Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Names Have Been Forgotten to Protect the Guilty

            My Dad introduced me to the mysteries of life.


            These mysteries, for my Dad at least, almost always involved things and places.


            How do things end up in the wrong place … all by themselves?


            In my Dad's case, tools, the cherished symbols of his manhood, flew through the air by themselves out of his tool box and into some strange spot where he would discover them when he got home from work.


            One day he found a screwdriver on top of the piano.  Another time his prized ratchet set appeared all a jumble in the middle of the driveway.


            The most amazing was the disturbing encounter with his new Craftsman drill out on the picnic table in the rain. Unbelieveable.


            How mysterious.  Nine children living at home, yet not a single witness could testify as to the cause of the items apparating away from their home.


            Pop struggled with these mysteries his entire life, children ignorant of the truth replaced by grandchildren equally unable to explain the phenomena.


            I once read about the legend of Sir Edmund Hilary finding a worn theater pass on Mount Everest.


            How did it get there?  Maybe an eagle dropped a piece of trash intended for insulation in the nest.  Who knows? It's a mystery.


            Recently I came upon a mystery in my own house  involving, if you'll excuse the word, poop.  Here is what it entails (bad choice of words).


How did a trace amount of fecal matter end up on the toilet seat?  I mean right on the seat where you sit!


In the normal course of things, it doesn't have any way of landing on this spot.


I, too, like my paternal predecessor, have confronted my own children.  They profess no knowledge of the events that led to my making a commode commotion.


How can you not notice if you've left dark brown on a field of white enamel? 


Clearly another mystical event.


Dear Dad, I get it now.


Sometimes we have to accept that gremlins are about and objects or substances will appear where they don't belong.


Either that or there is a genetic trait in our family that blocks out memory of heinous acts committed by siblings.


I'd just as soon leave it all a mystery.


Here's to ya, Dad. 


The torch of tortured fatherhood has been passed on to me.


I promise not to leave it out in the rain on the picnic table.




David M. Lynch

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