First published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Well THAT Was Funny
My parents followed an unwavering routine, probably because the alternative was killing each other. When my father retired after forty years as a fireman, he had no idea he would be venturing behind enemy lines as he had as a teenager in World War II. But to my mother, his retirement was an invasion, and an invasion by a barbarian at that.
She had a point.
I had begun my first job just months before my father retired. It wasn’t long before the calls from my mother commenced to my office:
“Mary, will you tell your father I am NOT going to raise chickens in our house?”
“Mary, tell your father I will NOT cook squirrels.”
“Mary, your father gave me a black eye chasing away blackbirds.”
Yes, fed up with the bird poop continually coating his parked car, my father had thrown a broomstick at the birds roosting in the tree above. But instead of warning his wife to “Look out,” he yelled, “Look up!”
In the background of these phone calls, I would hear my father muttering, “Aw hell, I’m going to Ace Hardware.” This would give my mother a brief respite, but I was convinced that I would eventually see my parents on Unsolved Mysteries – one disappeared and the other claiming no knowledge.
Fortunately, it was at this time that my first nephew—their first grandchild—made his triumphant entrance into the world, followed quickly by five siblings. My parents began babysitting six days a week, and the energy that had been focused on throttling each other was now directed toward caring for children.
But while kids bring unpredictability to most families, my nieces and nephews reached out their tiny hands and led my adoring parents into a hypnotic routine: Mondays, Kids’ Club; Tuesdays, the Zoo; Wednesdays, violin lessons; Thursdays, Story Hour; Fridays, the Lodge; Saturdays, the Y. All peppered with Cheerios, grilled cheese, and Barney. My parents would arrive at my brother’s house punctually at 7:10 a.m., but long before, they would begin their day with robotic precision.
My father would rise each morning by 3 a.m., trudge down to the basement, and walk back and forth the length of our short house, for three miles a day. His only diversion was the battered yellow transistor radio that he would hold close to his deafened ear, and from which he would derive a unique interpretation of the news that could only come from hearing every third word.
While pacing for three miles in a tight space might be unnerving to most, it came naturally to my father. As a child, his mother would tie him to a table leg to keep him from wandering off. Walking in circles brought back warm memories of home.
My mother would be up by 4:50 a.m., fixing the breakfast they would consume well before 5:30 so they could take Communion at 6:30 Mass. With three cups of straight black coffee to fuel her 5’8”, 118-pound frame, she would hand wash the dishes, mix bread, and be ready to leave the house with my father at 6:18. By the time my alarm rang at 6:45, I would have the lone bathroom to myself and could hurriedly get dressed for work.
But one morning I was startled awake by a ferocious slam that rattled my bed and dresser. From the living room came the sound of drawers being wrested from the breakfront, rifled through, and shoved back in place. Dammit, Dad, I thought, the rest of us don’t want to get up at 3 a.m. I punched my pillow and flipped over to squint at my alarm clock, which was still quivering from the aftershocks. 6:38 a.m. 6:38! That wasn’t Dad! It was someone who knew my parents would be gone!
I scrambled to my knees, clutching the sheets to my chest, and cringed as the bed creaked at a hundred decibels. Heavy footsteps fell in the hallway, followed by one closet door squeaking open, then another. My eyes desperately combed the room for a weapon and settled on the bottle of hair spray. I slid out of bed, grabbed the bottle, and slipped behind my closed door. But as I raised the hair spray into firing position, it occurred to me that it was a pump. Great, when the intruder entered my room, I’d spritz him with a gentle, welcoming mist.
The footsteps drew closer, but mercifully turned into my parents’ bedroom across the hall, where again I heard drawers yanked open, change jingling, and papers rustling. I knew my room was next. I had only one option left. I sprinted on tiptoe to my eternally-stuck window, unlocked it, and heaved it open with herculean strength. Easing up the storm window, I slid my rear end onto the sill and swung my bent legs through the opening with all the grace of an elephant being born. As the metal window frame cut into my derriere, I leapt the four feet to the front lawn and let the storm window fall back down behind me.
I quickly stepped out of sight of the window and stood there, bare toes digging into the cool, dewy grass. Now what? I scanned my neighbors’ homes but saw no signs of life. Where do I run? Is the intruder alone, or does he have an accomplice waiting to shoot me as I run past the corner of my house? Summoning all the stealth tactics I’d learned from Starsky and Hutch, I crept along the cold brick wall and peeked tremulously around the corner. No one was there. With a burst of bravery, I decided to continue circling the house, to “case the joint.” OK, truth be told … it wasn’t bravery. I was just less afraid of getting shot than of showing up on my neighbor’s doorstep in my “pajamas”, circa-1980 butt-hugging gym shorts and a faded Han Solo t-shirt.
Crouching well below the windows, I advanced to the back corner of the house with a strut that resembled a headless chicken. Around the corner, fifteen feet from my hiding place, protruded the windowed porch that my parents had added before I was born. If anyone was inside, they would see my approach. Perceiving no movement, I lunged across the yard and dove against the cold concrete base of the porch. I lay there, covering my mouth to keep my heart from popping out. Finally I crawled on my elbows, peeked around the corner … and spied my parents’ car in the driveway.
“Aw, hell.” I lumbered to my feet, sauntered around the porch, up the concrete steps, and flung open the back door. My mother, seated at the porch table writing checks, swung around in surprise, “Where have YOU been?”
I countered with an exasperated, “Why aren’t you at Mass?!”
“Grandparents’ Mass is at 8 a.m. We’re going then,” she explained.
“Who’s been rummaging through the drawers?!” I whimpered.
“I was trying to find my checkbook.”
I shuffled back to my room, muttering to myself as I faced an unsettling truth. My parents may not embrace change, but at least it didn’t prompt them to jump out a window.