My Old Man's Fancy

Ms. Rachow says that having a father in his eighties might not kill her, but it does make her sweat a lot.

In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When I was a teenager I figured the definition of “young man” was anyone still in high school. At 21, I upped the limit on romance to 30. And once I was old enough to get invitations from AARP, I decided to believe persistent rumors that there’s sex after 60.
And yet, my jaw still drops when I hear the message from my 80-year-old dad. His Midwestern voice lumbers, “Hello. This is your father in Nebraska. Just wanted to let you know, I’m getting married.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more – the fact that he’s suddenly engaged, or the idea that he allows for the possibility I have fathers in other states.
Only one week earlier we’d had a heart-to-heart about how lonely he was. I’d gingerly suggested he might try dating. But he never takes my advice, any more than I took his advice when I was a teenager. So how did he go from zero to betrothed in one week?
I call back to discover more about Dad’s pending matrimony. I hide my shock with what I hope are rational tones. “Who are you marrying?”
“ I don’t know much about her. We’ve only had one date.”
“This isn’t one of those shotgun weddings is it?”
“Hell no. Ha-ha.”
“So what’s the rush?”
“Well, once you get over the hill, you kinda pick up speed.”
It’s been a long time since Dad’s felt like making corny jokes. I’m glad for his good mood, but I want to shout, ARE YOU CRAZY?
I’ve learned the hard way, once I get up there on my high horse, it’s hard to get down gracefully. So I rein in my hyperventilation and say, “Congratulations.”
At his age, being head-over-heels could land him in a walker. So I grill him on everything he knows about this woman he’s fallen for, but I don’t get much.
Later, I discuss Dad’s news with a friend.
“Is she younger?” my friend asks.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. She’s only 74.”
“Mark my word. That woman’s after his money.”
“I’m not too worried. Dad doesn’t have that much money, and he has a darn tight grip on what he does have.”
However, truth is I am worried. When I was young and single, if I’d told my dad I’d decided to marry a guy I’d only dated once, he would’ve tried to shout some sense into me. So the next week I drive to Nebraska to see if I can return the favor.
Two days on the road gives me plenty of time for my fantasies to go wild. I’d read all those fairytales. Stepmothers are wicked. Dad’s wife-to-be might put poison in his dinner. She could push him down the basement steps. Surely she would make him take her on one of those fancy cruises, and while he was enjoying the ocean view, she’d invite him to sleep with the fishes.
I hate to spoil my vivid imagination with the truth, but when I finally meet my dad’s fiancé, I’m surprised to discover she’s a very nice lady. With relief I change her name from “Evil Stepmother” to Irene.
Immediately I see why they’re in such a hurry to get married. Irene and my dad can’t keep their hands off one another. If I’d exhibited such public displays of affection when I was a teenager, Dad would’ve grounded me until I was 50.
Not only is my elderly father like a young man in love again, he’s changed in other ways, too. He’s bought a cell phone. “Irene thought I should have one.”
And he has high-speed Internet access. “Irene thought it was time I got on e-mail, so I got the fast kind.”
And most amazingly of all, he’s eating tomatoes. Dad hadn’t eaten a tomato since 1944 when he was in Italy during WWII, and that’s all there was to eat. “Irene thinks tomatoes are good for me, so I say they’re the most delicious food in the whole wide world.”
Apparently, love awakens all the senses, with the possible exception of common sense. But what young man of any age needs common sense when his fancy has turned to love?
I’m pleased to say I needn’t have worried so much. Irene and Dad will soon celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.
And that faint munching sound you hear is me eating my words.
First published in the Montecito Journal May 15, 2008