My father and I were sitting at the kitchen table. It was just after lunch, and my father was drinking a cold glass of ice tea and I was enjoying a hot cup of gourmet coffee, my only indulgence. I was also reading the morning newspaper, which is a rare thing for me to do so early in the day, because my father is known for hording the morning newspaper like it's the last roll of toilet paper during the zombie apocalypse. When, out of the blue, he asked my wife,"What are those things?"
My wife looked at the table and then around the kitchen counter, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary or unrecognizable. I looked, too, but saw even less.
"What is what?" she asked.
"What is what?" she asked.
"Those green things?"
"What green things?"
He pointed at the decorative bowl in the middle of the table. It was filled with limes.
"Those," he said.
"What green things?"
He pointed at the decorative bowl in the middle of the table. It was filled with limes.
"Those," he said.
"You mean the limes?" my wife asked him.
She looked at me, her eyes starting to water. I was still trying to figure out if my Dad was serious or not. He's been known to pull our legs on occasion. He's also been known to pretend he doesn't know something to get out of doing something else, but, try as I might, I couldn't see what was in it for him to pretend he didn't know what citrus fruit was.
She looked at me, her eyes starting to water. I was still trying to figure out if my Dad was serious or not. He's been known to pull our legs on occasion. He's also been known to pretend he doesn't know something to get out of doing something else, but, try as I might, I couldn't see what was in it for him to pretend he didn't know what citrus fruit was.
"Those green balls in the bowl," my Dad said. "What are they?"
"Those are limes," she told him gently.
"Limes? Hmmm... did you say limes?"
"Yes, Dad. Limes."
"Limes..." he repeated, processing the information.
"Dad," she told him, "you've had limes before."
"Limes..." he repeated, processing the information.
"Dad," she told him, "you've had limes before."
"I have?" He considered this. "What are they good for?"
My wife tried to explain them to him, but everyday, commonplace things are hard to explain. Try explaining the word "the," if you don't believe me.
"Dad, limes are... well, limes. You've had them in your tea."
"Dad, limes are... well, limes. You've had them in your tea."
"Oh? Hmmm..."
He looked at the glass of tea in front of him, but didn't see any green balls in it.
"You squeeze them and add the juice to your tea," she explained further.
"I don't do that," my father said, sniffing as if doing such a menial task were beneath him.
I must admit that's true, because my Dad's motto is: "Why do things for myself, when I can just get my daughter-in-law to do them for me."
When my wife is out and I'm in charge of taking care of my father, he's perfectly capable of doing things for himself. Not everything, you understand, but the basics, like squeezing a wedge of lime, for example. He has to, because I won't do them for him. But when my wife is home he's been known to call up the stairs for her to fetch him a bowl of ice cream, and, yes, I did use the word "fetch."
On this occasion, it may just be a case of my father forgetting how to squeeze a lime because the last time he had to squeeze one for himself was when General MacArthur kept his promise and returned to the Philippines.
"I know you don't do that," my wife told him, "because I do it for you."
That was pretty bold, especially for my wife. Usually she'll just agree with him and then vent to me later about it. I'll listen, but only because I hope to rewarded later.
"Ahhh," my dad finally exclaimed, as if the veil of forgetfulness had lifted, but more probably to change the track the conversation was taking. "Limes."
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
I nodded.
He nodded back.
He turned his attention back to my wife.
"Where do they come from?" he asked her.
He looked at the glass of tea in front of him, but didn't see any green balls in it.
"You squeeze them and add the juice to your tea," she explained further.
"I don't do that," my father said, sniffing as if doing such a menial task were beneath him.
I must admit that's true, because my Dad's motto is: "Why do things for myself, when I can just get my daughter-in-law to do them for me."
When my wife is out and I'm in charge of taking care of my father, he's perfectly capable of doing things for himself. Not everything, you understand, but the basics, like squeezing a wedge of lime, for example. He has to, because I won't do them for him. But when my wife is home he's been known to call up the stairs for her to fetch him a bowl of ice cream, and, yes, I did use the word "fetch."
On this occasion, it may just be a case of my father forgetting how to squeeze a lime because the last time he had to squeeze one for himself was when General MacArthur kept his promise and returned to the Philippines.
"I know you don't do that," my wife told him, "because I do it for you."
That was pretty bold, especially for my wife. Usually she'll just agree with him and then vent to me later about it. I'll listen, but only because I hope to rewarded later.
"Ahhh," my dad finally exclaimed, as if the veil of forgetfulness had lifted, but more probably to change the track the conversation was taking. "Limes."
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
I nodded.
He nodded back.
He turned his attention back to my wife.
"Where do they come from?" he asked her.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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