Advanced age does not come without its problems. For Bob, it
is restricted neck movement. If this were a normal situation, it would be a
major nuisance for Bob only because in order to see anything in his periphery,
his entire body needs to turn and face it. Of course, if you know anything by
this point, you know that this is not a normal situation. My brother Drew told
me that while eating with him at Chick-Fila, a 30-something-year-old catches
Bob’s eye at a nearby table (with her children). Since the occasional glance is
impossible, Bob ‘subtly’ turns his entire body in a position where he could
stare at her from about 8-10 feet away as long as he wanted and still eat his
sandwich. As expected, she notices along with a handful of other patrons.
Mortified, Drew urges him, “Stop staring.” Bob, without breaking his gaze, but
very audibly, “I’m not staring.” “I’m facing the side of your body, you are
staring!” “How old do you think she is?” “I’m leaving.”
Bob is my 80 year old grandfather, but I call him Bob instead of grandfather. Always have. I moved from my parent's house in January 2010 to Bob's house. Bob is eccentric, even as far as old men go. I always appreciated it, but I was never quite exposed to it this much. Now, I want everyone to know about my experiences. You may laugh, but I shake my head. All of these short stories are true. They are not fabricated or exaggerated. They are Bob at his finest. If 'finest' is the right word
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Honky Tonk
Some
people my age spend their weekend nights on the town. Me? I’m at Bob’s
house. Here’s why: The closest we have ever come to full-out party mode
was for about 4 minutes tonight. Bob flips the TV to the Country Music
Channel where they are playing recent music videos. So there we are. Me
with my pretzel goldfish on the couch, and he with his bag of chips that
has been in the house longer than US
troops have been in Afghanistan. Together we listen to Trace Atkins’ hit
single “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” on volume 92, as the television gyrates
on the wall. The lucidity of the big-screen periodically lighting up my
grimacing face in the dark room. And you know what? I’m still enjoying
it more than most clubs.
Packed Schedule
I get
in to Bob's at 4:20 in the afternoon on Wednesday. He is sleeping on
the coach, but wakes up when I open the door. "What did you do today?"
Bob sheepishly chuckles, knowing it is just wrong: "I... ate breakfast,
and then I folded my clothes. Two things." He senses my silent
judgement, "I'm retired!" "You're a notch above comatose is what you
are." "And now I'm having a conversation with you. Three things."
The Bob Plant
Two years ago when I was initially living with Bob, the potted plant life in his house was wholly neglected, but not desperate. In 2013, it has skipped desperation and gone to terrifying. Case and point: the Bob Plant (pictured below). Pushing forth green and yellow limbs in a hellish display of raw existence, the Bob Plant has found a way to survive without water for 5 years (2008 was my grandmothers' passing). Unless the Midlothian Fire Dept. intervenes, the Bob Plant could become a real problem in the Salisbury community. We can speculate all we want; I do know the Bob Plant is as visibly angry as it is thirsty, and I am scared.
In-Family Racism
So, I
moved back in with Bob today after two years of being away. One of the
first things I noticed upon entering the house was his refrigerator.
There were two baby pictures in particular that caught my attention. I
asked him why he had them up. He replied, "I like those baby pictures of
Mia." The only problem: they are not baby pictures of his 11 year old
adopted granddaughter and my sister. They are pictures of a random baby
of Asian heritage. Nothing like a little in-family racism to get the
summer started right.
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