and his name is Frank.
Yesterday, I spied on my father. I watched him eat lunch with the two gentleman who were seated at his table. I watched him play bingo with a grey haired woman and a fellow in a wheel chair. Later on, I looked on as he sat amongst his peers and watched TV. No one was talking to him and he wasn't talking to anyone. Doesn't everyone want to talk to my father? He has so much to say! Doesn't he?
It took everything I had not to run in and tell everyone in the room that this guy they were sitting with is the sweetest, the most funny, interesting, witty guy on the planet! He could recite the mass in Latin, he once had an ugly bulldog named Handsome and he was voted Fashion Plate of his high school graduating class. I wanted to tell them that they were sitting in the presence of greatness and adorableness and kindness. I wanted them to know how he lost his teeth in a fight at Forbes Field when he was 16 and how he married his high school sweetheart only to bury her one year later and that his favorite historical figure was Harry Truman. And, I wanted to tell them about how he met my mother and about his Studebaker and about our vacations in Conneaut Lake and how he made sure we always had toilet paper in my that big house we lived in at college. I wanted to let them know that he has three daughters who absolutely adore him, six grandchildren who think he is the neatest guy ever and 10 step children who don't hate him. I wanted to make them look at his rosey cheeks and his blue eyes and just try to resist his charm.
Just give them time.....my father will win them over. He doesn't need me. He's done fine all these years without an image consultant.
My fingers are crossed, I'm going to do an extra novena and maybe I'll just slip them all a $20 today....