His Chair

His chair, one we all used, was still really his.  I’m not going to describe it in detail because that’s too easy.  His is white, has a lid, and some plumbing behind it.

Got it?

I never understood why my dad was in there for so long, at least I didn’t understand it when I was little.  Magazines were within reach: Western Horseman, Kansas Beef, Newsweek.  I learned what an editorial cartoon really meant from Newsweek.

As an adult, I now understand what it means to need time for myself:

“Mom! Can you get me a drink of water?!”

“Mom! What time is it?”
“Mom, can I go play at my friend’s house?”

This constant barrage can wear down any parent, especially a single parent.  My dad, bless his heart, had seven girls (the oldest four being girls).  His escape was understood to be His Escape.  It was too bad, sometimes, because we only had one bathroom–unless you count the outhouse.  I, on the other hand, have two bathrooms in my house.  One of them is all pink (toilet, bathtub, sink, walls) AND I only have three kids, but the escape is the same.

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