RaisingDad

My Dad has this habit that annoys me.      Well, he has more than one habit that annoys me, but I hold my tongue because they aren't worth losing the inheritance that awaits me. That is, if he doesn't outlive me.      Anyway, my father constantly blows his nose. All day. Into the same sheet of Kleenex. I never see him throw it away. I never see him get a new one. I never see him wash his hands.      In the mornings, he'll come out of his room honking the old horn. He'll sit at the table, blow his nose, turn the Kleenex over, and honk into it again.      He does this all day long.      When I eat, I'll eat at the counter, several yards away from him, trying to stay out of the range of any flying snot that might escape his Kleenex.      My wife is a saint, she knows not to...

You know, my dad's a pretty healthy guy.      He goes out walking in the heat, in the rain, during earthquakes. If you've been paying attention to the news, you've probably read about some wild fires that have been burning close by and giving my deadbeat--I mean, fun-loving--relatives an additional reason not to use my home as a base camp for their vacation. Did all the smoke and haze keep my dad indoors like the local authorities recommended?      No.      Why do I mention all this? Well, my wife recently had a garage sale and from that garage sale I caught something from somebody that laid me low. Not low enough to keep me from getting out of bed and doing house chores for her (My wife figures that since I'm home, I might as well do something. Sick, or not.), but low enough to not be able to enjoy the nice Memorial Day weekend. Although, when you're retired, every day is a nice Memorial Day we...

Like I said, my wife and I love where we live, but the problem with living where we do is that the rest of the country seems to love where we live, too. So we're always having friends and relatives come by to visit or for vacation. They come for the good times, and they stay for the free room and board.      Today I'm doing the finishing touches making sure the house meets my wife's high standards for some company that my wife is expecting. I would say company that we're expecting, but, since they're my wife's relatives, she's expecting them and I'm praying for another earthquake.   Two hours prior:        I go into the kitchen and my Dad is watching the news on my TV there, and not even the channel with the blonde weather women with the big, um, personality. I consider it my TV, because my father has already staked his claim on the big-screen TV in the great-room along with my favorite chair, so, I'm...

My wife and I live in a very nice part of the country that tourists are fond of visiting, and we were expecting the following deadbeats, I mean, out-of-town company this summer:    my wife's cousin from Cleveland,     my nephew and his family,     my brother and his family, and    maybe my sister and her family,    but awhile back there was an earthquake. If you follow the news you would have read about it or seen it being reported on TV.      After the earthquake, can you guess how many visitors we're having this summer?     Zero.       Raising My Father RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com jimduchene.BlogSpot.com @JimDuchene    

My Dad and I are sitting in the great room.      I have my back to him. I'm drinking coffee and writing on this blog, which is what I do when I'm not buffing the oak floors or being driven nuts by my father.      My Dad is drinking his tea. My wife makes it special for him every morning and every day.      "What do you do to make it so special?" I asked her once. I was teasing her, so I didn't really expect an answer.      "I make it with love," she tells me, putting me in my place.      And she does. Makes it with love, I mean.        I look up from my computer. I think I hear my Dad, um,  gargling?      Hmm... I sit, listen, and wait.      A few seconds later I hear him gargling again.      Slowly, like my imaginary days as a SEAL Team Six soldier, I get u...

It's Sunday morning.      I'm sitting outside drinking my second cup of coffee. I've already read the Sunday newspaper. Twice. Well, not really. I've already read the Sunday newspaper twice, except for the front page section.      My Dad is inside sitting at the kitchen table finishing his breakfast. He's got a healthy appetite, but he eats slowly. Very slowly. It's not that he's some kind of half-human/half-turtle hybrid. He'll move fast enough if I drop a twenty on the floor. He'll pick it up and say it's his with a speed The Flash would envy.      No, I think he's eats slow because he has the whole day ahead of him with nothing to do, so he figures, "What's the rush?"      He's already read the front page, and it sits to his right. Next to his plate. He's got his elbow on the paper. Just enough of his elbow to let the world know that it's his.      Like my twenty ...

I wrote the following after reading a profile about Bruce Dern in Rolling Stone magazine. After sending it to him, I got the usual Hollywood reply: "Don't call us, we'll call you." If anybody can send me the zip code to his PO Box in Santa Monica, California, I would appreciate it.    Night.      It's dark and it's beautiful.      Somewhere in the blackness, a door opens and closes.      Now there's just a sliver of light on the horizon, but just a sliver. No more than a razor slice of light, really.      And now someone running toward it.        It's morning now. A pretty blonde lady, Laura, is busy. She's preparing breakfast in her kitchen. Her husband, Henry, walks in, and, after a kiss good morning, sits at the kitchen counter where the newspaper waits for him.      "Would you look at this?" Henry tells his wife, acting...