RaisingDad

I have a low tolerance for bullshit.      I got it from my father.      When he was in the Army during World War Two, he was always bouncing back and forth between ranks because when he was asked for his opinion, he gave it. Sometimes when he wasn't asked, too. My father, you see, judged a man by his intelligence and abilities, not his title.      One time, an officer made the mistake of introducing himself to my father as he was working on the engine of a jeep.      "I'm your new C.O.," the officer told him. "What needs to be done around here?"      The officer was obviously talking about the bigger picture of things that needed to be done, but my father was more practical.      "Well," my father said, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand and leaving a greasy streak, "this workspace needs to be swept out. Why don't you grab that broom over there and put it to work?"   ...

Back when my beloved mother was still alive, I used to go over every Saturday morning for breakfast. Now that I think about it, I should have taken her out for breakfast, but that’s neither here nor there and is just something I’ll have to live with.    During these times, she was fond of telling me the story of how, when she was but a wee lass of sixteen, she got a job. I won't tell you the year it happened, because that would be uncouth, but this was during a time when a grade school education had the weight of a high school education, a high school education had the weight of a college education, and her future husband was busy trying not to get killed by the Japanese in the Philippines.    There, I can't be any more couth than that.    Before she joined the workforce, my mother was enrolled in a catholic high school her father insisted she and her sisters go to. However, my mother wanted more out of life than that, so she quit s...

The very next day, neither my wife or I felt the need to replace the very delicious ice cream my elderly father had the wherewithal  to complain about the day before, and which I wrote about in last month’s column.     I, however, had my concerns.     “You know my father likes something sweet after dinner,” I reminded her.     “I’ve got it covered,” she assured me.     When I continued to persist, she said, “Isn’t there someplace else you need to be? I mean, besides here bothering me?”     Actually, no. There wasn’t. So I sat down and waited for something dark and hot that comes in a liquidy form.     Some people think I drink a lot of coffee.     That's because I do.     I don't have a lot of bad habits, but if drinking coffee is a bad habit, then that's one of them. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I do...