Sunday, October 25, 2015

Hungry Heart

I've been sitting here for over an hour watching cartoons. Let me tell you, spending my day watching cartoons is not what I envisioned I'd be doing when I retired.
     My grandson likes cartoons the way my father likes his baseball games, and, having said that, let me tell you, my father is especially happy that the Mets are in and the Cubs are out, despite what Back To The Future predicted. Let this be a lesson for you. If you base your reality on a movie's fantasy, you're going to be disappointed.
     When my father watches his games, we give him the peace and quiet he wants. He can hear me when I'm upstairs whispering sweet nothings in my wife's ear, but he can't hear the TV blasting in front of him from a distance of less than ten feet.
     Go figure.
     With my Dad, it's a one way street. We watch what he watches, or we can go watch something else someplace else. Sometimes my father surprises me, and he'll sit and watch cartoons with us. That's what he's doing now. Either he likes the company or he likes the same cartoons we're watching.
     Right now, I happen to be hungry. It's only 1400 hours (that's 2pm for you non-military types), and, since I'm trying to lose weight, I eat at this time and "try" not to eat later. Sadly, my wife's a great cook, so "trying" not to eat later is like trying not to breathe now. It's also hard, because my father is a very enthusiastic eater. Put a plate of food in front of him and he'll inhale it like he's Matt Damon on Mars. But I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about me, and thanks to my doctor I'm reduced to eating fruits or veggies or indulging in the occasional protein drink. When I'm in the mood for a snack, I have to go outside and lick a tree. My Dad, on the other hand, can eat anything he wants. If you've ever been told that life's not fair, you were probably told that by someone who knows me.
     Somehow my father has gotten on to my routine. He used to take his nap between one in the afternoon and three, but now that he knows I eat around two, he'll sit and he'll wait, and he'll sit and he'll wait, and he'll sit and wait some more. He sits and waits, and waits and sits, and sits and sits, and waits and waits. Why does he do all this sitting and waiting? Because he's hoping I 'll cook something. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I wait him out.
     My father knows that if I make something for myself, I'll always make enough for him. I have no idea where he puts it all because at 1600 hours, he'll eat again. 4pm is when my beautiful wife serves him his early dinner. He's served like he's the King of the Knights of the Round Table. He's served in the great room, as he sits in his--my--favorite chair, and on the Rolls Royce TV tray we bought him. I say "we" bought it for him because he never reimbursed us for the expenditure. My wife serves him his food hot, like he likes it, and his drink so cold there's condensation dripping down the sides of the glass, if, in fact, glasses do have sides. And she does this all without him missing an out or a hit on TV.
     I look up because my father just mumbled something. My grandson is so intent on the cartoon he's watching that he doesn't even notice. Or maybe he noticed, but has learned from me that sometimes it's better to pretend that you didn't. My Dad's mumble is followed by a couple of long, loud, deep sighs, and a yawning, "I'm tired, maybe I'll go take a nap. Ohhh...   ahhh..." he says. "Woweee. Great googly-moogly, maybe I should take a nap. Mumble, mumble, mumble," my father mumbles some more. Click, click! Smack, smack!
     "Let's go watch TV upstairs," I tell my grandson, and he agrees. When my father starts making his noises, I know it's time for me to exit, stage left.
     As we're walking away I hear my father start to gargle, he's gargling in the great room. What the hey? He stops, and then I hear him start up again. His gargling is getting louder. I better pay closer attention to him. My first order of business is finding out where it is that he's spitting whatever it is that he's gargling?
     "I'll meet you upstairs," I tell my grandson, giving him a little push in the back for encouragement.
     "Aww..."
     "I'll get us some ice cream."
     "...aww-right!"
     I'm now watching my Dad with the same interest I watch those model/hostesses on The Price Is Right with. I see my father take a drink from his cup. I think he's drinking tea. He tilts his head back, gargles, and then swallows. He takes another drink, this time swishing the liquid around inside his mouth before gargling and drinking it. He does this several times.
     Perhaps my father is appreciating some fine expensive wine that I don't know anything about. Just when I thought things could not get any stranger, it's turned out that my father has become a late-in-life wine connoisseur.
     No, it just tea.
     I think about Bruce Springstein's song Hungry Heart. It begins:
 
"Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, jack.
I went out for a drive and I never went back."
 
     And then I think about my grandson waiting for me upstairs.
     And I get the ice cream.
 
