Yesterday evening, Cinlach and I went over to my parents for a Father's Day dinner. Cinlach gets off easy for Father's Day since his dad is the Biggest Asshole in the Universe, so we don't have to do anything for him — just my dad.
Anyway, we had a nice hot dog dinner. I gave Dad my gift of one of those Mr. Clean car wash kits. Don't call me cheap because that's what he said he wanted! My brother got him a hard shell guitar case.
After dinner, we sat in the living room, and Dad picked and strummed on his guitar. I'm not sure how the subject came up, it might have occurred when Dad mentioned that his fingers wouldn't bend like they used to — but the topic of age arose. So Dad starts saying how people start dropping off after age 50.
"They do," he said. "After 50, you're just trying to survive. Then you hit 60, and things really start to go wrong."
"Tell us another bedtime story, Dad," I said.
"It's not a story. It's reality," he said.
My brother and I couldn't help but chuckle about how Dad's all doom and gloom.
Two summers ago, Cinlach and I went to Chicago. It was my first time on a plane. (Yeah, yeah, I didn't get on a plane until I was 32. Whatever.) Here were Dad's words of encouragement:
"Well, don't let yourself get worked up, worrying whether the plane is going to crash. … … … Of course, if it does crash, I saw this news story that said the best place to be was in the middle of the plane."
I suppose there is something to be said about preparing for the worst, and I'm sure my dad could tell you just how bad it's going to be. But that's okay; I still love him.