Yesterday, he was in his room all morning long but somehow, as soon as my grandson made himself comfortable in the great room and turned the TV on, he sensed a disturbance in The Force, and walked out.
How? How does he know when someone else is enjoying the TV?
Who knows? Certainly not me.
If I was sitting in front of the set and my wife were nearby, I'd let him have a seat in his--my--favorite chair and take control of the remote control. Not that my father would make a fuss if he didn't get his way. He'd huff and puff and grunt and groan, but he wouldn't complain. He'd let his body's various exclamations do the complaining for him.
But when it's his great-grandson who's sitting in front of the set, my father will keep his audible gripings to a minimum, because he knows that I won't tell my grandson anything and neither will his biggest fan, his daughter-in-law. My grandson is allowed to watch the alpha TV for as long as he wants to watch it. My Dad and I are big boys, we can fend for ourselves. If my father can make sacrifices for the world during World War Two, then he can a few sacrifices for his great-grandson.
And he does.
After an hour's worth of cartoon-watching, my grandson needed some physical stimulation and left the great room for the great outdoors, or as much of the great outdoors that can be contained in our backyard.
How? How does he know when someone else is enjoying the TV?
Who knows? Certainly not me.
If I was sitting in front of the set and my wife were nearby, I'd let him have a seat in his--my--favorite chair and take control of the remote control. Not that my father would make a fuss if he didn't get his way. He'd huff and puff and grunt and groan, but he wouldn't complain. He'd let his body's various exclamations do the complaining for him.
But when it's his great-grandson who's sitting in front of the set, my father will keep his audible gripings to a minimum, because he knows that I won't tell my grandson anything and neither will his biggest fan, his daughter-in-law. My grandson is allowed to watch the alpha TV for as long as he wants to watch it. My Dad and I are big boys, we can fend for ourselves. If my father can make sacrifices for the world during World War Two, then he can a few sacrifices for his great-grandson.
And he does.
After an hour's worth of cartoon-watching, my grandson needed some physical stimulation and left the great room for the great outdoors, or as much of the great outdoors that can be contained in our backyard.
"Hmm..." I thought to myself, "this would be a good time for me to buff the great room."
Well, I waited for fifteen minutes, fully expecting my father to go back to his room, but no. My father continued to sit there and watch cartoons.
I was never a Navy SEAL, but I saw the movie with Charlie Sheen, so that was enough training for me to understand that I need to adapt to changing or unchanging conditions, so I decided to buff the entryway instead.
The fact is, I had already buffed the entryway last week, but I figure if I do it again, the noise will chase him away. He won't be able to hear the cartoon characters talk or himself think and he would leave for the relative quiet of his room.
It was a stand-off of stubborn proportions.
The Immovable Object (my father) versus The Irresistible Force (me, at least according to my old girlfriends).
Thirty minutes later, I'm still buffing the entryway and he's still watching cartoons.
Now, I know my logic is flawless. He can't hear the TV because the buffer is just too darn loud. Many is the time when my lovely wife is in the mood to nag me, and I'll respectfully begin to buff the floors just to drown her out.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU, HONEY!" I'll shout, pointing to the machine and then my ears.
Now that I think about it, however, maybe my wife begins to nag me when she wants the floors buffed and wants it to be my idea. She's devilishly devious, that woman.
But my Dad, I don't know if the cartoon is that good or he's just that determined to be in the way. When I was a kid, I used to wake up early every Saturday morning to watch those classic cartoons of my youth like Space Ghost and Frankenstein Jr. or The Banana Splits, so I understand how a good cartoon can make you tune out the world of bed-making and grass-cutting, but even as a kid I understood the importance of hearing the cartoons I was watching, so I continued to buff. I even buffed the entry into the Great Room--vroom, vroom, vroom!--but it didn't work.
Nothing worked.
He just continued to sit in his favorite chair and watch SpongeBob SillyPants.
"It's not a contest," I had to remind myself. "It's not a contest."
But if it was...
Needless to say, I lost.
So this morning, as soon as
my father went to his room to take his morning nap, I jumped on the buffer. My wife and I had places to go and things to do, and I wanted to finish the floors
before we left. Buffing the floors may sound like pretty hard work, but it's not. I direct the
buffer and it buff's. Easy-peasy. Ten minutes after I started, my father walked in. (See what I mean? How does he know?) He stopped by the
kitchen entrance and looked from me to the TV and back to me, his eyes bugging out in consternation.Well, I waited for fifteen minutes, fully expecting my father to go back to his room, but no. My father continued to sit there and watch cartoons.
