthed the words, "What shirt?"--I shrugged, "I don't know."--and then she looked back at my Dad.

      "You only got one shirt," she said, breaking the bad news to him.

      "No, I got two," he said. "They gave me two."
     "I'm sure it was one, Dad."
     "No, it was two."

     "They gave you one shirt and a picture of your granddaughter," she said, trying to make the gift of one shirt seem grander than it was.

     "No, I'm TELLING you" my Dad said, telling us, "I got TWO shirts. Where's the other one?"
     He was inching toward crossing the line of actually accusing us of stealing his shirt.

     'I don't know, Dad," my wife said, slightly changing her tactics. "I only saw them give you the one shirt."

     She checks all the bags, moves around the wrapping paper and tissue inside the black trash bag we threw them away in, and even showed my Dad the empty box the single shirt came it.

     "This is the box your gift came in and it only had one shirt."

     "No," my Dad continued to insist, despite the mounting evidence, "there were two shirts." He sighed. "Well, maybe, he took it back."
     "I bet you're right, Dad," I saw my opportunity and finally chimed in. "I bet he took it back."
     If there's one thing brothers enjoy doing, it's getting each other in trouble... so I did. Just like old times.

     Well, my wife probably thought, it's time for me to leave. So she did.

     Ten minutes later I was upstairs and she asked me what happened.

     I told her, "Well, I'd rather he think my brother took the shirt back than for him to blame us, so I just continued to agree with him."
     She assured me that he only got one shirt and a picture, in a frame, of his granddaughter.
     I told her, "I know, babe. I know."
     I don't know why she was explaining this to me, since I was there, but more than that, what would she want with one of my Dad's shirts? What's next, she'll be wearing his black socks with her athletic shoes?
     She laughed when I told her that when my Dad was heading out the door to his little father-in-law house, I caught up with him in the kitchen and handed him the framed picture of his granddaughter.
     "What's this?" my Dad asked me.
     "It's the picture they gave you," I answered, as if his question needed any answering at all. "Of your granddaughter."
     My Dad didn't say anything. He just kept looking at the framed picture in my hand.
     "This looks like a pretty nice frame," I told him, trying to be nice. I guess it worked--kind of--because he finally reached out and took it from my hand.
     He looked at it for all of a fraction of a second, mentally evaluated its monetary value versus its sentimental value, and finally tossed it on the kitchen counter.
     "You keep it," he said.
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

Holidays With Dad (Part Three)

Merry Christmas to me!

     Ho, ho, ho, and all that jolly old elf stuff.

     An empty house is not a happy place, in and of itself. No, it takes a family to make that house a home, to fill all the nooks and crannies with Christmas joy. For me, my family is what makes my house the happiest place on earth. Even happier than Disneyland.
     And they're all here. At home. At least for one night.
     Everyone is talking and laughing. The grandkids are running around, laughing, and eating, with the dogs eating what the kids drop on the floor. All of this is what makes life worth living.
     As some of us get older, some of us get smarter. Don't sweat the small stuff, because it's all small stuff. And, while you're at it, don't sweat the big stuff either.
     When I ask some people how they're doing, not that I really care, some will respond with a big sigh.
     "Oh, I take it one day at a time," they'll tell me. "One day at a time."
     Heck, isn't that what we all do?
     My Dad once asked me, "Do you know how the world champion potato peeler won the world championship?"
     What did I know, I was just a dumb kid at the time.
     "By peeling one potato at a time," he answered.
     So, I've taught myself how to live one day at a time. I can  plan for tomorrow, but when it comes to living...
     ...I live for today. Which brings us to...

     Christmas Eve and it's time to eat. My wife has put out a spread that would feed a Weight Watchers convention, and still have enough left over for Jenny Craig.

     My wife serves my Dad a plate that could feed eight Rosie O'Donnells, with, maybe, a Rosanne thrown in to clean up the scraps. That plate of food would have cost my Dad over a hundred bucks at any restaurant owned by a celebrity chef.. To make a long story short, my Dad puts it away faster than Monica Lewinski at a Dunkin Donuts. And that's after telling my wife that she served him too much.
     "You always serve me too much," he says, and then is nothing but a blur of silverware for the next half-hour. I once got too close to my Dad when he was chowing down one of my wife's holiday feasts, and the sparks from his knife and fork blinded me for three days. Those three days were the only time I was able to sit and watch baseball with him.

