Thanking Dad

My father managed to keep his big fear a secret. How about you? Did you pass along a fear to your children? Read about it (here).

 

Thanks, Dad

Late in life I'm still learning things about my dad, and how courage often shows itself in unexpected ways. Read about it (here.)

Prepare To Die!

 

“I’m sorry, but I have to kill you.”

      

“Why? Am I bothering you?”

     

 “No, but that isn’t the point.”

      

“What is the point? I have a right to know. After all, it’s my life we’re talking about.”

     

 “Well, it’s hardly a life. After all, you’re only a spider.”

     

 “Only a spider? How dare you! I belong to a species so perfect in design that nature hasn’t changed me in hundreds of millions of years. Do you know what humans looked like millions of years ago? Here’s a clue: check the treetops.”

     

 “So you admit that humans are more evolved than spiders?”

      

“You miss the point. Are all humans as dense as you?”

      

“You’re making it a lot easier to squish you.”

      

“Let me put it another way. Do you believe in reincarnation? I understand many of you humans do. Perhaps I was once your ancestor—a beloved grandfather. You wouldn’t want to squish Grandpa, would you?”

      

“I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

      

“Shit…thought I had you on that one.”

      

“Enough, already. It’s time to end this. Are you ready to meet your Maker?”

      

“Not so fast. Keep your shoe on. What’s the rush? I mean, how often do you have a conversation with a talking spider?”

     

 “You don’t understand the delicate dance of human relationships. You’re in our

bathtub and my wife is in her bathrobe, cringing behind the door and waiting to hear the

flush that will send you swirling down the toilet.

     

 “Bathtub? I thought I was on a glacier. Anyway, please tell me I’m not about to die just because your wife has ordered you to murder me. Do you do everything she tells you to do?”

      

“It goes back to that delicate dance I mentioned. I’m the man; I kill the bugs. She does nearly everything else around the house and my main purpose is to kill bugs.”

      

“I’ll have you know that I’m much more than a bug! I’m a miracle of nature. I can lift ten times my body weight, go months without eating, and I can produce a web capable of withstanding a hurricane. Can you do any of these things?”

     

 “No.”

      

“I see from your expression that I’m not convincing you to spare my life. Spiders often eat their mates. If you ate yours, you wouldn’t have to obey her anymore.”

     

 “Nice try, but it’s the female spiders, larger and more powerful than males, who do the eating.”

      

“Drat! Somebody’s been watching the Discovery Channel too much.”

      

“Enough already. I’m taking off my shoe so you’d better look away.”

     

 “Okay. I gave it my best try. Just one more thing. When you were a kid did your teacher read you Charlotte’s Web?”

      

“Yes.”

     

 “What was the name of Charlotte’s friend, that cute little pig?”

     

 “His name was Wilbur.”

     

 “That’s right. Tell me, did you cry like Wilbur when Charlotte died at the end of the

story?”

      

“You really are a son of a bitch.”

      

“Hey, where are you going?”

      

“To the kitchen to get a glass. I’ll trap you and dump you in the garden.”

     

“Thanks, Wilbur.”

Submitted to my friends at DudeWrite.

A Lesson From Dad

When I graduated from high school I needed a car to drive to college. My older brother had faced this dilemma before and had demanded my parents buy him a car. My mother laughed and told him to get a job and buy his own car, which he eventually did.

So when my turn came I chose a different strategy. When asked about college I told my folks, “I don’t think I’ll go to college.”

My mother was appalled. “I thought you were planning on going to the local community college and then transferring to UCLA.” Although neither of my parents went to college, both grew up in big families that prized education.

I had only one hand to play and needed to play it well. “If I went to college,” I said to my parents, “I’d need a car. And you guys have already given me so much that I couldn’t possibly ask you for something so expensive. So I think I’ll just stay home, get a job at McDonald’s and live with you guys.”

There wasn’t any more discussion about it, but a few weeks later there was a car waiting for me in the driveway, a fairly new ‘68 blue Volkswagen Beetle. Without my knowledge, Dad had purchased it at a police auction and, being a professional mechanic, had replaced the damaged engine with a new one. My plan had worked; I’d succeeded where my older brother hadn’t. I was handed a practically new car.

I enrolled at the local community college. The campus was nearly twenty miles away but the distance wasn’t a problem thanks to my blue bug. I was desperate to leave home but two years would pass quickly. Soon enough I’d be off to Los Angeles, the land of my fantasies, few of which had anything to do with college.

Of course I still lived at home during this time, and my dad would frequently ask me if

I was taking good care of my car. I assured him I was. A lie, of course. It’s a sad fact that young people seldom take care of anything obtained without effort. Had I worked to earn my car, like my brother did, I’d have cherished it, maybe even washed it and rotated the tires, had I taken time to learn how. But I wasn’t a good car owner. I filled the beetle with gas and expected it to run perfectly.

One Saturday after visiting friends, I drove home and saw Dad hosing down the driveway. When I parked at the curb and climbed out of my car he said, “You’ve been adding water to the radiator every few weeks, haven’t you?”

I looked my father in the eye and said, “Of course.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said.

I snuck out of the house minutes later when Dad moved his watering to the back yard. I drove furiously to the nearest gas station where I yelled at the attendant, “I’ve had this car for four months and I’ve never put water in the radiator! What should I do?”

“You should learn more about your car,” he said. “Volkswagen Bugs are air-cooled. They don’t have radiators.”

“They don’t?” I asked with relief.

“They don’t,” he said.

When I drove home Dad was curling the hose and putting it away. He was a man of few words. His smile said it all.