When the phone rang a few minutes after six on Sunday morning, little did I realize it was the call that would signal an era was coming to an end.
My daddy was in distress and called because he thought I could fix it. We have often gone round and round about his unwillingness to be proactive about things — nothing in particular, everything in general. He’s always believed things would take care of themselves.
Since moving back to Winder in 2006 in an effort to assist my parents, rarely did a week go by that we weren’t butting heads over one of my parents digging in their heels whenever we suggest some revolutionary change in their lives. In my estimation, going through the freezer to pitch all the stuff that belongs in a museum is one of those maintenance journeys upon which one embarks about once a year.
For the Parental Units, going though the freezer (where I discovered the inaugural waxed cardboard quart of vegetable soup dated 1963) represented major life change. I think they’d just about rather throw out the family photo album than to part with the pair of 1972 New York Strip steaks nestled among the frozen peas and chicken stew.
But when push comes to shove and something needs to be done, it isn’t uncommon for one — or both — of my parents to call asking me to take care of it for them. Sometimes it’s a light bulb or attic thing. Sometimes it’s health-related. Either way, they know I — or any other member of the family, for that matter — will go to the ends of the earth to try to help them.