One Heart's Dad Takes a Shot at the B'ar

One Heart’s Dad Takes a Shot at the B’ar

Eeek! I say. Eeek!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

I am telling my parents about the B’ar and the Rascal and the Dirty Rotten Scoundrel, a fellow on whom I will not waste one written word.

Individually their audacity is astonishing. Piled one atop the other in the space of two weeks, confounding. The world is a wonder.

I am tightly wound on a good day. At the moment I am overwrought. Shrill, even. I know that. And yet

EeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! I say.

My mother says nothing. She used to be wound tight, but she settled down.

My father listens. I am not the only emotional one in this family of six women, two men; nor the most tightly wound. He has worked out a system for such moments: He keeps still.

When finally, all eeek!ed out, I flop back onto the couch with a what-do-you-make-of-that? gesture, he takes a moment to ponder.

My mother is incisive; she is quick to speak the unstinting truth. In my overwrought state, I rarely welcome the unstinting truth. Over the decades she has worked out her own system for handling the overwrought me: She lets my dad do it.

My father has a way of bringing cosmic truth down to earth, coaxing it to walk through the front door and sit down beside you. He makes the introductions, coaxes you to shake hands, then, closing the door softly behind him, leaves you to work things out.

I trust my father’s take on the world, his kindness and sense of perspective, the wisdom of his years. I am eager to hear what he has to say, but not impatient. He does not rush to judgment, and his insights are well worth the wait.

Finally he speaks.

Seems like you’re getting out more than you used to, he says.