I could ask him, "Dad, why do you always turn on all the lights and then leave?" But he'll just deny doing that. It's like with the microwave. We tell him, "Dad, be sure to cover you food when you heat something up."
"Why?" he'll want to know.
"Because it splatters all over the inside of the microwave," we'll tell him. That's a pretty reasonable answer. One that anyone would respect.
When we find the interior of the microwave splattered with food soon after, we know who the culprit is.
"Dad," I'll ask him while my wife is cleaning up the splatter, "did you use the microwave without covering your food?"
"No," he'll answer.
"Well, somebody did."
"It wasn't me," he'll insist. "I always cover my food when I use the microwave."
Now there's only three of us in the house. My wife, my Dad, and myself. Sometimes my grandson stays with us, but he's only three and is too small to use the microwave. I know I don't use the microwave without covering my food. I know my wife doesn't use the microwave without covering her food. Now, who does that leave as a final suspect?
But, back to the night before last, sometimes it's not worth the aggravation. I turn off the lights and TV and go back upstairs.
"Why?" he'll want to know.
"Because it splatters all over the inside of the microwave," we'll tell him. That's a pretty reasonable answer. One that anyone would respect.
When we find the interior of the microwave splattered with food soon after, we know who the culprit is.
"Dad," I'll ask him while my wife is cleaning up the splatter, "did you use the microwave without covering your food?"
"No," he'll answer.
"Well, somebody did."
"It wasn't me," he'll insist. "I always cover my food when I use the microwave."
Now there's only three of us in the house. My wife, my Dad, and myself. Sometimes my grandson stays with us, but he's only three and is too small to use the microwave. I know I don't use the microwave without covering my food. I know my wife doesn't use the microwave without covering her food. Now, who does that leave as a final suspect?
But, back to the night before last, sometimes it's not worth the aggravation. I turn off the lights and TV and go back upstairs.
It's now the next afternoon. My
grandson and I are watching cartoons in the great room. We have been watching cartoons for
about thirty minutes, eating snacks. My grandson watches cartoons because he likes them. I watch cartoons to recuperate from taking care of a three-year-old ball of fire who's full of energy.
From the corner of my eye I
see my father walk into the house. I then hear the mumbles, the grumbles, the clicks, and the smacks. The ooh ooh oohs, the ah ah ahs, and all the other sounds my elderly Dad likes to make. Sounds, I must admit, that are beginning to make their way into my vocabulary now. (Why can't I ever seem to completely clear my throat?) I see him
slowly walk into the great room and he stops just to the right of the television set. I point my eyes forward.
He doesn't say "hi" to me. He doesn't says "hi" to his great-grandson. He has just one thing on his mind. Baseball. It's no skin off my butt if he doesn't acknowledge me when he enters a room, but it irks me when he doesn't greet his great-grandson with a hello or a smile or a "How-de-do!" At my father's age, how many more great-grandchildren can he honestly expect to see come into this world?
"Boy, that SpongeBob..." I tell my grandson.
He doesn't say "hi" to me. He doesn't says "hi" to his great-grandson. He has just one thing on his mind. Baseball. It's no skin off my butt if he doesn't acknowledge me when he enters a room, but it irks me when he doesn't greet his great-grandson with a hello or a smile or a "How-de-do!" At my father's age, how many more great-grandchildren can he honestly expect to see come into this world?
"Boy, that SpongeBob..." I tell my grandson.
I hear a mumble, then another mumble, then a smack, smack, smack! My father walks behind us, toward
his favorite chair. He doesn't sit down. He stands next to the grandfather clock
located in the corner. I hear a mumble, then another mumble, then what could be construed as a grumble.
When I don't acknowledge him, my father grumbles louder, making it known that he
is there, standing next to the grandfather clock, checking the time on the grandfather clock with the time on his watch. Making sure they're synchronized. Is he concerned with the time because he has to meet up with the rest of SEAL Team Six so they can go to Russia to take out Putin for breaking the truce in the Ukraine? No, he's checking out the time because there's something he wants to watch on TV.
His mumbles and grumbles and clickings and smacks get louder. Why he can't just ask us if we'll be done soon, I don't know. In his younger days, my Dad wasn't one to keep his opinions to himself, much to the embarrassment of my Mom.
