I Guess Those Are Mine

It appears these days my dad views anything which smacks of familiarity as belonging to him. "This probably belongs to me, so I'll take it," seems to be his line of thinking. Food, personal items, clothing is up for grabs around our house.

The microwave hums thawing the hot dog buns while Bret, works at the island preparing his lunch. Turning his attention back to the microwave, he leaves the hot dogs on a plate on the island, sizzling, steamy and vulnerable. Stomach growling, he turns back to the island, warm buns in hand anticipating that first juicy bite, mustard and catchup dripping off the end onto the plate. But to his shock he discovers a dog that has been violated. Quietly, secretly, without notice the end has been bitten off rendering it totally unappetizing. Bret coming to me with exasperation written all over his face, reports yet another incident of food theft. We all know who the hot dog thief is but there is obviously no sense of remorse on his part. Grandpa is innocently sitting in his chair of choice oblivious to the stir he has just created. I laugh and try to console my son. He doesn't laugh.

Picking up my basket of ironing I plunk it down next to our green, over stuffed chair, the one with the best view of the TV. In the evenings this perch is my favorite knitting hub, as well. I have learned though, that getting up for any reason, no matter how brief, can be dangerous. Often when I return I will find that in my absence Pop has hunkered down crowding in front of my ironing board or among my knitting which is snugly trapped between his thigh and the arm of the chair. To the common observer the arrangement I have created upon leaving would seem to scream, "This space is occupied. Stay out!" But not to Pop.

My can of ice cold beverage sits in the cup holder between the two front seats. As I anticipate a nice cool swig of refreshment, Pop reaches down, picks up the can and raises it to his lips. "Well, now it is his," I think to myself.

Walking over to the key rack hanging on the wall by our front door I reach for the key to our car. No key. After digging through my purse, checking jeans pockets, inquiring of my husband, digging through his bags, brief case and searching his desk and pockets, no key. I resort to driving the truck. Upon returning home further exploration begins. That little voice which sometimes speaks to me from the far reaches of my mind whispered to me, "ask your dad to check his pockets." So I did. He pulled out a house key and a few miscellaneous non-essentials. But no car key. An hour or so later that little voice spoke to me again saying, "check his pockets yourself." Going over to him I requested that he stand up. Reaching into his front pocket I feel metal and plastic. Grasping the objects between my fingers and pulling them out I am shocked to find in my hand our car keys. The only answer is that Pop seeing them hanging on the key rack concluded "I guess those are mine."