personal fitness room once more meets health standards,” I announced proudly.
“It will always be the library to me,” said my husband, as he entered with a stack of newspapers.
“Before you get settled,” I said, "I want the bathroom
scale."
“Where are you going with it?” he asked. "To the 'reptile room.' Another twenty pounds on top
of the snake cage can't hurt."
“BUT DAD ... IT'S A CLASSIC!”
Saturday: 8 a.m.
Watching them from the window, they looked like a scene from Father Knows Best. Dad in his coat sweater circled his son's car, stopping occasionally to kick the tires and huddle over the motor. His son, slightly taller than his father, in raggy jeans and tousled hair, waved a wrench in his hand.
Was it only a few years ago the father had black hair and the son wore bathing trunks the size of a coaster and they were standing together in that same spot to dedicate the swimming pool?
Kids we had never seen before were lined up with snorkels, rubber ducks, rafts, and old inner tubes from semi trucks.
“For God's sake,” said his father, “I don't even have the thing inflated yet. Didn't you tell them it's plastic, it's only 48 inches in diameter and 14 inches deep? I've ordered bigger drinks!”
As he put his lips to the valve, a hush fell over the crowd. After ten minutes of gasping and blowing, he was ready to pass out, but the pool was inflated. As he stood over the plastic pool with a garden hose, the group's eyes were riveted to the trickle of water. He held the crowd back while he added bleach and swished it around. When he finished he said, “Now, we're going to lay a few ground rules. No jumping in with grass on your feet and ...” He and his words were drowned ... literally. Two seconds later a neighbor child appeared at the door and announced our son had gone to the bathroom in the pool and they were all going home.
They may have had their differences in the past, but today they were ... communicating.
The door slammed shut with a fury that jarred the dishes. “Didn't I tell you buying that pile of junk was a mistake!” “But Dad, it's a classic.”
“You can't tell him anything,” said my husband, addressing his remarks to me.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“The matter is,” said my husband, “that that car was a lemon from the word go. Did you ever wonder who buys all those cars driven on television on The Rockford Files or The Dukes of Hazzard? Our kids buy 'em.”
“Dad, the car was a '79 and only had 500 miles on it.”
“That's because it was a getaway car.”
“Hatchbacks are classics.”
“It wasn't a hatchback until a garage door fell on it, haven't you figured that out? The tailpipe is held on with electrician's tape, the windows are stationary, the springs are shot, and the motor won't turn over.”
“In ten years,” said my son pointing his finger, “that little baby will be worth its weight in gold.”
“It's going to take you ten years to get a transmission for it that's available only in a small town in Czechoslovakia! You better get your act together, Mister, that car is going to take money ... lots of it.”
“I take care of the car,” he said defensively.
“Pouring Orange Crush in the radiator when it boils over is not taking care of it.”
“If it's such a bummer, how come someone tried to steal it last month?”
“If it's such a gem, how come they caught them trying to hot-wire it to get it started when the key was in the ignition?”
“I didn't ask for a lecture. All I'm asking for is a lousy $200 to get it running again.”
“Look, Son,” said his father, “ever since you graduated from college you've been trying to find yourself. You wanta know where you are? You're somewhere between Clearasil and bankruptcy. I have a dream for you, Son. I want to see you join hands with a steady job at the altar of employment and promise to love and to cherish from this day forward, for retirement benefits or for mergers ...
“It will always be the library to me,” said my husband, as he entered with a stack of newspapers.
“Before you get settled,” I said, "I want the bathroom
scale."
“Where are you going with it?” he asked. "To the 'reptile room.' Another twenty pounds on top
of the snake cage can't hurt."
“BUT DAD ... IT'S A CLASSIC!”
Saturday: 8 a.m.
Watching them from the window, they looked like a scene from Father Knows Best. Dad in his coat sweater circled his son's car, stopping occasionally to kick the tires and huddle over the motor. His son, slightly taller than his father, in raggy jeans and tousled hair, waved a wrench in his hand.
Was it only a few years ago the father had black hair and the son wore bathing trunks the size of a coaster and they were standing together in that same spot to dedicate the swimming pool?
Kids we had never seen before were lined up with snorkels, rubber ducks, rafts, and old inner tubes from semi trucks.
“For God's sake,” said his father, “I don't even have the thing inflated yet. Didn't you tell them it's plastic, it's only 48 inches in diameter and 14 inches deep? I've ordered bigger drinks!”
As he put his lips to the valve, a hush fell over the crowd. After ten minutes of gasping and blowing, he was ready to pass out, but the pool was inflated. As he stood over the plastic pool with a garden hose, the group's eyes were riveted to the trickle of water. He held the crowd back while he added bleach and swished it around. When he finished he said, “Now, we're going to lay a few ground rules. No jumping in with grass on your feet and ...” He and his words were drowned ... literally. Two seconds later a neighbor child appeared at the door and announced our son had gone to the bathroom in the pool and they were all going home.
They may have had their differences in the past, but today they were ... communicating.
The door slammed shut with a fury that jarred the dishes. “Didn't I tell you buying that pile of junk was a mistake!” “But Dad, it's a classic.”
“You can't tell him anything,” said my husband, addressing his remarks to me.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“The matter is,” said my husband, “that that car was a lemon from the word go. Did you ever wonder who buys all those cars driven on television on The Rockford Files or The Dukes of Hazzard? Our kids buy 'em.”
“Dad, the car was a '79 and only had 500 miles on it.”
“That's because it was a getaway car.”
“Hatchbacks are classics.”
“It wasn't a hatchback until a garage door fell on it, haven't you figured that out? The tailpipe is held on with electrician's tape, the windows are stationary, the springs are shot, and the motor won't turn over.”
“In ten years,” said my son pointing his finger, “that little baby will be worth its weight in gold.”
“It's going to take you ten years to get a transmission for it that's available only in a small town in Czechoslovakia! You better get your act together, Mister, that car is going to take money ... lots of it.”
“I take care of the car,” he said defensively.
“Pouring Orange Crush in the radiator when it boils over is not taking care of it.”
“If it's such a bummer, how come someone tried to steal it last month?”
“If it's such a gem, how come they caught them trying to hot-wire it to get it started when the key was in the ignition?”
“I didn't ask for a lecture. All I'm asking for is a lousy $200 to get it running again.”
“Look, Son,” said his father, “ever since you graduated from college you've been trying to find yourself. You wanta know where you are? You're somewhere between Clearasil and bankruptcy. I have a dream for you, Son. I want to see you join hands with a steady job at the altar of employment and promise to love and to cherish from this day forward, for retirement benefits or for mergers ...
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