I see him look at the clock and then at the TV. Between the mumbles, he says "It's four o'clock." He must be telling the grandfather clock, because he's not telling me, and there's no one else here he could be talking to.
Personally, I know it's four o'clock. I don't even have to look at my watch to know this. I hear another mumble, "Blah, blah, blah... gol'mighty, it's four o'clock already. Blab, blab, blab... I think there's a baseball game about to start," he says, still talking to no one.
The grandfather clock tick, tick ticks in agreement.
His mumbles and grumbles and clickings and smacks get louder. Why he can't just ask us if we'll be done soon, I don't know. In his younger days, my Dad wasn't one to keep his opinions to himself, much to the embarrassment of my Mom.
I see him look at the clock and then at the TV. Between the mumbles, he says "It's four o'clock." He must be telling the grandfather clock, because he's not telling me, and there's no one else here he could be talking to.
Personally, I know it's four o'clock. I don't even have to look at my watch to know this. I hear another mumble, "Blah, blah, blah... gol'mighty, it's four o'clock already. Blab, blab, blab... I think there's a baseball game about to start," he says, still talking to no one.
The grandfather clock tick, tick ticks in agreement.
This is a long way for me to tell you that I know what he wants. He
wants me to change the TV to the baseball game that starts at four.
And I know I sound like a broken record, but why can't he ever watch anything in the little father-in-law house he lives in in the front of our property? That's why we bought it, to give him and us some privacy when we need it. Besides which, he just got a brand new TV. The screen is close to 40 inches. Compared to what I usually have to watch, it looks more
like the movie screen at your local cineplex. I don't want to make you cry or anything, but the TV I usually end up watching is so small I could use it as a Christmas ornament.
My father has a very comfortable leather recliner. It's real leather, top of the line, made by one of the top companies. He has a night stand right next to the chair, so he can place his drinks and snacks with a minimum of fuss and bother. When he's cold, he can crank up the heat. When he's hot, he can crank up the air conditioning. Or, if it's somewhere in the middle, he can just turn on the fan. Whatever he wants, it's totally up to him. But what he wants is for the world to come to a standstill just so he can watch TV in my great room. It doesn't matter that this is my and my wife's house, he wants the temperature set to where he wants to set it.
Well, I decide, he can watch the game on his TV today, or he can watch a replay of the game on this TV tomorrow, but he can't watch it here today because my grandson's watching SpongeBob.
My father has a very comfortable leather recliner. It's real leather, top of the line, made by one of the top companies. He has a night stand right next to the chair, so he can place his drinks and snacks with a minimum of fuss and bother. When he's cold, he can crank up the heat. When he's hot, he can crank up the air conditioning. Or, if it's somewhere in the middle, he can just turn on the fan. Whatever he wants, it's totally up to him. But what he wants is for the world to come to a standstill just so he can watch TV in my great room. It doesn't matter that this is my and my wife's house, he wants the temperature set to where he wants to set it.
Well, I decide, he can watch the game on his TV today, or he can watch a replay of the game on this TV tomorrow, but he can't watch it here today because my grandson's watching SpongeBob.
My father continues to stand
next to the grandfather clock. All I keep hearing is "Blah, blah, blah... four o'clock. Blah, blah,
blah... baseball game." Why the words, "Hey, do you mind if I change the channel?" never cross his mind, I don't know. I'm not a complete jerk. If he were to ask, I'd take my grandson upstairs and we'd make do with the smaller TV. Between my 3-year-old grandson and my 96-year-old father, my grandson is the easiest of the two to take care of.
But instead of asking, my Dad just keeps his head swinging around as if it's on a swivel. First, it's checking out the TV, then it turns to the grandfather clock, and finally it lands on me. The TV. The grandfather clock. And then me. This went on for what seemed like hours, but was probably more like a few minutes. This began like the Shoot-Out at the OK Corral, and became the Wait-Out at the Stubborn-Old-Men Corral. It was like we were in a Mexican standoff from the end of one of Quentin Tarrentino's movies. It was my Dad, my grandson, and me. My Dad's baseball, my grandson's SpongeBob SillyPants, and my Thinkheadedness.
