February, 16, 2011
My Dad is an Octagenarian
One of my favorite things on TV is when Al Roker says: "...and here's what's going on in your neck of the woods...:" and it pans to the other guy who does the Smuckers birthday of the day, and they profile some fabulous Senior who's 100th birthday it is and who's secrets to making it that long is playing cards, drinking whiskey, church groups and never going to bed mad. Well, hopefully my parents will get to be profiled by the fine makers of yummy grape jelly someday, but, until then, today, in my "neck of the woods", my Dad turned 80. That would be 8-0. And, to me, that deserves some fruity spread. At least.
As I licked the envelopes closed of the birthday cards I was sending to Dad, I realized I had written that name and address on an envelope for as long as I can remember. Whether it was for birthdays, Father's Day or Christmas, "Bob Marsden" was a constant addressee my whole life. And now he's 80. It was something about that moment that really made me pause and think that he won't be an addressee forever. Because he's 80.
I'm very grateful that I have not had to experience the loss of a parent yet. It's not like we're the Waltons or the Brady Bunch or anything, but, my Dad is my Dad, and I'm not thrilled about losing him. Ever.
One of my sisters and I did a three way Birthday phone call with Dad, which seemed pretty darn fancy. We chatted about current events, who's doing what, got the weather discussion covered, and reflected on some funny times from when were kids. My sister had a good recall of playing that "Guess what?" "That's What!" "Guess What?" "That's What!!" game in the yellow-striped VW camper bus while Simon and Garfunkel's "Hop on the bus, Gus, Make a new plan, Stan" song was playing on the A.M. radio. For some reason, the memory I came up with was regarding that of the book "Frankenstein" that lived on the bookshelf between the stairs and the door to our room. I was convinced that the picture of Frankenstein on the cover was real, and Frankenstein was just hovering, ready to jump out at me, and I would literally race by the bookshelf as fast as I could, so as not to get attacked. My sister's story made Dad laugh, mine made him feel bad. Good goin', Heather!
Anyways, call your Dad, tell him a pointless story to make him be glad you live on opposite coasts, and maybe send some jam anyways. Because, well, because it's nice to be able to have a Dad to send jam to in the first place.
Bob Marsden Sandwich:
Left over bread, whatever ya got
Peanut butter
Raisins
and a Pickle
Throw it together and, well, eat it!
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