It’s finally happened.  I have become my father. They told me this would happen one day.  They, whom I scoffed at, are now having the last laugh, as I have become the scoffee. 

To those from a slightly older generation, you’ve probably already experienced the nightmare of becoming one’s parent.  But at 37, I still find it a bit shocking whenever I catch myself doing something I’d normally attribute to my father, and it never fails to make me shudder, if ever so slightly.

We like to rinse our plastic milk containers before putting them in the recycling bin as the milk residue begins to smell after a week.  It just so happened that I also had a couple of half-empty 2 liter bottles of tonic water that had gone flat.  And then, inspiration struck.  I’ll kill two birds with one stone and save water in the process by using the old tonic water to rinse out the milk containers!  Sheer genius.  I should get a medal for my water saving efforts.  No lie, I was actually very excited when I came up with this bombshell of an idea. 

I recently noticed for about the millionth time how many toys our kids have.  And lo and behold my father’s voice was heard loud and clear as I said,  “There are more toys around here then you could shake a stick at.”  Now what I’d really like to know is who came up with that one?  I don’t even know what that means.  Was it some sort of primitive counting method?  You shake the stick once for each object?  Perhaps some proud elder actually broke the stick from counting too much; hence having more of something then you can shake a stick at.  “ Would you look at that. I’ve got more chamber pots then you can shake a stick at! And they said I’d never amount to anything.  I’ve made it. Today I am a man!” 

Other sayings I’ve found myself uttering that came from Dear Old Dad:

“Think something of it.”  (Play on “think nothing of it” when responding to a thank you.  Get it?  Ha, ha)

“Don’t let the door hit you in the a__ on the way out.”  (No, not an original but he’s the first one I heard use it).

“Always a pleasure.” (Used as a form of good-bye). 

Well, you get the idea.

My father has always been a great one for saving stuff.  Some might call it junk but to him, every piece of string, every castaway lug nut is an irreplaceable treasure. Actually, that’s not true.  He too thinks it’s crap and yet it still occupies a space in his life.   An exploration of his garage one recent weekend yielded the following partial list of “treasures”:

Strips of used aluminum foil bound together by bailing wire.

A box of string, all of varying lengths. (Which reminds me of another one of his sayings: “You never know when you’re going to need a good piece of rope.”  Which is why I have 25-ft of nylon rope in the trunk of my car)

Bag of old pennants from places like Estes Park, Colorado and the San Diego Zoo

Box of old maps some for places that don’t even exist anymore. 

That same day, I walked around my own garage.  Well, in all honesty I can’t really call it walking; tripping and climbing would be more accurate.  In any event, here is a list of things that I found, treasures every one of them:

Paper bag full of old baseball caps from places like Estes Park, Colorado and the San Diego Zoo

Broken socket wrench, assorted sockets.

Letters. Tons of letters.  My wife and I both figure one day we’ll be famous and someone will want to publish them.

Half empty cans of WD-40.

Old computer whose only purpose now would be as a tornado proof paperweight.

Hangers for more clothes then we’ll ever own in our lives.

Box of assorted broken objects waiting to be glued. 

Again, you get the idea.

My family is Italian. Like all good Italians, we love food.  Perhaps love is not strong enough.  A closer version of the truth would be to say we worship, adore, obsess over and if it were possible would stalk food.  I now understand my father’s incessant need to know what we’re eating if he happens to call at dinnertime or knows we dined out. I travel on business several times a year and my father will relish in the details of my daily meals, enjoying them even more because he knows the company picked up the tab.  (This one I understand.)

To this day, my German/Austrian wife of 10 years does not understand why, while on the phone with her sister discussing a recent dinner date, I’m yelling in the background for details on what they ordered.  Nor does she understand why I get upset if I happen not to be present during the conversation and she forgets to obtain this vital information.  And yet if I forget to check the results of the weekend luge competition, I’ll find myself sleeping amongst my treasures. 

It’s a good thing I was wise enough to hold on to that Duke’s of Hazzard sleeping bag.

Bio: Clayton resident, Joe Romano, is a freelance writer for hire. He can be reached at: jromano01@yahoo.com