My father was one strict old coot.
My brothers and I had it bad growing up, but our sisters had it worse.
When my sister, who was in high school, was going out on her first date, my father wasn't about to let her stay out until all hours of the morning. When the boy came by to pick her up, my father told him that he wanted her back home before twelve, "and I'll be waiting up to make sure that she is."
The kid was respectful, he recognized a potential kick in the behind when he saw one, but as soon as my father left the room, he asked my sister, "What happens at midnight? You turn into a pumpkin?"
"No," my sister told him. "Just have me home early because you don't want to find out what my father turns into."
Poor pop’s been constipated for over a week now.
His eyesight’s worse now, so’s his hearing. He’s constantly suffering from one thing or another, and now this.
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
Every morning my father goes for a walk, rain or shine.
Even when he doesn’t want to go, he'll go. He’s so stubborn, he irritates himself.
Sometimes our conversations will sound like this: "Man, I really don't feel like going on my walk this morning."
"Why don't you take a break?"
"A break from what?"
"From your walk."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"I mean, if you're not feeling good."
"Who said I'm not feeling good?"
"You did."
"I said I didn’t feel like going on my walk. I didn't say I didn't feel good. They’re not the same thing."
He has a point, I guess. I just wish he wouldn't make it with an Are-you-nuts? look on his face.
If he’s feeling spry, he'll even go on an afternoon walk.
Today, just before dinner, that's what he did.
“I want to build up an appetite,” he explained on his way out.
It was a little warm, 79 degrees and sunny. He went out wearing an old t-shirt, a very old gray sweater, and downright ancient sweatpants. He also wore some very new state-of-the-art walking shoes that he says make his feet hurt and have shoelaces that he insists don't work. On days when it's cold, he'll go out wearing a t-shirt and Speedos. Just kidding. He puts on flip-flops, too. The point is, he always wears the opposite of what the weather calls for. We no longer tell him when it's hot outside or cold or if there's an earthquake in progress. He's old enough to make his own bad decisions.
When he returned, my beautiful wife had something cold for him to drink.
“But not too cold,” he’s warned her before, and she makes sure it’s a non-heart attack inducing temperature. She’s thoughtful that way.
Taking the glass, he didn't bother offering a thank you. Instead, he helped himself to a nice, long drink.
"Oh, yeah" he said, "that hit the spot."
I'm sure it did.
"Where did you buy the orange juice?" he asked my wife.
"Costco," she told him. "Did you like it?"
She was expecting a positive response, especially with the enthusiasm he showed drinking it.
"It's not as good as the one you used to buy," he griped.
The one we used to buy is the exact same brand. We've bought this particular orange juice since there've been orange trees. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but we’ve bought it for at least as long as when my father moved in with us.
To make a long story short, my father sat himself down at the table and waited for his dinner. My wife's a good cook--in fact, she’s a great cook--but she's not our maid.
"I don't mind serving him," my wife has told me.
"Yeah, but I mind," I want to tell her back, but why open that particular can of worms?
After serving my father, she turned her attention to our grandson who was spending the day with us. He's a toddler, and requires less attention than my father does. What he mainly does is toddle around with a big smile on his face. He’s a happy kid. I could see my wife had her hands full, so I served myself.
For an old guy, my father was shoveling down his food like the guy in charge of feeding coal into a steam locomotive’s firebox. He didn't even bother to look up when he told my wife, "Don't worry about feeding my dog, I'll do it,” which was code for: "Aren’t you going to feed my dog?"
I looked at my wife. She was looking at me. We both looked at my father. He was looking at his empty plate, waiting for seconds and making no move toward getting up to feed his new best friend. She gives me a smile before answering him.
"I'll feed him as soon as I'm done feeding the baby," she told him.
"If you insist," my father said.
"I'll get it," I told her, getting up. I leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "But it's gonna cost you."
I gave her a lascivious wink, and walked off to fill the dog’s bowl.
"What'd he say?" my father asked my wife when he thought I couldn't hear.
"He said he's going to feed your dog," she answered.
"No," he said, "the other thing."
"What other thing?"
My father was going to say something else, but stopped when I walked back into view.
"Oh... nothing," he said.
He wanted to know what I whispered in my wife's ear, but didn't know how to ask. So, to tease him, I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear again.
"Pretend I just said something funny," I told her.
"You're evil," she laughed, giving me a playful elbow to the ribs.
"What about the dog?" he asked, which was code for: "Are you talking about me?"
There's a great rock and roll song in the John Waters movie Cry-Baby that goes, "We love being bad, 'cause it sure feels good."*
I know exactly what they mean.
******************************
*James Intveld & The Honey Sisters “High School Hellcats”
@JimDuchene