     After he's done, my wife heats some peppermint tea and places it on the little table next to my favorite chair. A chair my Dad quickly sits in. It's his favorite chair, too, you see. Then she asked him the Big Question. The question I've been waiting since yesterday for her to ask. She asks, "Are you ready for your pumpkin pie?"
     "Ahhh... hmmm... well..." my Dad says.
     "I also bought some whipped cream."

     "Weeell, hee hee hee..." Click, click, click! Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhh..."
     My wife waits for his answer patiently. She's married to me, so she's learned patience.
     "A small slice?" she helpfully encourages him. "Maybe without the whipped cream."
     "Hee, hee, hee..." he hee-hee-hees.
     My wife is starting to read the writing on the wall. Myself, I read it in yesterday's newspaper.

     "Are you too full?" she asks him finally, giving him an honorable way out. Like Nixon in Viet Nam.

     "Wellllll... hmmm... ahhhh..."

     I know exactly what's coming. Exactly.
     "Ahhh, yeah... I'm pretty full," he tells her. "You always serve me too much."
     I'm sure I don't have to point this out to you, but while my wife does the serving, it's my Dad who does the eating.
     My Dad shakes his head.
     "Yeah, I'm just too full," he kind of, but not really, apologizes. "Hoo-boy, yeah... too full."
     "Okay, Dad," she tells him.
     My wife pretends she's not, but I can see her looking at me from the corner of her eye. As she starts her walk of shame back to the kitchen, my dad stops her.
     "Is there any fudge?"
     What can I say? Now we have 10 pounds of pumpkin pie we didn't want.

     If I could send it via Federal Express to my brother I would, but with Federal Express being so tardy delivering everybody's Christmas gifts... I guess I'll keep it.

     Two days later, my Dad still hasn't even touched the pie.

      Merry Christmas to me, indeed.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

Holidays With Dad (Part Two)

Ah, Christmas.
     I remember when it would cost me under $100. It would be enough to buy enough gifts for everyone, and I'm talking about nice gifts. Not like the kind my brother gives. He once gave me a shirt that was from a very expensive store, and when I went to return it, the sales person hemmed and hawed and then told me that the shirt was from last season, and they could only give me the sale price, which ended up with ME owing THEM money. But I don't hold grudges.
     Anyway...

     Then the cost of Christmas warp-speeded into the hundreds. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I could still keep everything under a thousand... now it runs over a thousand. Why? Don't ask me, I just earn the cash and sign the checks. 

     Well, now that I have taken my parent's place within my family, the cost of Christmas continues to make the jump to hyper-drive. Especially when certain kinfolk requested certain eats without contributing to a certain pot.

     My wife is busy putting a feast together that would put a Las Vegas-type buffet to shame. All you can eat. If it's not there, then it's not food. My wife has a serious sweet tooth, so the desserts are varied and delicious. She makes them herself, but this time decided against pumpkin and pecan pies because 1) we just had them for Thanksgiving, and 2) she wanted a more original selection to choose from.

     I can hear her getting everything ready, and then I hear: smack, Smack, SMACK!

     "Ahh... hmm..." my Dad says. Click, click, click.! Smack, smack, smack! My Dad still has all his choppers, so I don't know why he makes those clicking and smacking noises.
     Anyway...
     "Wooweee, are you having pumpkin pie? Yeah, boy, I like pumpkin pie."

     My Dad gets out of his--my--favorite chair and walks over to where his daughter-in-law is standing. He looks around all the kitchen counters making a big show of looking for the pie.

     "Where is it?" he asks.

     "Weeell," my wife says slowly to the wrench in her carefully-planned works, "I wasn't planning on making any pumpkin pie. We just had it for Thanksgiving. Remember how I had to throw most of it away because no one was eating it?"

     She was trying to be diplomatic, but diplomacy is the not-so-irresistible force to my Dad's immovable object (his head). He's Hitler to Britain's Neville Chamberlain. He's Iran to Obama's John Kerry. He's pumpkin pie to my wife's dessert menu.

     "We have so many other desserts..." (and we do) "...that I wasn't planning on getting pumpkin pie."

