[img]9|left||remove link|no_popup[/img]A certain relative, who shall go unidentified for the sake of what passes for family peace, telephoned my father in a stern mood last Friday morning.
In yet another confirmation of my belief that persons who never have been married should not hold positions of authority, Mr. or Ms. Un-named Relative came down like thunder on Pop.
He started crying.
Eschewing warmth, Un-named Relative swore to remain on the line until Pop, who is 92 years old, surrendered the keys of his car to my stepmother, safely referred to as Gen. Sherman because we live several states apart. Never mind that General, too, is 92 and slipping.
Turning over his car keys to my stepmother is analogous to a soldier throwing his weapon across enemy lines.
What ever happened to tenderness and sensitivity? They must have both been on the 3:10 to Yuma.
Walking in Whose Shoes?
The Un-named Relative probably could have stood in for Gen. Patton during the late war. Shoe leather sometimes is more pliant.
Taste prevents me from even thinking that if Un-named Relative had deigned to marry, the storm clouds hovering over husband and wife would have made Darfur resemble a Mommy and Me class.
Un-named Relative is tough. Un-named Relative operates an institution over which he or she is the absolutely unchallenged boss. The world is black or the world is white. Gray does not count.
Demeaning and Hurtful
I have been troubled by the telephone call to my father since I learned of it last Sunday, how needlessly hurtful it was. My wife, who has invested years working with the elderly, rather shrugged. She said such scenes tend to fade fast from the memories of old people. Perhaps. But the harsh tone was demeaning.
Fairly speaking, one could have argued 50 years ago that Pop should have turned his car keys over to my late mother. This possibility quickly was closed out because Mom, unfortunately, did not drive. As a gentleman who appreciates the splendor of nature, the highway always has been incidental to my father. He is happier surveying the fields and the fauna to his left and right. Mysteriously, his critics seem to forget, he never had an accident in nearly 80 years of driving.
Fast to Regret
At length last Friday, Pop not only calmed down, he dashed in the other direction, apologizing for resisting and for being difficult. With that, he reached into the pocket of his nearly permanent bermuda shorts and bequeathed the precious metal to my stepmother, who has not necessarily abandoned her dream of qualifying for the Indianapolis 500 next spring.
I received a call, and a scolding (we seem to do a lot of that), later in the weekend for not having participated in this favor for mankind. Another day, another disagreement.
Change in Thinking
On third thought, my wife may have been right about how quickly even the most devastating incidents jump out of the minds of the elderly. One of Pop’s closest friends, a cousin, died suddenly last month. After the initial call, her death was mentioned only one more time, fleetingly, dispassionately.
To prove my wife was right, when I called Pop this morning, he opened with happy news. “I sold my car yesterday,” he said triumphantly.
Having fully recovered from being grounded for the rest of his life, he was obviously pleased he had obtained his price for a car that was 20 years old but looked closer to Pop’s age.
