Dear Dad,
I saw this Calvin & Hobbes strip the other day and it reminded me of a time I turned a few more hairs of yours gray and likely left you shaking your head in disbelief.
Do you know which memory I’m talking about?
No, not the time I spun on one leg of the kitchen chair so many times I drilled a hole right through the linoleum … and subfloor.
No, not the time I memorized your credit card number and discovered eBay.
No, not even the time I decided to take the dirt bike on a joy ride through a small vineyard and volleyball game only to crash into a playset and flip over the handlebars knocking myself unconscious.
I’m talking about the time you taught me to drive stick shift. And on my first solo outing I thought it would be hilarious to call you, while safely parked in some parking lot, and tell you the car was totaled. I appreciate you informing me that the timing of my comedic genius supported with an overly dry sense of humor was a bit off.
You see, there’s a relatively simple explanation for all this. I was brain damaged! A brilliant idea would just pop in my head and it would be out my mouth or in execution before my brain could even take inventory of it. Either that or my brain would be on holiday. Just completely gone, or off, I sure never knew which.
I know there are many additional moments you would qualify my brain as damaged in my youth. Most of which I probably don’t even realize … because brain damage, ya know?
I now observe this phenomenon from the other side of the generational gap. My offspring, while clearly smarter and more empathetic than I ever was, still showcase the damaged state of their brains often. We tell them to put their shoes in the closet and they go take a shower. We need to put the same dinner table reminders on a repeat recording because they are the same every night of the week. We tell them if there is no bickering for 5 minutes we can have ice cream to no avail. We tell them that randomly calling 1-800 numbers from a payphone is … oh wait, nevermind, that was me again. They’re good kids. Great kids in fact! I realize it’s just that brain damaged age.
So yeah. Sorry about the hair. But if I didn’t turn them gray one of my brothers would have anyway. I appreciate you fixing the floor, teaching me the value of other people’s money, and running to rescue my limp and seemingly lifeless body. And of course I appreciate you still answering the phone when I call. But, for what it’s worth … Mom says I have your sense of humor.
Much love, Your Son
Ps. Sorry about the clutch