Like Grumpy Father, Like Grumpy Son

“Do we really have to go?” I asked my wife.
   She didn’t answer. She just gave me The Look. The one that means Tread Carefully. Still, I pressed on.
    “It’s not like we’re really related or anything,” I tried to reason, but there was no reasoning with The Look.
    And it was true. The person who had just died and whose funeral my wife was obligating me to go to was the relative of a relative, and not even a blood relative. He was of the in-law variety.
    “Look,” my wife told me, “it’s YOUR family. If anything, I should be the one complaining.”
    She had a point.
    “Okay, pop,” I told my father. “It’s time to go.”
    My father reluctantly got up from the baseball game he was watching. A classic, according to the premium baseball channel we get for him. In other words, it was one he had already seen.
    “Why do people have to die and ruin my day?” he grumbled.
 
 

Raising My Father

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