Once when I was a wee lad, my Pappy and I got a-talking. Talking, not of toys, candy, or people, but of freedom, since of course I was a wee lad 16 years of age, and I had freed him (he being the thirsty adolescent hiding inside) but not freedom. It was 11 or so at night — I wanted the car, to go far and see stars with a girl (and perhaps even bring a bit of homemade juice in a mason jar, or my person bar as I liked to call it). The issue of course being that it was 11 or so at night and I was a wee lad of 16, under the protection of my great father. So when I asked the task ( “Father, could I perhaps blast off fast (in the vehicle of light mass)?” ) excuses came ( “There is no gas” etc. ) but obvious it was (my father had no tact) that it was too late (11 o’ clock !) for a wee lad of 16 like myself to go out gallivanting.
Now, in my mind, I play an alternate reality. When Daddy was younger he was a real sensualist. A bit like myself (a chip of the old block). And I knew that. So maybe, an opener to get him on my side: “Remember when you were a young lad? Did you ever get called (on the home phone, of course) by a nice girl? A girl, perhaps, in a different neighborhood?” Then, maybe, he would remember his days of virility and become compassionate again.
Site Title 