My dad routinely gives me a hard time--no, wait, let me finish, ha ha I know--both in writing and in verbal conversations if I use vague pronouns. He's no dummy, and I know damn well he could extrapolate from the implied direct or indirect subjects in the sentence, so it's just one of a half dozen things he does to frustrate-annoy me into a laugh.
Also, if he could figure out how to comment on this booger, he would say, "What the hell does 'extrapolate' mean?"
Today, I texted him to get an update on Chen Lee, his weirdo senior Siamese cat who injured himself trying to jump up on the kitchen table this past weekend.
Me: Chen Lee Report?
Dad: Still at work.
HA HA! Finally! My opportunity to zing Father for the very thing he so often razzes me!
Me: Chen Lee got a job? Good for him!
I ran my laundry down and cleaned the litter boxes, relishing the idea that I would stump him. Perhaps he would not have any response at all! Clearly, I am the champion of the one-liners in the family.
Finally, I looked at my phone...
Dad: Yes he sits on the street corner taking humans from his pockets and throws them at passers by [sic] while skreeching - MEOW!
Obviously, a reference to this Dad classic, and one of the many Simpsons references we enjoy running into the ground.
Game, set, match. I don't know why I bother trying.
And Dad, that bracketed sic means that it's actually "passersby." It's a compound word. Yes, I know: what's a compound word. I hope you once again appreciate what all your money paid for when I attended the venerated learning institute UWEC.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
A Mother's Day Eve Post About My Father
I headed up to Madison yesterday to meet up with Dad. He was there for work, attending a UW engineering class, then off to DeForest for a United Church of Christ presentation for his deaconing (? - I think? I get muddy on details that go beyond Dad's stories of food distribution Saturdays and helping his elderly neighbors into their new homes by moving them or building ramps).
We had breakfast at a place my former college roommate/current friend Mary introduced me to, Daisy Cafe, right up my alley with its cute presentation of granola ideals (Dad was skeptical, but declared the chili-espresso steak hash--and let's not get into the pre-ordering-of-an-item-with-espresso we had--"pretty good; the steak was a good cut and quality of steak," which is a ringing endorsement on the grading scale). Then we went rambling around the area for the day.
When I was younger, it was always a treat to go with Dad in his green Ford F-150--the vehicle I would later use to learn the art of driving myself. He knew all the different rambling county-road ways to get from point A to point B in River Falls and chose them based on his whim. I liked his various routines--pretending that he controlled the intermittent windshield wiper setting by pointing his finger at the windshield; saying "Here we go 'round the coh-nohr!"; and singing "Yankee Doodle Dandy," punctuating downbeats by tromping on the brakes (yeah, I know, safety and whatnot, but I was wearing a seatbelt, which is more than I can say for the games Andy and Tony and I elected to create where we jumped and slid from heights and shot each other with BB guns).
But somewhere along the way, I suppose when I became a teenager, it was less of a treat and more of a chore. Why couldn't we go the fastest way home? Where were we going? Jokes became corny. Learning to drive that obstinate old pickup, not to mention parallel park it, took a lot of joy out of spending time in the car with my Dad altogether.
But the passage of time changes a lot. The loss of one parent, suddenly and shockingly, definitely changes a lot. I suppose Dylan Thomas was onto something in that poem "Fern Hill," that I read in a summer literature class at UWEC--you know, that time would take me up to the swallow-thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, et cetera. But loss and the knowledge of mortality doesn't change everything: I still like to know where I'm going most of the time, and if I don't, I walk forward with purpose, much to the detriment of friends who actually know where we're supposed to be heading. But sticking stubbornly to some personal quirks doesn't mean I haven't rediscovered my love of corny jokes or of spending time wandering the cow paths if the man driving the vehicle imitates the birdsong and the noise of passing vehicles.
I suppose my teenage petulance instilled in my dad a nervousness that I need constantly be entertained. He apologizes anxiously, at least once, any time I come back to Wisconsin or we spend a random one-off day together. He is sorry, he'll say, that we didn't do much. I have tried repeatedly to explain that any time with him is entertaining (particularly if he's arguing with his GPS, Mrs. Garmin, all day). But it wasn't until yesterday that I realized why the countryside rambling in a pickup touched my heart, made me more grateful than ever for the time I spent with my dad and will hopefully spend with him in the future. I guess we can't go back in time, but we can sometimes experience something similar to a memory from youth and realize what a treasure each moment with family is, how much those times build you into who you are (someone who also argues with a GPS and imitates the sounds of passing cars and motorcycles, by the way).
Though if he ever makes me parallel park a manual transmission pickup again, he's in big trouble.
We had breakfast at a place my former college roommate/current friend Mary introduced me to, Daisy Cafe, right up my alley with its cute presentation of granola ideals (Dad was skeptical, but declared the chili-espresso steak hash--and let's not get into the pre-ordering-of-an-item-with-espresso we had--"pretty good; the steak was a good cut and quality of steak," which is a ringing endorsement on the grading scale). Then we went rambling around the area for the day.
When I was younger, it was always a treat to go with Dad in his green Ford F-150--the vehicle I would later use to learn the art of driving myself. He knew all the different rambling county-road ways to get from point A to point B in River Falls and chose them based on his whim. I liked his various routines--pretending that he controlled the intermittent windshield wiper setting by pointing his finger at the windshield; saying "Here we go 'round the coh-nohr!"; and singing "Yankee Doodle Dandy," punctuating downbeats by tromping on the brakes (yeah, I know, safety and whatnot, but I was wearing a seatbelt, which is more than I can say for the games Andy and Tony and I elected to create where we jumped and slid from heights and shot each other with BB guns).
But somewhere along the way, I suppose when I became a teenager, it was less of a treat and more of a chore. Why couldn't we go the fastest way home? Where were we going? Jokes became corny. Learning to drive that obstinate old pickup, not to mention parallel park it, took a lot of joy out of spending time in the car with my Dad altogether.
But the passage of time changes a lot. The loss of one parent, suddenly and shockingly, definitely changes a lot. I suppose Dylan Thomas was onto something in that poem "Fern Hill," that I read in a summer literature class at UWEC--you know, that time would take me up to the swallow-thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, et cetera. But loss and the knowledge of mortality doesn't change everything: I still like to know where I'm going most of the time, and if I don't, I walk forward with purpose, much to the detriment of friends who actually know where we're supposed to be heading. But sticking stubbornly to some personal quirks doesn't mean I haven't rediscovered my love of corny jokes or of spending time wandering the cow paths if the man driving the vehicle imitates the birdsong and the noise of passing vehicles.
I suppose my teenage petulance instilled in my dad a nervousness that I need constantly be entertained. He apologizes anxiously, at least once, any time I come back to Wisconsin or we spend a random one-off day together. He is sorry, he'll say, that we didn't do much. I have tried repeatedly to explain that any time with him is entertaining (particularly if he's arguing with his GPS, Mrs. Garmin, all day). But it wasn't until yesterday that I realized why the countryside rambling in a pickup touched my heart, made me more grateful than ever for the time I spent with my dad and will hopefully spend with him in the future. I guess we can't go back in time, but we can sometimes experience something similar to a memory from youth and realize what a treasure each moment with family is, how much those times build you into who you are (someone who also argues with a GPS and imitates the sounds of passing cars and motorcycles, by the way).
Though if he ever makes me parallel park a manual transmission pickup again, he's in big trouble.
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