I Am My Dad
Uncle Andrew
One of my father’s most exasperating habits during my adolescence was making up little nonsense songs on the fly as he meandered around the house, his resonant baritone throbbing off the walls like some sort of parental echolocation system. Fogey Sonar, if you will. It drove me nuts, particularly when he would do it in front of my friends. (To their credit—and my discredit—it didn’t bother them nearly as much as it did me.)
This morning, while stumbling around the kitchen fixing breakfast, I suddenly realized that I was singing a little ditty about my Grape Nuts. that I had, in fact, been singing said little ditty for at least ten minutes.
Then, in a tiny, airy voice so as to not wake up Margaret, I began shrieking, “AAAAAAAH, I’MMYDADI’MMYDADI’MMYDAD……”
I assume my father woke up this morning chuckling, but does not know why.
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