Last night I was having a chat with a co-worker which lead to me remembering something with my pops from years ago.
I want to say it was about a month before he passed . . . he was in this hospital; just had a . . . and I know I’ll butcher the spelling, Pluralsynthesis done. He wasn’t doing well and to be honest at this point in my life I was starting to become more sensitive to things beyond this world and I knew deep in my heart he would not be coming home again.
So there we are, myself and my first wife . . . trying to sleep in the room with him. I was on the floor at the foot of his bed and she was in the bed; well it was one of those chairs that fold out into a bed, if you could call that a bed. I kept waking up and my first wife asked if we wanted to sleep. Rather than deal with her martyrdom (long story, she’s ‘first-wife’ for a reason) I said that I’d stay where I was. Then dad piped up and said in his slurred stroke-ridden voice, “You can get in bed with me” . . . I chuckled and responded “I don’t think there’s enough room in that bed for the two of us”
Pops immediately responded, “I wasn’t talking to you I was talking to her” LOL Earlier in the night Alicia (first wife) had leaned over to give him a good night kiss on the cheek but he popped his head around and popped her on the lips. Ha ha
I can recall going for rides with dad when it was just me and him and he’d always comment how we were ‘cruising for chicks’. Dad tried so hard . . . man I miss him.
I cannot close this post without making one thing clear. Dad loved mom deeply. For him it was a way to pester me and try to get a rise out of me. It often worked. I’d like to say I got my mischef from my red hair . . . I think a lot of it comes from him. I imagine one day I’ll be old and laying in a hospital bed somewhere . . . on the door of going home . . . I hope that I have the class that my father had. There are times that I wish dad was around to meet my current (and in my eyes only) wife. She has told me in the past she’s always had a weakness for dirty old men . . . on second thought maybe it’s best they never met.
After all . . . he’d make a pass at her . . . and his attempt to get a reaction out of me would work, and then he’d get a good chuckle out of my rise in blood pressure.
Love ya dad,
2 thoughts on “Dirty old man . . .”
Daaaad! you know how I get when you talk about you on the doorstep of our home! You almost brought me to TEARS!!!
I’m confused as to what this is about