Dad’s four-flight walk up is never convenient but tonight, with my already-painful ankle throbbing from a cortisone shot, it seemed as impossible as climbing a Mayan temple. But, I have to get to Dad, so I hop - like a large, overburdened kangaroo - up the four flights and land at his door, out of breath. “Want one of these donuts?” says Dad, offering me a banana.
So, it’s February now, and I still haven’t worked out my conflict about sculpting vs. being w/ Dad. I want to go back to the studio – I left half finished sculptures sitting on the shelves – but I can’t give up my Wednesday nights with Dad. He’s too happy to see me, thrilled by my weekly “surprise” visits, and I’m too attached to our little rituals, cupcake night and books on tape.
We’ve been listening to Frank McCourt’s Teacher Man. I’ve read it before, and bought Dad the audio version for some holiday years ago. Recently, I found it, unopened, in a cabinet, so I started playing it for him. He’s following it eagerly, laughing in the right places, remembering which tape we’re up to when I get the machine out each week. He can relate to the stories about teaching, having had many similar experiences himself in New York City public high schools.
You never know what you’re going to get, linguistically, with Dad – tonight I put a plate in front of Dad and started to open a package. “What hast thou there?” he asks. “It’s a chocolate cupcake with coconut.” “Ooooh, oooh, oooh, you really know how to serve.”
I brought Dad a cd of Andean Highland music. Dad loves music of all kinds, but he’s particularly fascinated by the idea that these are flutes. “It’s very, very good,” he says. “Where is peru?”
More quotable Dad:
“Do some people live longer than others? I’m beginning to suspect they do.”
“I’ve already accepted the fact that going blind without being able to see anything is much, much worse than going blind when you can see everything.”
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