My dad talked me out of moving the garden. He can make the pump work and water flow, he claims, and I believe that, if anyone can, he can, so why the hell not? I call him up to ask his opinion and he immediately launches into how important it is to put the garden where I want to put the garden and to not be afraid that I can’t make it work. What about the water? I ask and he says, if all else fails, it will rain, Betsy.
And then he tells some stories about some people I don’t know. I mean, by now, I do, at least, know their names, even if I’m not sure exactly how he knows them or why. He could just be making up stories; I wouldn’t know. I hope droning on about people no one knows but you is not a sign of senility, because I will never notice a change. Ha.
Sometimes he tells stories just to tell them and sometimes I think he has some idea he wants to convey, or not an idea, maybe that’s too strong. There’s something he wants to pass between us that he can’t articulate and I can’t understand and he hopes, I think, that the stories will be a means of conveyance. The wrapping paper on something.
The thing about my dad is that he gets things done. He starts things and finishes them. I start things and then trust that they will somehow work out without my involvement. It doesn’t take a genius to see that, with a father who finishes things, that’s true. I’m learning to be better about it, but we’ll see.
Always waiting to see. Like if I killed the strawberries or not. We’ll see.
I have no doubt that he will make the pump work.
So, I guess, we just need to be ready for water.
Oh, I forgot the point of this, which was to say that his brother called him to report that Google still has him living in the little town he lived in two towns ago. And he wanted to know how he could change that. And I said “Well, you have to get some stuff on the internet with your right address, then, Dad and leave it where Google can find it.”
“Well, why doesn’t it just know?”
“It’s not omnipotent.”
“Well, doesn’t Google read Tiny Cat Pants?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You mean, you don’t use our real names? You just call us ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’?”
“Yeah. What did you think? I was all ‘My parents, whose names are… and who live … suck and you should totally go and tell them?'”
“Well, that would at least mean Google would have my address right.”