After some more times passes, my father finally gives up. Probably because he is losing game time, probably because he figures he doesn't have that much time left in this world to waste waiting for something he's not going to get. He knows I'm not my wife. If she were in the room, he'd already be seated in his--my--favorite chair, watching his precious baseball instead of spending time with his great-grandson. She'd also make sure he'd already have a wealth of snacks in front of him. Instead, he has to mumble and grumble and bumble his way back to where he came from. I hear him the whole way there.
Blah, blah, blah. "Four o'clock." Mumble, mumble, mumble. "Baseball game." Yadda, yadda, yadda. "I'm changing my will." Smack, smack, smack! "I'll outlive you AND your bad heart"
Hee, hee, hee.
But instead of asking, my Dad just keeps his head swinging around as if it's on a swivel. First, it's checking out the TV, then it turns to the grandfather clock, and finally it lands on me. The TV. The grandfather clock. And then me. This went on for what seemed like hours, but was probably more like a few minutes. This began like the Shoot-Out at the OK Corral, and became the Wait-Out at the Stubborn-Old-Men Corral. It was like we were in a Mexican standoff from the end of one of Quentin Tarrentino's movies. It was my Dad, my grandson, and me. My Dad's baseball, my grandson's SpongeBob SillyPants, and my Thinkheadedness.
After some more times passes, my father finally gives up. Probably because he is losing game time, probably because he figures he doesn't have that much time left in this world to waste waiting for something he's not going to get. He knows I'm not my wife. If she were in the room, he'd already be seated in his--my--favorite chair, watching his precious baseball instead of spending time with his great-grandson. She'd also make sure he'd already have a wealth of snacks in front of him. Instead, he has to mumble and grumble and bumble his way back to where he came from. I hear him the whole way there.
Blah, blah, blah. "Four o'clock." Mumble, mumble, mumble. "Baseball game." Yadda, yadda, yadda. "I'm changing my will." Smack, smack, smack! "I'll outlive you AND your bad heart"
Hee, hee, hee.
Well, I
won... or did I?
The next day I go downstairs
and find my father watching TV. ALL the lights are on. I turn off all the lights except for the ones directly around him. I go upstairs and return thirty minutes later. The lights are on again. I turn them off again. I
go upstairs for another thirty minutes and return. The. Lights. Are. All. On... Again. Every time I turn off the lights and go upstairs, he must get up and turn them all on again.
He must be paying me back for yesterday.
It's the only thing I can think of.
He must be paying me back for yesterday.
It's the only thing I can think of.
After getting tired of all my Dad's shenanigans, I feel I deserve a good cup of hot coffee, so I head to the kitchen. I bring along the new Sports Illustrated magazine
I just bought. It's the annual swimsuit edition, but--ahem--I got it for the articles.
My father is still staking his claim on the TV in the great room. I make my coffee, walk outside to the court yard, and sit down. Just as I start to look at the pictures--I mean--read the articles, something catches my ear.
Hmm... the game?
Does my Dad have the game on so loud I can hear it outside? Well, we do have the audio on loud so he can hear it, but it's not loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
I put down my coffee and start to walk back into the house. I turn around when I finally hear that the noise is coming from my father's house. Slowly, like a cat-burglar, I walk to one of his windows and peek inside. The lights in his closet, his bathroom and his bedroom are all on. I circle his house and see that pretty much all of the lights in his house are on. Even his TV is on, and the channel is on the baseball game. He has all the lights on in his house AND he has all the lights on in my house. Hmm...
My father is still staking his claim on the TV in the great room. I make my coffee, walk outside to the court yard, and sit down. Just as I start to look at the pictures--I mean--read the articles, something catches my ear.
Hmm... the game?
Does my Dad have the game on so loud I can hear it outside? Well, we do have the audio on loud so he can hear it, but it's not loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
I put down my coffee and start to walk back into the house. I turn around when I finally hear that the noise is coming from my father's house. Slowly, like a cat-burglar, I walk to one of his windows and peek inside. The lights in his closet, his bathroom and his bedroom are all on. I circle his house and see that pretty much all of the lights in his house are on. Even his TV is on, and the channel is on the baseball game. He has all the lights on in his house AND he has all the lights on in my house. Hmm...
I may have won the battle but my Dad is winning the war.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
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