     "Did you say pumpkin pie? Where is it? I don't see it."
     My Dad is conveniently hard of hearing when he wants to be.
     "Yeah, I like pumpkin pie," he goes on. "Great googly- moogly, I sure do like pumpkin pie."
     He didn't really say "googly-moogly," but he might as well have.
     Anyway...
     My wife looks at me. I'm no help. Remember that smile she gave me when I was trying to buff the floors? I give it back to her.

     "Well," she gives in, finally. My Dad has a way of wearing you down. "Do you reeeally want pumpkin pie?"

     "Welllll, ahhhhh, sure" my Dad says. "As long as you're asking, sure you should make one."
     Make one?
     Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhhh..." Click, click, click! "Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?"
     I don't know what this being Christmas has to do with buying a pumpkin pie, but it really doesn't matter.
     He walks back to his--my--favorite chair. His work is done.

     Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "If you want a pumpkin pie, how about offering to pay for it? Take out your wallet. Pull out a few shekels." Even if he did offered to pay, my wife wouldn't let him (heck, I wouldn't either), but it's the courtesy behind the offer that would count.

     So, yesterday, Dec. 24, we went out, fought all the holiday traffic, fought the crowds, fought the jerks in the parking lot, and parked two football fields away from the store...
     ...and bought my Dad his pumpkin pie.
     My Dad, who will probably have only one thin slice ("Don't serve me a big slice. You always make it too big.), and he probably won't even finish that. We'll probably end up throwing it away, like we did with the Thanksgiving pie he didn't eat.
     Meanwhile, we already have a cornucopia of delicious desserts for tomorrow. From dozens of different kinds of cookies and pastries, to fudge, popcorn, pudding, pumpkin empanadas (fold-overs), and carrot cake. Not to mention candy, candy, and even more candy. On and on.
     And now we have a pumpkin pie so large it can feed 20 people, because we couldn't find one any smaller. All because of my Dad.
     And all at my expense.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Holidays With Dad (Part One)

Watch out, folks, Christmas is just a day or two away.
     Myself, I enjoy the holidays. The days are short and cold, and the nights are long and even colder. People are friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to be friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to appear to be friendly. I'll settle for that. I've always said that I'd rather have someone who hates me, but treats me good, than someone who loves me, but treats me bad. The pretense of gentility is just as good as the real thing, as far as I'm concerned.

     As usual, my wife and I are having the family Christmas dinner at our home. My wife likes to have it at our house because, as she says, we can cook whatever we want and invite whomever we want... it's our house. Our family has grown to the point that we have a lot of grandkids and non-family guests.
     The house is already decorated with Christmas decorations. We began decorating the day after Thanksgiving, and we'll probably keep everything up until after New Years. It's what we usually do.
     My grandson, who's three, helped me decorate his playhouse outside, the trees in the court yard, and the front yard. As long as there are kids, we'll continue to decorate the house inside and out.

     My wife, as usual, goes all out preparing dinner. She always has enough food to send everybody home with doggie bags. There can never be too much food and dessert.
     *sigh*

     But it's also that time of year when I deep clean, polish and buff the oak floor. It seems like I'm always buffing and polishing that floor. It's a two to three day job. If I could just do the job myself, with no interruptions, I can finish it in one. If my grandson helps me, it takes two. If my Dad helps me, it takes three, because his idea of helping is getting in the way. I find myself having to work on the floors when he goes into his room to do whatever it is he does in there.

     So, for three days I'm busting my butt, deep cleaning the floor when my father is not around. As soon as he walks into the house, I stop working. Yesterday, he walked in and sat in his--my--favorite chair, turned on my TV, began drinking a hot cup of tea my wife brought him that my retirement paid for, and helped himself to one of my favorite oatmeal cookies, he tells nobody in particular, "Ahh... hmm... huh..." Smack smack smack! "You know... you know, that polish sure is bothering my eyes."
     "What, Dad?" my wife asks him, because she's nicer than I am.
     "That polish," he says, turning to her and nodding in my direction, "It's tough on my eyes..."
     "The polish, Dad?"
     "...and it's cold in here."

     Cold? I'm on my knees, cleaning the floors with my bare hands, and, man, I'm sweating. My back and knees are killing me. I turn and look at my wife. She gives me a smile that's equal parts compassion and laughing at me.

