Gladys Kravitz, Lemon Soap and Cast Iron Skillets

              Just as I suspected, The Dad, indeed, informed Shontyl (The Sister) that her cast-iron skillet, or black skillet as it is often referred to in the South, was too small for whatever beast he wanted to roast in the oven along with ‘taters and gravy’.  So off to the skillet store she went.   They have those in Texas, do they not?

                I told her to expect The Dad to be ‘all up in her business’ as he is nosier than a next-door neighbor from a 60s sitcom; like Gladys Kravitz, with more facial hair but about the same level of annoyance for things he finds to be strange, which could be something as mundane as hummus, which he truly in his heart believes is something I invented to be "fancy".

                When we talked later in the week, she told me The Dad had been peppering her with questions about her personal life, anticipated frequency of trips to The Dairy Queen and state of her wardrobe and hairstyle.  When The Dad lived with me, I discovered that the way he looks at the world is frozen in place from around 1989, when he got hurt offshore and was forced to retire.  It took him about a year to ‘remember’ that I was a real adult with a job, home and ability to function independently.  She said they had, that very morning, an odd conversation.

                The Dad, “Why is your hair so straight?”

                Shontyl, “I use a flat iron to straighten it.”

                The Dad, “I like it curlier.  When did you start straightening it?”

                Shontyl, “It’s been years.  You’ve seen it straight, at least every year at Christmas.”

                Incredulous, The Dad said, “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?  I remember you had curly hair not too long ago.”

                Shontyl said, “Oh, good lord, Daddy, the last time I curled my hair, I think, was at my wedding.  In 1989.”

                He just stared at her, feeling confident that she was wrong.  This came as no surprise to me, y’all.  I’ve met him before; I am familiar with his work.

                However, she surprised me when the conversation segued to telling me that he had used her fancy, locally-made lemon soap from the one little over-priced boutique in their town, “even though I bought him that giant bar of soap from The Dollar General.” 

                I said, “Well maybe he wanted to be fancy.  I don’t believe all my bougie-ness came from Mother.  I mean, there so much bougie-ness; it has to be from both parents, right?”

                “But he told me he didn’t like the smell of all that lemon-scented lotion you sent me.”  At first, I was as confused as she, but then I remembered how inscrutable he can be.  And he is the master of plausible deniability.  This was a tactic he used with my food that he swore he didn’t like or said was weird, so when it disappeared, he could swear it wasn’t him because “(I) don’t even like that stuff.” 

                I shared the concept with her and told her she needed to hide her fancy things somewhere The Dad couldn’t find or reach.  To be honest, that would be any location more than 6 inches from his outstretched arm, as he cannot bend over, reach up or walk very far.  As long as she doesn’t place the lotion in his hand and then walk away, she should be good to go.   My parting advice was, “Just in case, though, pretend that janky soap you bought him at the Dollar General is fancy.  He’ll be more than happy to use it.”

                She said, “Well, he can keep that lemon soap he already used.  I’m sure not gonna use it after him.  Lord only knows the stories that little bar could tell.”

                Indeed, dear sister.  So many stories, and none fit to ponder or share, y’all.

The Dad is on The Move, Y'all

                The Dad is on the move again, people.  I would have warned those in the states between Ohio and Texas, but he left without much notification, barreling through the Polar Vortex, daring Mother Nature to try and stop him while he made the 16 ½ hour journey only stopping for food and gas.  This time he’s headed to the Texas panhandle to live with my sister and I needed to give her the benefit of my experience with her new roommate.  There is a very particular process for the care and feeding of the Redneck Man.

                When tackling a project of this scope, there are categories of likes and dislikes that are surprisingly specific for a man who will literally take a bite of anything you place in his hand and has been known to wear the same pair of pants for seven days.

                SMELL- He can smell bacon cooking 26 miles away, but cannot smell himself at any point in the say, regardless of level of ripeness.  You need Febreze.  Lots of it.  When you think you've bought more than you should, buy more.  When it gets to the point that people are pointing and laughing at your buggy in The Wal-Mart, buy two more bottles, just in case.  Her GoFundMe website should be up later this week.  I am not kidding.  Fortunately, he has no problem with anyone spraying his chair and, truly, being sprayed himself, unless the scent is Green Apple or Watermelon. 

                FURNITURE – He comes complete with the largest recliner manufactured in America today, a La-Z-Boy.  It will smell, regardless of covering.  His Old Man Smell will penetrate leather, y’all.  He also comes with a power wheelchair, a very fancy reading lamp, a TV and a special chair for Lulu, his Boston Terrier, to sleep in.  I informed the sainted Shontyl that she needs to decide where the chair will be located as that room will then become his bedroom as he sleeps in his recliner and only in his recliner.  Just like his European forefathers, when he plants his chair (instead of a flag) that is where he shall reside, henceforth and forevermore.  

                KITCHEN IMPLEMENTS – He will require a coffee pot; he doesn’t care if it’s fancy or not.  It simply must be able to brew his Folger’s Country Roast every morning.  He will also require a cast iron skillet.  It must be larger than the one you already have.  Regardless of the size of your skillet, it will be too small.  One roughly the size and shape of Oklahoma should suffice.

                FOOD – Fortunately, he will eat anything you put in front of him unless it is spinach, salmon or hummus, which he pronounces as ‘hoo-muss’ and truly believes that is a foodstuff that I invented in my efforts to be fancy.  He will require an extensive amount of red meat or pork, which is plentiful in Texas.  He prefers his steak rare.  Really rare.  And I quote, "Just cut the horns off and knock the 'moo' out."

                TOWN – He prefers a place that is almost not a town.  Somewhere small enough to where people often say, "Is that a real place?"  The boonies is where he wants to be.  He truly loves it when there is an end to a town and then several miles of nothing before the next town starts.  He disliked the Bay Area of California because “town never stopped.”  He was over-joyed to hear that there is just the one main street in Vega, on which sits my sister’s house, a Dairy Queen, a library and a truck stop.  There is a Baptist Church across the street from the Dairy Queen.  Odds are he will not venture there unless they have a potluck on Easter Sunday and even then he'd prefer a to-go plate.

                DOCTOR – He requires a doctor for his myriad ailments and prescriptions.  Fortunately, there is a VA Medical Center in Amarillo, less than 30 minutes down the road.  I may need to give them a heads-up that he’s coming.  They need to prepare.  I informed my sister that she would need to go with him to his first appointment to meet his Primary Care Team and let them know he is an unashamed liar who will only occasionally follow his Dr’s orders because, and I quote, “what do they know?”

                FAMILY –He doesn’t want to see everybody every day, but he wants you close by.  He doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, but he wants to be invited.  He doesn’t want to babysit, but he wants to see the great granddaughters; he now has two.   He is happiest in the boonies with kids and dogs and the occasional cow. 

                It’s going to be interesting to see how this goes.  When he lived with me, it was like Frasier.  Living with my sister will be more like if Uncle Jesse from The Dukes of Hazzard moved in with...well, the closest I can come up with would be Katie Otto from American Housewife.  

              I promise to keep you informed after gathering the pertinent info from my Saturday calls with Shontyl and the Sunday calls with The Dad.

              Somebody should throw up a prayer, or two.  Seriously.