RaisingDad

I was watching TV with my father and I had a bad case of gas, but I thought he wouldn’t notice.      Boy, was I wrong.      The first one I cut—and it wasn’t even a bad one, pop lifted his nose to take a whiff. Then he took a look around.      “Saaay...” he said, slowly. “Is your brother here?”       RaisingDad RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee @JimDuchene   

I found the money you sent pop for the Easter holiday.      I picked it up and put it in the card I got him.     He was grateful.     “Thank you,” he said, tears in his eyes.      He pointed to your care package.      “What did your brother send me?” he asked as he opened my card and counted out the cash.     “Cookies,” I told him.     “Cookies?”     “Yeah, cookies.”     “Nothing else?”     “Nope.”     “That cheap bastard,” he spat.     I would have stood up for you, but, when someone rolls in poop, they pick up the stink.       RaisingDad JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com @JimDuchene   

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine desert exposure.com    My father walks every day-- EVERY  day--rain or shine.     The problem is this: my 93-year-old father's feet hurt when he walks. They hurt when he wakes up. They hurt when he goes to sleep. They hurt when he eats, and when he's hogging the TV. They just plain hurt. The thing is, he doesn't blame his feet.      He blames his shoes.     I was driving through a small town on my way to a bigger town when I saw an elderly gentleman jogging. He had a big smile on his face, and was giving me a friendly wave, so I decided to stop. As I got out of my car, he walked on over with his right hand outstretched. He was ten feet away and already eager for a handshake.     I didn't stop just to be friendly. He had old feet like my father, so I was curious what kind of shoes he wore. Happy as he was, they  must  be co...