     "Well, Dad," she tells him, "it'll clear up after he's finished."
     "When he's done?" my Dad says, plaintively.
     "Don't worry, Dad. He's almost finished."

     "Well, let me tell you, it's rough on the eyes." This from a man who spent the majority of his life on Earth smoking. "Mumble mumble... ahhh... that wax is hard... and I'm cold. That wax is making the room cold."

     Okay, I'll kick this dead horse one more time, my Dad has his own little father-in-law apartment built in the front property of our house, and it's fully equipped. It has a large TV, a convertor box, a genuine soft leather recliner, a full bathroom, stereo system, and it's own air condition and heater. He can set the temperature there to any degree he wants. The only thing his apartment doesn't have is a stove and refrigerator, but even if he had one, he wouldn't use it,. Not when he has my wife to make his tea and serve it to him on a silver tray as he sits in his--my-- favorite chair. She'll also serve him cookies, muffins, a piece of cake or pie with his tea. Anything he wants.

     But all this hard work is making me cranky. I get up angrily to my feet and yell, "Why don't you go to your room if you're cold, old man? Can't you see that I'm slaving on this floor?"
     Well...
     ...that's what I feel like doing.
     But, being the good son that I am, I stop working, get up... and go upstairs to decompress until he leaves. I have a weight room upstairs with actual weights. I don't just use them to hang my clothes on, like so many people do. I use them to stay in shape and work out various frustrations.
     Having to do this, however, irks me to no end, because, when I do something, I like to get it over with. I'm not a hard worker by nature, in fact, I'm pretty lazy, but I give the impression of being a hard worker because I work hard at getting something done fast, so I can enjoy the free time it leaves me.

     At 2000 hours (which is eight o'clock at night for you non-military types) I'm able to start again on the floor. Two hours after that, I'm finally done. My, Dad, meanwhile...
     ...is probably sleeping like a baby in his room.
   
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

The Christmas Watch (Part Three)

I told you, my father wanted a watch for Christmas.

