My Dad's Brain

This is my entry for the July 11-15, 2011 Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was challenged by Kiki Harshman with the prompt "you wake up and your father's brain has been transplanted into your head but you still have to write your blog entry...go."  I challenged Shiv with the prompt "On vacation, first time visiting a new place.  Nobody here should know you, yet at lunch you overhear your name in a conversation at the next table...."

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Waking up in someone else’s body is an unsettling experience, to say the least.  I suppose I should be grateful that the body in question belongs to my son, and not a cockroach, meaning that this isn’t some grand Kafkaesque nightmare. The fact that my son hasn’t abused his lungs with decades of Marlboro Lights means I’m enjoying my first deep breaths in a mighty long time, so maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all, provided it’s temporary. 

Thank goodness for muscle memory or I’d be at a complete loss.  Typing is something that in my day was done by a secretary being dictated to.  When it comes to computers, I can plug them in and turn them on, but I still can’t locate the damn Google button I hear people discuss.  Yahoo, Facenet, Youbook, indeed.

I don’t know how long I’ll be experiencing this brain transplant, but I expect and hope it will end at some point.  In the meantime, if it doesn’t violate any laws of the time/space continuum or anything, maybe I can leave a message to my son and whoever might be reading this grandiose 21^st century version of a diary that he seems to think is so important.

Evidently it’s too late to tell you to take care of your knees, because they already feel shot to me.  How do you walk with these things?  Trading early 70s for early 40s should be like an economy to luxury upgrade at the rental car counter, but the Cadillac to which I’ve been given the keys has four flat tires!

Enough complaining about your various aches and pains, experiencing genuine fresh air is a more than equitable trade.

Without sounding too incredibly sappy, which should probably be forgiven a man in my peculiar circumstance, value family above all else.  My grandson is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and for that I thank you.  Spending time with him makes me regret not growing my own brood beyond you and your brother.  Don’t make that same mistake.  Even if it seems ridiculous, if the world seems too unpredictable to bring more children into it, have them.  I was born on the eve of World War II; you were born during the middle of the Vietnam War.  Believe it or not, I was terrified at what sort of country you were going to grow up in.  Remember, just 15 days after your birth, and within the same state, kids were being shot by national guardsmen on a college campus!

If ever you find yourself lying on a beach, put sunscreen on your ankles.  Nobody in the world but you, your brother and your mother know the story behind that particular piece of advice; let’s keep it that way.  You know how people say things will be funny someday?  Someday hasn’t happened yet.  Don’t let your own vacation be ruined by such an oversight. 

The Bengals will, inevitably, disappoint.  Don’t trust them, no matter what.  No brilliant insight there, of course, but worth repeating. 

Age gracefully.  If your hair turns gray or falls out, deal with it.  Plugs and rugs are equally unbecoming,    Wear clothes that make you comfortable.  Other people’s opinions carry only the weight you assign to them. 

Throw something away once in a while.  Seriously. 

The pursuit of “stuff” isn’t nearly as worthwhile an endeavor as the accumulation of memories.  Lunch with an old friend will stick with you longer and mean much more than whether your television set was 36” or 42”.

Your record collection is sorely in need of some Buddy Holly. 

In closing, although I may not say it, look inside and you’ll know I feel it.  Thanks for making your mother and I proud, although let’s be frank, I haven’t given up hope yet that you’ll be a Yankee one day.