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Words can’t be eaten

Have you ever kept a secret so long that you forgot why it was a secret in the first place? Have you ever done something you hoped no one would ever find out about? Have you ever said something you wished hadn’t?

Words can’t be eaten once spoken, you know. But if I had a bottle of hot sauce last weekend I surely would’ve tried.

It all started innocently enough. The Wife and I were down in Florida for a quick visit with my dad. He went on and on about how much he enjoyed reading the articles I send him each week. How each one told a story about the time we spent as a family and what he missed out on while off working. Without thinking I replied, “Well, I haven’t written about everything we did while you were at work; you still don’t know about the coconuts.”

Instantly, I knew it was a mistake. Just as soon as the words tumbled out of my big fat mouth, a bright red neon sign that read “Dummy” flashed before my eyes. But it was so long ago - we were kids - maybe he wouldn’t care. Let the past stay in the past, that’s what I say.

What good is digging up old memories anyway? No one got hurt, at least not too badly, and Sheriff Gable did let us go after all. He never reported the incident to our parents. Said he’d leave it up to us to do the right thing. Of course, we never told.

All things considered, Dad certainly wouldn’t want to spend any of his valuable retirement time on something that happened over 36 years ago, would he? He’s got important stuff to do, like open all of his mail and plan for that next vacation; his life is really too hectic to worry about the past. Let bygones be bygones.

Not a chance. Dad arched one silvery eyebrow, his flinty blue-gray eyes sparkled, and the corner of his mouth curled up slightly as he inquired, “What coconuts?”

For the next hour I endeavored to dance around the subject, but nothing worked. I even tried to get him to forget about the coconuts by telling him who really put The Sister in the dryer, which one of us boys was to blame for that big fire that burnt down half of the swamp in the backyard, the identity of the culprit who flooded the basement on Christmas Eve when he thought it was a good idea to do pull-ups on the main water line, and who the mastermind was behind the great snowball fight of ’72 that eventually ended with Old Mrs. Crabtree’s large front plate glass window being broken out by a well-placed slush ball. But nothing doing; he still wanted to know about the coconuts. My Dad’s like a bulldog sometimes; once he bites into something, he ain’t letting go. And at that moment, his teeth were sunk deep into a story about coconuts.

Lucky for me, The Boy called so Dad talked to him about his birthday present. Seems dear old Dad gave him advice on how to set up a retirement plan. They talked for over an hour about different mutual fund accounts and the different stocks he could invest his money in, now that The Boy’s got a job. Dad talked about how smart it was to diversify the theory behind dollar-cost averaging, and the importance of time and the role it plays in the scheme of investing. If things go right, and if The Boy invests some of the money he’s making and stops blowing it all on his truck, electronics and girls, he’ll able to retire when he turns 50 and be a millionaire to boot. All he has to do is listen to his granddad.

Dad hung up the phone and walked out onto the balcony to watch the sun set, a favorite thing to do for those who retire and buy a top-floor condo on the beach in Panama City, Fla. He seemed satisfied that the advice he had given about financing to The Boy would be all that he needed to become rich one day. Sure do wish I’d listened to that same advice when I was a teenager.

As the last yellow and orange finger rays of sunlight stretched across the sky, the sea gulls started their last flight around the condos before they settled in for the night. Maybe Dad’s Alzheimer’s had kicked in a little early and he forgot about the coconuts. I felt like it was safe, so I joined him. “Hey, what about my retirement,” I asked as I walked out onto the balcony to enjoy the cool breeze from the evening storm that was quickly approaching. Dad just smiled, and as lighting flashed in the distance he proudly stated that he was busy spending it all and reminded me that wealth, like twins, skips a generation.

We watched as the small boats left for the night of fishing, threw crackers up at the sea gulls even though there were signs posted everywhere informing us not to, and sipped glasses of sweet tea. We were soon joined by The Wife who brought her moco-coka-latta-thingie to drink, and my stepmom who brought out her famous beer-battered jumbo shrimp and homemade crab cakes. Everything was going along fine. All the shrimp quickly disappeared; almost all the crab cakes did too, the sun set in a brilliant flash of orange, yellow and red. All seemed well on the beach in Panama City.  Then Dad turned to me and asked, “So what about those coconuts?”

We left the next day with a cooler full of jumbo shrimp, the remaining few crab cakes and, after telling Dad the story about the coconuts, assurances that we were still in his will. I hurried back home, not only ‘cause The Wife had her teaching job to get back to the next day, but I had to talk to The Boy. Guess I need to start being nice to him, seeing as he’ll be a millionaire by the time he reaches 50. Wonder if Mister Big Bucks will loan his dear old dad any money?