     "What does he need a watch for?" I asked my wife. "The only thing he does is watch baseball on TV and eat. The baseball channel is on 24-hours/seven days a week, and his stomach tells him when it's time to eat."
     Well, as it turns out, his old one broke and I was coming across as a bit of a jerk. Who was I to deny my father a watch for Christmas? However, I still kept asking the same question: "Why does he need a watch?"
     Only I asked it to myself.
     My wife, saint that she is, got him the watch he wanted and wrapped it up with a pretty little bow. When he opened his present Christmas morning, I heard a bell ring and was pretty sure a pair of wings were being reserved for her in Heaven.
     It's a pretty nice watch, too. Much nicer than the one I wear. Considering I don't wear a watch, that's not hard to accomplish. The face lights up, in case he wants to know what time it is when he gets up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and, believe me, he is one happy 96-year-old camper.
     Sometimes I'll spy on him as he sits in front of the TV, and every once in a while I'll catch him pressing the little button so he can see the light come on. The difference between men and boys, my friends, is the price of their toys. My Dad's toy wasn't cheap, let me tell you. In fact, it was very expensive, because that's just the way my wife rolls.
     Do you know what else is expensive? Medicine.
     Have you heard that this flu season is especially bad? That's because it's true. I've just spent the last couple of days recuperating from a severe bout. I rarely get sick, so when I do it hits me hard. Everything hurt, even my hair. My wife knew it was serious, because I didn't even want coffee. Of course, I wasn't hungry. All I wanted to do was sleep. My wife, not only is she a saint, but she's an angel. She let me sleep.
     Not to throw stones, but my first wife never understood the connection between rest and recuperation. She would constantly wake me up when I was sick. It seemed like every fifteen minutes she would be at the door asking me, "Are you awake?"
     When I'd finally get angry enough to tell her to let me sleep (sensitively, of course), her feelings would get hurt and she'd sulk off crying. Sick as I was, I'd have to get out of bed and apologize, because I had to depend on her for sustenance.
     Although she'd tell me she was only concerned for my health, I could swear she did it to annoy me. Why else would any intelligent being wake up a sick individual just to ask them if they were awake? I was sick. She knew that. My status wasn't going to change every fifteen minutes.
     My current wife, she understands the importance of sleep. Which is why, after only a couple of days, I woke up with an urge for a cup of coffee.
     "You must be feeling better," she told me.
     "I do," I told her back. "I even went into the bathroom and weighed myself. I lost seven pounds."
     "Seven pounds?" she said. "Is it too late for me to get the flu?"
     During this time, when my father would ask where I was, my wife would answer, "Oh, he's upstairs." She didn't dare tell him I had come down with the flu. I wouldn't say my father is a hypochondriac, but if he thinks he's getting sick, he'll get sick.
     One time, my sister called him on the phone and made the mistake of telling him she couldn't visit because she felt like she was coming down with a cold.
     "What?" my Dad said, and quickly handed the phone to my Mom like it was on fire.
     Later that day, my Dad went to bed swearing he was coming down with a cold that he caught from my sister over the phone. How the germs could travel through the phone lines, he couldn't quite explain, but he was certain that they did.
     Me? I don't mind getting sick. It gives me a chance to get caught up on my reading. But this bout of the flu came at a bad time, because I was going to take my grandson on a three-day hike. I'm sure my grandson was disappointed. He enjoys our little adventures. But of the two of us, I was probably the one most disappointed. As with all children, we only have them for a short while, and I hate to lose any time with them.
     My hikes with my grandson are especially precious, because that's time the two of spend together without any distractions. We have interesting conversations because fortunately he's still too young to know everything. He'll ask me questions, and I'll answer them as best I can. I'll ask him questions, and he'll teach me a thing or two. Did you know there are people on the moon? Well, there are. I know this because my grandson told me.
     However, my grandson isn't always able to go on hikes with me. And on those times I have to go alone. I don't mind. Sometimes it's nice to be alone. I'm sure it's nice for my wife as well. After a lifetime of working, I retired, and being together each day, every day can get kind of tiresome. For her, I mean.
     When I hike, my mind wanders in many directions, unrestricted. I don't control it, and I don't try to control it. I just let it take me back to the past or forward into the future. It's one of the top five reasons why I like to get away from everything, and fortunately my wife understands this as well. I'll sit in the middle of nowhere and recall the good life. No blah, blah, blah from anyone to disrupt the river of thoughts. Edgar Allen Poe once wrote, "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream," and I understand what he was trying to say. Alone, in the middle of nowhere, my reality could very well be a dream.

     Many moons ago, it was my senior year in high school and I was dating the Wicked Witch of the West Side. To make a long story short, we had just had a fight and were broken up. Too bad it wasn't the final break up, but if it had been, I wouldn't be here typing this at this very moment.
     Within days, I started dating another girl, a sophomore. She had the greenest eyes I had ever seen. In fact, she had the only green eyes I had ever seen. She was a very beautiful girl. Quiet, with a great smile. She was 15-years-old, and wore her skirts and her hair in the style of the times: short. What was exceptional was the color of her hair, which was platinum.
     After the Wicked Witch of the West Side found out that she had been replaced, she dangled the one carrot that got me to go back with her. Again, I wish I hadn't, but if I hadn't, who knows where I would have ended up? Had I followed my heart instead of my... um, you know... I wouldn't be with the ones I love now. My wife, my kids, my grandkids... even my father.

     The girl's name was, and probably still is, Esperanza. A rather ugly name for such a pretty girl. Esperanza is Spanish for Hope, so we called her Hopie.
     When I'm on my hikes, sometimes I think to myself that I would love to see Hopie again. Not woman she is now, but as the 15-year-old girl I used to date.

     By myself, under the stars, I also wonder if, after death, will we see our family and friends as we want to see them, or will we see them as they were when they died? My mother in her hospital bed. My father sitting in front of the TV pressing the light button on his watch. Will my grandson see me as his hiking partner or the old man I'll someday become? No, thank you. In that case, I'd rather he not see me at all, than to see me wearing Depends in Heaven.
     Personally, I don't want to be around a bunch of elderly men and women, if that's the way Heaven is, talking about their aches and pains and surgeries and noodles.

     When I think of Hopie, I think of her as that young girl she was when I met her. And when she thinks of me, does she see me the way I was as a senior in high school, or does she picture me sitting in my favorite chair amusing myself with the way my watch lights up?

 

   

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene