Who's Paying? I Am! (part two)

My father walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine. 

Part of me wishes he'd stay home, that way we can keep an eye on him, but another part of me realizes that when he's not here I don't have to watch baseball on TV. Plus, it would also give me a chance to sneak away and do something special with one of my grandkids. 

Like in January, for example, I took my granddaughter to see a special showing of The Wizard of Oz. Interestingly enough, there were mostly adults in the audience. Very few kids. A group of ladies sat next to us. They came in late, then left to go get food. They couldn’t have done that BEFORE they entered the theater? I said nothing, even though I wanted to. My granddaughter was enjoying the experience, plus this is a different time we live in.

The lady who sat right next to us then answered a few text messages on her phone. It was distracting. To me, at least. Again, my granddaughter was transfixed by what was on the screen. I held my mud and said nothing.

A few minutes later, my granddaughter finished the popcorn in her kid’s box and wanted more, but she didn’t want to miss whatever came next for Dorothy. I weighed my options. The lady sitting next to us came in with three other women. They were all grandmotherly types, so I asked if she would watch my granddaughter while I made a quick trip to the concession stand. She was glad to. I was off and back as quick as a flying monkey.

When I got back I thanked her.

“Your granddaughter is a darling,” she told me.

“She’s a good girl,” I agreed.

I thought to myself: “Sometimes it’s better to hold your mud.”

My grandfather in his old age spent his retirement sitting on the porch of his house occasionally puffing away on a cigar like a less funny Mark Twain. Why can't my father do that? I mean, without the smoking a cigar part.

I've mentioned before that I enjoy hiking, so I know a thing or two about shoes. My father benefits from this knowledge, and, as a result, wears the best shoes my money can buy. I say my money, because my he can afford to pay for his shoes himself, but affording to and actually taking out your wallet and doing it are two separate things.

Many a time we've gone to Sam's, and I'll see three or four items in our cart that magically appear out of nowhere. It could be a pack of 50 little cheeses with a smiling cow on the label. I like cheese, but I don't want to eat fifty little packages of them. Neither does my father, although he doesn't realize it when he's putting it in the cart. He'll eat one, complain when it stops him up, and then the rest my wife will have to imaginatively include in the meals she prepares.

It could also be a box of 48 corn dogs. I used to enjoy eating corn dogs, that is, until I saw a picture of our almost-Republican presidential candidate Michelle Bachman's husband eating one. I'm not particularly vain, but I don't want anybody to mistake me for a Hollywood Scientologist, either.

"Pop," I'll tell him when I see a box magically appear in the cart. I don't know how he does it, but one moment something's not there and then the next moment something is. He's pretty quick for an old guy. Anyway... "Pop, are you in the mood for a corn dog?"

"What?" he'll reply his usual reply.

"The corn dogs. Are you in the mood for one?"

"Am I in the mood for what?"

"A corn dog."

"A what?"

"A corn dog."

I think my father tries to wait me out. If he keeps asking me to repeat what I've just said, over and over again, then he probably figures I'll get tired and quit, but I'm shopping at Sam's with my wife. What else do I have to do?

"Why do you ask?" he'll eye me suspiciously.

"I can't help but notice you put a box of 48 corn dogs in the cart." I'll point at the box and he'll look at it as if he's never seen it before in his life. "If you want a corn dog, why don't we go to the snack bar, and I'll buy you one."

See? 

I'm not such a bad guy. 

I don't mind buying my father a corn dog. What I mind is buying 48 of them, him eating only one, and then us having to get rid of the remaining 47 in one way or another.

"Oh, I don't want one now," he'll reply. "I want one for later."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"I'm kind of hungry myself, and a corn dog would hit the spot."

"I said I'm sure."

When my father's sure, he's sure. Unless he isn't. But, even when he isn't, it'll still cost me money, because, out of stubbornness, he'll pretend he is.

Which is a long way to go to explain that my father loves buying things. What he doesn't enjoy is paying for those things he loves to buy. So he'll just drop them in our cart, and somehow those things mysteriously get paid for. No "Hey, can you buy me this." No "Thanks for buying me this." No "What are you going to do with the 47 corn dogs you'll have left over?"

So, when it comes to buying my Dad shoes, I don't skimp. I don't skimp with what goes on my feet, and I'd be a jerk if I skimped on what went on my dad's feet.

The only problem is my father's feet.

They're old.

Just like the rest of him.

...to be continued...