Sunday, July 31, 2016

The Bickersons

Back before television, there was a family sitcom on the radio called The Bickersons.
     As my parents got older, they reminded me more and more of the two main characters. There wasn't a story my dad wanted to tell that my mother wouldn't correct him on, and there wasn't a place my mother wanted to go that my father wouldn't tell her, "Go without me."
     One Saturday morning, I thought I'd invite them to breakfast at a restaurant of their choice. As usual, my father wanted to stay home, but my mother eventually nagged him into it.
     My father already knew what he wanted, something from the three main food groups: cows, chickens, and pigs. In other words, steak and eggs with a side of bacon. To this day, my father's heart is perfectly healthy. Me, on the other hand, if I eat lettuce my cholesterol goes through the roof. Go figure.
     As my mother and I looked at the menu, he just buried himself behind the newspaper, his usual morning ritual. Almost immediately, the bickering started.
     "You never listen to me when I'm telling you something," my mother told him.
     "What?" my father answered.
     "I said you never listen to me."
     "Of course I do," my father assured her, but not taking his eyes off the newspaper.
     "No, you don't."
     "Yes, I do."
     I felt like I was the substitute teacher for a class of third-graders. My mother picked up her menu, and got in one more grumble, "No, you don't."
     "What?" my father said.
     Exasperated, she complained, "I'm getting a headache."
     "Go ahead, honey," my father told her, still reading. "Get whatever you want."

 
Raising My Father
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JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
as featured in Deseret Exposure Magazine
 

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Feeling Your Oats

At 18, you could say I was feeling my oats.
     It was the late 70’s, and Congress—in their wisdom—had just lowered the drinking age, so my buddies and I thought we’d do our patriotic duty and throw back a few.
     My father only had 2 rules for me: 1) don’t miss my curfew, and 2) don’t drink. Unfortunately, he didn’t add another rule to that short list: 3) don’t be stupid. If he had, I might not have broken the first 2.
     To his credit, my father—whose belt not only held up his pants, but was also in charge of administering justice—didn’t overreact. In fact, he even let me sleep it off.
     When I woke up the next afternoon, hung over didn’t even begin to describe how bad I felt. I didn’t think I was hung over, I thought I was dying. I felt so bad, my teeth even hurt.
     “Hung over?” my Dad asked. He was a man of a few words.
     “Yeah,” I answered, in even fewer.
     “I can cure that.”
     He then took me outside, into our backyard, and handed me a shovel. It was early afternoon, but the day was already hot.
     My Dad told me what he wanted. He wanted me to dig a hole 3 feet wide by three feet long by three feet deep. So I did. I could see he had his belt secured around his waist, and that’s where I wanted it to stay.
     When I was done, he came outside, looked at what I had done, and told me I had dug the hole in the wrong place. So he had me fill it, careful to place the grass back on top, and then dig another hole, 3’ x 3’ x 3’. After doing this same dance several times more, I was tired, sweaty… but no longer hung over.
     “Learned your lesson, son?” my Dad asked me on our last dance.
     “Yes, sir,” I told him, respectfully. I didn’t want to antagonize the man who could keep me blistering my hands into the night.
     “You’re dismissed,” he said, finally. “Go take a shower. You stink.”
     I wasn’t offended. I did stink. How can I be offended by the truth?
     I went inside and took the longest, hottest shower I could get away with.
     My Dad’s 97-years-old now, and lives with my family and I.
     To this day, every time I get the urge to “throw back” a cold one, if my father’s around, I’ll decide to put what I learned about hang overs remedies to use, and I’ll pass.
 
 
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
 

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Who's The Grown-Up? Not Me!

