Sunday, June 25, 2017

Where There's Smoke...

Reluctantly, my lovely wife and I had to leave my father alone for more than a few minutes one morning. We don't usually like to do that, but some things can't be helped.
     "I'll be fine," he assured us, waving us off, "I'll be fine."
     Hmm, I though to myself, I wonder what he's up to? I'm not saying my father's as much trouble as the average toddler or teen.
     I'm saying he's more.
     Fortunately, our house was still standing when we got back home, and we found my father sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of hot tea.
     "How did it go, Dad?" I asked him, cautiously taking a look around. Everything seemed okay.
     "It went fine," he told me.
     "That's good," I said, letting myself relax a bit.
     "Except for the fire alarm."
     "Fire alarm!" I sputtered. "What ABOUT the fire alarm?"
     "It went off."
     "It went off?"
     My wife decided this would be a good time to leave. "He's YOUR problem," her rapidly exiting back was telling me.
     "Why did it go off?"
    "The kitchen," he answered, as if that would explain everything.
     "What about the kitchen?"
     "It was full of smoke."
     "Why was the kitchen full of smoke?"
     "I burnt the toast."
     "You burnt the toast?"
     Getting information from my father was like pulling teeth.
     "Then what did you do?"
     "I stopped the alarm."
     "How did you stop the alarm?"
     "I got rid of the smoke,"
     "How did you get rid of  the smoke?"
     "I ate the toast."
Raising My Father  American Chimpanzee

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