He's doing well. And I am glad they are asking about him and not me because I'd rather not talk about my mother's death, those feelings still whirling about my head like a cloud of angry insistent gnats.
Sonny returned to work the day following the memorial service and none of us were surprised, the man is a stubborn German who pushed work ethics on us kids like they were the ten commandments. If the end of the day came and you have not completed 47 productive chores then your bedtime is delayed until you do. And then there's that other thing, my father doesn't allow negative thoughts to take shape in the scheme of his life. Sitting in his rocking chair gazing out at the summer nighttime sky would be just the breeding ground for that unallowable luxury.
We taught Sonny how to iron shirts and he never did catch on to folding fitted sheets (but then whom of us can do that? Me, but I checked on youtube.) And sewing buttons back in their spots was too complicated what with making knots so those shirts will come my way if necessary. He has acclimated into his own household schedule and his house smells like bleach on Monday mornings for it is scrub day.
I never expected my father to learn cooking. It would be like me learning to fix my Chevy Impala, an impossible situation, me and motors. My brother tried to explain how the air conditioner worked that he installed in my home and I smiled and nodded my head, totally oblivious.
Now he wants to make soup, his favorite bean and ham, and I throw together a recipe for him. The next day he is at my door, a cookbook in hand and he is noticeably rattled. "This recipe," he says pointing at a page, "this recipe is completely different from the one you gave me." There are dried beans instead of canned, vegetables are being cooked for a longer time and a couple of other small incidentals. He cannot tolerate the existence of another recipe for the same item that is so different. This is crazy and my face shows it and the old man starts talking about my attitude. I tell him, you can't mess up soup. Too intense the flavor, add water. Too bland, add seasoning. Dad takes the scientific approach and he needs to consider the adventure of it all, but that's asking a lot for an old German. But his soup turned out fine.
Sonny returned to work the day following the memorial service and none of us were surprised, the man is a stubborn German who pushed work ethics on us kids like they were the ten commandments. If the end of the day came and you have not completed 47 productive chores then your bedtime is delayed until you do. And then there's that other thing, my father doesn't allow negative thoughts to take shape in the scheme of his life. Sitting in his rocking chair gazing out at the summer nighttime sky would be just the breeding ground for that unallowable luxury.
We taught Sonny how to iron shirts and he never did catch on to folding fitted sheets (but then whom of us can do that? Me, but I checked on youtube.) And sewing buttons back in their spots was too complicated what with making knots so those shirts will come my way if necessary. He has acclimated into his own household schedule and his house smells like bleach on Monday mornings for it is scrub day.
Now he wants to make soup, his favorite bean and ham, and I throw together a recipe for him. The next day he is at my door, a cookbook in hand and he is noticeably rattled. "This recipe," he says pointing at a page, "this recipe is completely different from the one you gave me." There are dried beans instead of canned, vegetables are being cooked for a longer time and a couple of other small incidentals. He cannot tolerate the existence of another recipe for the same item that is so different. This is crazy and my face shows it and the old man starts talking about my attitude. I tell him, you can't mess up soup. Too intense the flavor, add water. Too bland, add seasoning. Dad takes the scientific approach and he needs to consider the adventure of it all, but that's asking a lot for an old German. But his soup turned out fine.
2 comments:
Your dad sounds like a awesome dad. Going to spend some more time with the papa now that I have been forced into a 'slowdown'''''
Your handsome, wonderful, bro. Me.
Last week as Samantha and I feasted on gourmet potato salad that he had made he proudly announced that he had sewed his first button onto a shirt. Also did he tell you about his homemade borcht and cranberry muffins? He's not going to need us anymore; look out Betty Crocker!
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