I don't know exactly what age one must be to inherently distrust "newfangled" communicative devices to fulfill the communication errand to which they've been tasked, but my dad is most definitely whatever age that is. He's been that age for a long, long time. Such a long time, in fact, that I expect a phone call to accompany any email I receive, suggesting I read said email. If he didn't consider texting and Facebook threats to [his personal] national security, I'd be receiving notices that way as well. He recently decided to use all the antique stamps in his worthless stamp collection, so it's not out of the question that I'll start getting letters reminding me to check my voicemail--there's a message on there about an email.
Now it's only fair that I 'fess up. Many years ago, I had to admit to my dad that I don't open any of his forwards. It was a forced confession. He couldn't understand how I wasn't deeply impacted by the fetus singing the national anthem out of her eyeballs while balancing on a fence post. "It's not that I wasn't moved," I had to admit. "It's that I didn't watch it."
"No problem," he chirped. "I'll just send it again. You can watch it right now while we're on the phone."
The fact that I'm usually nowhere near a computer matters little to my father. Although he can't trust hotmail to deliver his correspondence, he seems to operate under the delusion that I can access internet anytime, anywhere. I can also get fresh fruit year round at my grocery store, which is a never-ending source of amazement for him. You see what I'm working with here.
I'm circling the drain aren't I? Moving on...
Last week, I started my morning as I always do, by deleting a batch of annoying emails, one of which was from my father. A few hours later, I got the phone call telling me to read the email. A few hours after that, I went on the requisite fishing expedition through my cyber trash and retrieved the email in question. Then, I did all my laundry, dusted under the table, cleaned my bowling shoes, ate a starfruit, rescued a baby bird from its cannibalistic mother--you get the idea.
When I finally got around to opening the dreaded forward, I was pleased to find an article from the Kansas City Star. I say pleased because, although Kansas City does fall well within the Bible Belt, the publication isn't known for pushing the ultra-conservative agenda of some of my dad's other favorite rags. This is just your average newspaper with your average articles. And for the average reader, maybe there's nothing special about the article in question. But for my dad, this headline is big news:
Hope Stays Afloat for Truman Yacht Repairs
http://www.kansascity.com/2013/05/22/4251136/hope-stays-afloat-for-truman-yacht.html
Although, according to the article, my dad lost possession of the yacht a few decades ago, Harry Truman's presidential yacht was once his. Those were my dad's glory days, more so than the yacht's. I remember, the only time I laid eyes on it, having exactly one thing to say: What a hunk of junk.
But that didn't much matter to me. My dad's simple ownership of it was more than enough to make him quite something in my eyes. During the weekdays, Dad was a dentist--no kid's dream parent. Just ask Willy Wonka. But on his time off, my dad bought presidential yachts. He dove for sunken ships and buried treasure down South America way. He wore Mel Fisher shirts that said, "Today is the day." The day, it implied, that he would find the X that marks the spot.
Sadly, Fisher was wrong. Today wasn't the day, and neither was tomorrow for my dad. He never found Sir Francis Drake's boat, and he eventually lost his own to some snobby Frenchmen. His treasure-hunting days ended with his partner murdered and many of his pirate cohorts in prison. Some would say my dad walked away from those years of hunting empty handed.
But I don't see it that way. I got my love of writing, of storytelling, from my dad. And boy does he have some stories. If you ask me, for a 70-year-old man on the other side of youth's adventures, he has all the booty a pirate could want. His stories are his treasures, and when a young reporter stumbles on the X that marks the spot and his buried gems are unearthed, my dad raises his skull and crossbones flag once again. Then he emails me to make sure I see it. Then he calls to make sure I got the email.
Now it's only fair that I 'fess up. Many years ago, I had to admit to my dad that I don't open any of his forwards. It was a forced confession. He couldn't understand how I wasn't deeply impacted by the fetus singing the national anthem out of her eyeballs while balancing on a fence post. "It's not that I wasn't moved," I had to admit. "It's that I didn't watch it."
"No problem," he chirped. "I'll just send it again. You can watch it right now while we're on the phone."
The fact that I'm usually nowhere near a computer matters little to my father. Although he can't trust hotmail to deliver his correspondence, he seems to operate under the delusion that I can access internet anytime, anywhere. I can also get fresh fruit year round at my grocery store, which is a never-ending source of amazement for him. You see what I'm working with here.
I'm circling the drain aren't I? Moving on...
Last week, I started my morning as I always do, by deleting a batch of annoying emails, one of which was from my father. A few hours later, I got the phone call telling me to read the email. A few hours after that, I went on the requisite fishing expedition through my cyber trash and retrieved the email in question. Then, I did all my laundry, dusted under the table, cleaned my bowling shoes, ate a starfruit, rescued a baby bird from its cannibalistic mother--you get the idea.
When I finally got around to opening the dreaded forward, I was pleased to find an article from the Kansas City Star. I say pleased because, although Kansas City does fall well within the Bible Belt, the publication isn't known for pushing the ultra-conservative agenda of some of my dad's other favorite rags. This is just your average newspaper with your average articles. And for the average reader, maybe there's nothing special about the article in question. But for my dad, this headline is big news:
Hope Stays Afloat for Truman Yacht Repairs
http://www.kansascity.com/2013/05/22/4251136/hope-stays-afloat-for-truman-yacht.html
Although, according to the article, my dad lost possession of the yacht a few decades ago, Harry Truman's presidential yacht was once his. Those were my dad's glory days, more so than the yacht's. I remember, the only time I laid eyes on it, having exactly one thing to say: What a hunk of junk.
But that didn't much matter to me. My dad's simple ownership of it was more than enough to make him quite something in my eyes. During the weekdays, Dad was a dentist--no kid's dream parent. Just ask Willy Wonka. But on his time off, my dad bought presidential yachts. He dove for sunken ships and buried treasure down South America way. He wore Mel Fisher shirts that said, "Today is the day." The day, it implied, that he would find the X that marks the spot.
Sadly, Fisher was wrong. Today wasn't the day, and neither was tomorrow for my dad. He never found Sir Francis Drake's boat, and he eventually lost his own to some snobby Frenchmen. His treasure-hunting days ended with his partner murdered and many of his pirate cohorts in prison. Some would say my dad walked away from those years of hunting empty handed.
But I don't see it that way. I got my love of writing, of storytelling, from my dad. And boy does he have some stories. If you ask me, for a 70-year-old man on the other side of youth's adventures, he has all the booty a pirate could want. His stories are his treasures, and when a young reporter stumbles on the X that marks the spot and his buried gems are unearthed, my dad raises his skull and crossbones flag once again. Then he emails me to make sure I see it. Then he calls to make sure I got the email.
Love it! This might be my favorite post yet.
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