All day long my father has been in a crappy mood.
     I don't know what he has to complain about, the way I look at it the guy's got it made. He doesn't have to worry about food or bills or anything, really. It all gets taken care of for him. My wife cleans his room, makes his bed, fixes his meals. She makes sure the TV is always set on his favorite channels. How she keeps track of what he likes to watch and at what time, I don't know.
     From personal experience, I know that age has a way of robbing you of a good night's sleep. It used to be when I went to bed at night, I would wake up with enough vim and vigor to pester my wife in the morning, if you get my drift. Now I wake up, and, while the desire is still there, it's accompanied with various aches and pains. If I sleep too long on my right side, my arm will hurt. If I sleep too long on my back, my back will hurt.
     And I know my father feels the same way.
     Only worse.
     Late today, he was complaining to my wife about this, that, and the other. Maybe "complain" is too soft of a word. His idea of being subtle use to be telling a friend, "With all due respect, your sister's a..."
     Well, we don't have to go there.
      My wife's a saint. I think I've told you that before. She speaks to him in a calm, reassuring voice that Martha Stewart would be envious of.
     It doesn't work.
     From a distance, I see him, red-faced, with his flabby arms waving around like an angry Muppet.
     I've tried to intercede before.
     "You're not helping," my wife has told me, and she's probably right.
     It ends with my Dad going to his room, slamming the door, leaving a few choice words in his wake. You know, in all my time growing up, I've never heard him cuss. Now, it's like his knowledge of English words is disappearing and all that are left are the curse words.
     It's time for bed. My wife goes to our room upstairs.
     A few minutes later he comes out like he hasn't just upset my wife, sits in the great room, and turns on the TV. He looks around, probably wondering why my wife isn't there to wait on him hand and foot.
     I, moving like a ninja...
     "Look for, they cannot be seen. Listen, they cannot be heard. See them, and you are already dead."
     ...and with the help of The Force...  
     ...hide around the corner and use the extra remote to turn the TV off.
     "What the...?" my father says, and turns it back on.
     I turn it off.
     He looks at the remote in his hand, and turns the TV back on.
     I turn it off.
     He flips the remote to look at the back, then turns it back around to look at the front, and turns the TV back on.
     I turn it off.
     He sits up straight--well, as straight as he can-- and mumbles something that wouldn't be proper to repeat in a family blog like this one. He turns the TV on again.
     Again, I turn it off.
     Now he just sits in the great room--TV off--considering his options. He uses a tooth pick to fiddle with what's left of his teeth. I guess it helps him think.
     Well, played, old man. He knows that, along with the smacking sounds, him fiddling with his teeth grosses me out, but I'm a stubborn old coot just like he is. I have all night to wait him out.
     He sits and he sits and he sits some more.
     I hear him mumble something every once in a while.
     Finally, after thirty minutes, he gets up and goes to his room.
     Sometimes you win the battle. Sometimes you win the war. With my Dad...
     I'll settle for the battle.
   
   
Raising My Father
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Saturday, July 16, 2016

Over At Twitter

Over at my Twitter account, they sent me a suggestion that I might want to follow Oasis Senior Advisor. I thought, "Why does Twitter assume I'm at an age where I'd want to follow accounts geared toward the elderly?"
     I read the message all the way to the bottom, thinking it might say, "This is for your brother," but it didn't. I figured if Twitter knew I was at an advanced age, it might also know that I have a brother who was in more need of the information. He's not as old as I am, he just looks that way.
     Taking my train of thought to its logical conclusion, I decided that if Twitter wanted to send him a message via me, it wouldn't be some senior advice account, it would be from the Oasis Getting No Booty Advisor.
     I also take umbrage with the word "Oasis" as the name of that senior advisor account. That implies that old age is a wonderful thing. Something to be looked forward to. Youth is a harsh, lifeless desert. Old age is the beautiful oasis we find at the end of it.
     No, "oasis" isn't the right word.
     Maybe they could have called it the "This Is Crap" Senior Advisor.
     Or the "I Knew That" Senior Advisor.
     The "I'm Constipated" Senior Advisor.
     Or the "I Just Crapped The Bed" Senior Advisor.
     The "You Always Serve Me Too Much" Senior Advisor.
     Or the "They're A Bunch Of Characters" Senior Advisor.
     The "Who Are You?" Senior Advisor.
     Maybe even the "Why's That Guy I Don't Know Always Hanging Around?" Senior Advisor.
     The "He'd Better Not Be Trying To Get Frisky With My Daughter-In-Law" Senior Advisor.
     Which would lead to the "Where's My Gun?" Senior Advisor.
 
 
Raising My Father
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@JimDuchene