 
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Monday, October 19, 2015

My Dad Needs A Room

Take one step forward and two back.
     Isn't that the real world?
     To make a very long story short--just because I like you--a water pipe in our house developed a pin-sized hole and it semi-flooded two of our bedrooms and two of our bathrooms. In math terms it would look like this: one house - two bedrooms - two bathrooms = I'm screwed. And not in the fun way. The water must have been spraying behind the wall for weeks, because the damage, while hidden for the most part, was extensive.
     When I first noticed the water damage, I turned to my wife and asked, "What's my father been up to?" But, as it turned out, it wasn't my father after all. Just a faulty pipe. I felt bad. My wife made me feel worse.
     We had a plumber fix the leak. He charged us extra because my Dad tried to help. Then the restoration team showed up to determine the damage. I think they were the same guys who put Sputnik into orbit for the Russians. They told me that preventing mildew is harder, so we have numerous fans and dehumidifiers stationed in the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the garage. It's a seven day operation. God was able to create the universe in six.
     Go figure.
     "That's what you get for buying a cheap house," my brother told me.
     "Cheap? My garage is worth more than your entire house," I pointed out.
     "I rent."
     "Exactly."
     We had to relocate my father from his bedroom in the main house back to the little father-in-law house in the front of our property. He moved into the main house for reasons I won't go into now, because I don't feel like crying. I like to call his little house La Casita. My father likes to call it I'm Not Moving Back. I told him he could always invite one of his girlfriends to spend the night. The funny part is he actually considered that. Now, what kind of girlfriends can an almost 97-year-old man have?
     Before you answer, I heard a recent news story out of Arizona, where the children of some elderly residents of an Old Folk's Home are complaining because they discovered--the hard way--that their parents were having sex.
     I'm sorry. I've seen elderly humans. No, thank you. The only way I'll be having sex when I'm 90 is if my girlfriend is 19. That's why I told my wife, "You better take advantage of me now, honey, because your expiration date is coming up."
     For some reason she had a headache that night.
     My brother and I talked about this geriatric sex thing. He hasn't had sex since approximately 1976. Not because he doesn't want to, but because his wife is always afraid the children will hear.
     "But your children haven't lived with you for twenty years," I told him.
     "Exactly," he told me back.
     That's why I tell all my dating friends, "Don't be in such a rush to get married. Your sex lives will diminish in direct proportion to the length of time you're married. And when the first baby comes... forget it."
     The reason, I tell them, is this: When you're dating, you have sex at every opportunity because you don't know when the next opportunity will come around. When you're married, you can always put off sex "for later." Somehow, the later comes around, but the sex never does.
     So my brother finds it hard to understand why his wife--a relatively young woman--doesn't want to have sex, but these old ladies do.
     "Easy," I tell him. "It's because they're trying to attract a man, and they're doing it the way nature intended."
     I don't want to give the impression that my brother is slow, but I have to explain it to him. These woman are all widows. Single men their age are few and far between. Between what? Who knows. Just between. Their husbands are all dead, and for some reason they would like to have another one. That sounds to me like having an irritating pebble in your shoe, taking it out, and putting it in your other shoe.
     They first try to accomplish this with an old adage they've heard all their lives. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Like my ex-wife, it's old and it's wrong. The way to a man's heart is not through his stomach, it's through his zipper, and these old ladies figure that out soon enough.
     You see, when a man's wife dies before him, which is a rare occurrence in an Old Folk's Home, all the elderly widows will make a sympathy stop, bringing with them casseroles and homemade desserts. This is their way of showing him they're good marriage material. When that doesn't work, they tell the new widower that if he should ever need anything.... This is their way of telling him they put out. So imagine the shock and awe their children experience when they come to visit and see a dirty old man taking their dear old grandma the way Grant took Richmond.
     That makes me think about my father. I don't know if those old ladies would be able to put up with him. People with Alzheimer's can be real hard to live with, but, at the same time, we can all be hard to live with when we our brains are faulty and misfiring. Maybe those old ladies wouldn't mind after all.
     I once told my wife I couldn't wait for her to have Alzheimer's.
     "Why?" she asked, not knowing whether she should be offended or not.
     "Because," I explained, "after we have sex, you might forget and want to have it again."
     For some reason she had a headache that night.
     By the way, just for the record, I'd like to clarify that my brother's not slow. Just cheap. Or, as he likes to put it, frugal.
     I think he put a voodoo curse on my house.
     We had a crew working on the walls today. They should be finished tomorrow. Then it's on to the next repair. My brother is very fortunate. He lives in a rental home, and all he has to do is cut the grass and pick the weeds.
     This is why I want my next home to be a rental.
     By the way, my father needs a room.
     Can he stay with you?
 
 
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
 

Monday, October 12, 2015

I Must Be Dead

I've said it before, and I don't mind saying it again:
     My wife's a saint.
     So when she runs into the kitchen worried about my father, I have to listen, even though I'm in the middle of reading the Sports Section of our city's fine newspaper and drinking a nice hot cup of gourmet coffee, my only indulgence.
     "Your dad," she says, breathlessly.
     "What about my dad?" I ask, when she doesn't go past her initial proclamation.
     I can see that she's having a problem putting it into words. Thinking about it, I come to realize that it's a little later than my father's usual early-to-bed-early-to-rise time. Thinking about it some more, I begin to get a little worried myself.
     "Is he... uh... alive?" I ask her. They weren't words I wanted to say, but they were words that had to be said.
     "Yes," she answers, "he's alive, but..."
     Even though I asked the question, deep down I knew my father wasn't really dead. If he had been, my wife wouldn't have been worried, she would have been hysterical. As ornery and cantankerous as my father is, the alternative, while eventually unavoidable, is not something we look forward to.
     "But what?" I say, encouraging her on.
     "Well," she begins, slowly explaining, "when he didn't get up for breakfast this morning, I thought I'd check in on him, and..."
     She's right.
     By this time of the morning he's had a full breakfast, a slice of pie, and is busy keeping the newspaper away from me.
     "And what?"
     "And he says he's dead."
     "Dead?" I say, although it's more of an exclamation than a question.
     My father gets plenty of attention from his daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, but it's never stopped him from trying to get more. Still, saying he's dead....
     That's a bit of a stretch.
     Even for my father.
     I really don't want to go check on my father, even though I know I have to, because I don't know what kind of nonsense he'll get me into, but I go. My father no longer lives in the father-in-law house in the front of our property. Time and circumstance stuck its ugly nose into my business and he's moved into the main house and has his own room with us. When I've talked to my wife about renting out the little house, my dad, like time and circumstance, sticks in his nose and vetoes the idea.
     "Why, dad?" I've asked him.
     "Because I might want to move back in," he's answered, even though the two of us both know that that will never happen. My father is no longer independent, but it's important for him to thinks that he still is.
     I knock on my father's door.
     He tells me to come in.
     I say that my lovely wife--his daughter-in-law--tells me that he's saying he's dead.
     "That's right," my father answers. "I'm dead."
     "What makes you think you're dead?"
     "I must be dead," he insists. "When I woke up this morning, nothing hurt."
 
 
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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