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When Pop celebrated a rather remarkable birthday yesterday, he practically guaranteed it will not be his final one because he has not yet achieved an elusive objective. “Ninety-three years old, and I still am not the boss,” he laughed over the telephone.
If you think Pop was just being modest, you never have met my stepmother. She would strike fear into the quaking hearts of Louis, Schmeling, Tunney, Marciano and Patterson — and not just because they are all dead.
A little older than Pop, she has retained her three most important attributes, she drives, she rules and she is undefeated, as far as any living mortal knows or is willing to admit.
She keeps house — immaculately. She does the laundry — all of the clothes. The dry cleaners came to my hometown a few years ago, but my father, owing to his Great Depression roots, considers dry cleaning one of the extravagant luxuries of the Western world.
He may never have been inside a dry cleaning store.
“Whaddaya think washing machines are for, boy?” he retorts when I suggest that it would alleviate some of my stepmother’s laundry burden if he dispatched some of his clothes to a professional cleaner.
You would have thought I had urged him to put his fist through a door.
Saving vs. Wasting
Their expenses are kept very separate. Both have enough in the bank to last the rest of their lives as long as they die before their 200th birthdays. One explanation, said Pop, is because he has not foolishly transferred his hard-earned monies into the pocket of a dry cleaner.
My stepmother cooks all of their meals, a hefty task even for their modest household because my father’s daily appetite resembles his reaction if he thought Al Qaeda were in Fullerton.
Fortunately, May 27 has been Pop’s birthday since 1915. Had selection of a birthdate been ceded to my pretty talented stepmother, we don’t know when it would have been, just that it would have been on the date that she deigned, without interference or challenge from anyone else.
Who Is Calling, Please?
Pop’s six surviving children telephone him regularly. But the only time he answers is when my stepmother is out visiting, shopping or making her weekly appearance at the beauty parlor. All calls are presumed to be for my stepmother. Their voicemail is not really their voicemail.
It features my stepmother’s stentorian voice, and she thanks callers for ringing up her, not them.
The best part of dining out with them is the closing moment when Mr. Noonan and Mrs. Noonan divvy up each one’s share of the bill. The War of 1812 was child’s play compared to differences of 12 or 13 cents
My father is a pretty witty fellow, and as my wife frequently notices, even in his 90s, he regularly rhetorically outflanks me.
Time to Change Addresses?
The latest crisis in Noonan Manor revolves around whether it is time for them to move to a nursing home, and the mood over this emotional drama is the opposite of a beauty contest.
Meanwhile, as Pop bought a new pair of gray Bermuda shorts in anticipation of his birthday, my stepmother reminded me that they were also marking their wedding anniversary. It has been 16 or 17 years. They are not sure. The actual date was Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. They are not certain.
Regardless, Pop and my stepmother are thriving on life. In spite of my critical observations, they are obviously healthy for each other.