I was never a Navy SEAL, but I saw the movie with Charlie Sheen, so that was enough training for me to understand that I need to adapt to changing or unchanging conditions, so I decided to buff the entryway instead.
The fact is, I had already buffed the entryway last week, but I figure if I do it again, the noise will chase him away. He won't be able to hear the cartoon characters talk or himself think and he would leave for the relative quiet of his room.
It was a stand-off of stubborn proportions.
The Immovable Object (my father) versus The Irresistible Force (me, at least according to my old girlfriends).
Thirty minutes later, I'm still buffing the entryway and he's still watching cartoons.
Now, I know my logic is flawless. He can't hear the TV because the buffer is just too darn loud. Many is the time when my lovely wife is in the mood to nag me, and I'll respectfully begin to buff the floors just to drown her out.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU, HONEY!" I'll shout, pointing to the machine and then my ears.
Now that I think about it, however, maybe my wife begins to nag me when she wants the floors buffed and wants it to be my idea. She's devilishly devious, that woman.
But my Dad, I don't know if the cartoon is that good or he's just that determined to be in the way. When I was a kid, I used to wake up early every Saturday morning to watch those classic cartoons of my youth like Space Ghost and Frankenstein Jr. or The Banana Splits, so I understand how a good cartoon can make you tune out the world of bed-making and grass-cutting, but even as a kid I understood the importance of hearing the cartoons I was watching, so I continued to buff. I even buffed the entry into the Great Room--vroom, vroom, vroom!--but it didn't work.
Nothing worked.
He just continued to sit in his favorite chair and watch SpongeBob SillyPants.
"It's not a contest," I had to remind myself. "It's not a contest."
But if it was...
Needless to say, I lost.
He stood there, mumbled something that I was probably better off not understanding, and then decided to walk in. He walked to his favorite chair and sat. I continued buffing. To save my rapidly deteriorating hearing I wear ear protectors. They eliminate loud noises completely.
Recently, when I made the mistake of jokingly putting them on while my wife was talking to me, sadly, the joke backfired. There was no gourmet morning coffee for me the next morning and for many mornings after that.
Anyway, a few minutes later my wife walked in and turned the TV on for him. Why my father wants to watch TV while I'm polishing the floor, I have no idea. Especially since he has a perfectly good TV in his perfectly quiet room. I know in the great room with me working, he can't hear the TV no matter how loud my wife sets it. Heck, he doesn't even hear it half the time when it's quiet, The only time my father's hearing seems to work is when I'm upstairs whispering sweet nothings to my wife.
"Quit talking so loud!" he'll yell from where he sits. "I can't hear The Price Is Right!"
Oh sure, then he can hear, and my sweet nothings turn into nothing nothings.
So, for the next thirty minutes I worked my way from the kitchen to the great room to the hall and back to the kitchen. If you're thinking I was trying to chase him away... well, you'd be right. I can't do a good job in the great room with him underfoot and I hate buffing the floors a few square feet at a time, so...
...vroooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
I had the buffer just a few feet from him but nothing. Still he sat there. Watching TV. He acted like I wasn't even in the room. I actually buffed the floor for an extra fifteen minutes just out of orneriness.
Dang!
He won again.
I finished, put the equipment away and went upstairs. Five minutes later, I came back downstairs and found him gone. The lights were on, the TV was on, but my Dad was MIA. With no windmills to tilt at, what's the point? I went back upstairs.
Much later in the afternoon--not still dusk, not quite night--I walk into the great room. All the drapes are shut, the lights are off, and the TV is off. It's dark in there. As I walk into the kitchen I catch a movement inside the great room. With my superior Charlie Sheen-like reflexes, I turn, ready for anything. and find my father sitting in the darkness.
"Is he alive?" I wonder to myself?
Out loud, I ask, "What are you doing, Dad?
My father answers, "I'm
waiting for the game."
Hmm... does he think the lights or TV come on by themselves?
"Okay, Dad," I tell him. "Do you need anything?"
"No," he says.
"Okay, Dad," I tell him. "Do you need anything?"
"No," he says.
I walk into the kitchen,
get my drink, and leave.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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