thedrifter
03-29-05, 07:59 AM
SUSAN AGER: Jarhead wins family battle of the futon
March 29, 2005
BY SUSAN AGER
FREE PRESS COLUMNIST
My 74-year-old father refused to come out of the closet.
He behaved like a mule, bullying me into letting him sleep on the closet floor, on a lumpy 20-year-old futon.
For four nights he stayed in the closet while the rest of us, all younger, luxuriated on thick mattresses in well-dressed beds.
The closet, on the second floor, has a sloped ceiling that meets the floor. In it we keep most of our clothes, hanging from a long, heavy metal rod. We also store an assortment of aging suitcases, an antique shipping trunk, black plastic bags stuffed with old comforters and bedspreads, other sacks full of clothes intended for Goodwill, and many pieces of so-called art that may someday get hung on walls.
Although the closet's wood-planked floors are painted white, they never get swept. Hundreds of lady beetle bodies decay in the corners. Dust balls grow into dust globes.
Still, my husband and I decided we could sleep in the closet over Easter weekend after we learned, at the last minute, that Dad would be joining us, too. Five other guests had already spoken for the other beds, so we'd give Dad ours.
Evasive maneuver
Trouble started as soon as he arrived, though, when I told him to park his suitcase in our room. "I'm not taking your bedroom," he said. "Yes, you are," I replied. "No, I'm not," he countered. "This is my house," I retorted. "I am your father," he said. "Exactly," I said. "That's why you're sleeping in our bed."
We backed off, but the issue reignited throughout the day. My brother intervened. My stepdaughter intervened. Various sleeping arrangements were proposed and rejected by Dad. A lavish ham dinner and lots of good wine distracted us until suddenly, about 11 p.m., he declared, "I'm going to bed, and I'm going to bed in the closet."
He marched up the stairs. While my brother and my husband shrugged in outrageous indifference, I marched up after him. I found him on his hands and knees in the closet, unrolling the futon. The instant it lay flat I flung myself on it and urged my brother's partner's kids -- 10 and 4 -- to join me.
They were giggling, but I wasn't and neither was Dad. He announced, "I'm going to take off my clothes now." What a low ploy! "Close your eyes, kids!" I shouted. We would not be moved.
The few, the proud
He skulked to the bathroom for privacy, and my heart pounded. I couldn't believe this! Was he exhibiting early symptoms of Alzheimer's disease? When he returned in his pajamas I gave it my best last shot.
"I'm astonished," I told him, "that as a guest in my house you refuse to abide by my wishes."
"Sorry," he said, flopping on the futon beside me. "I'm a Marine and I'm sleeping here." He pulled an old patched comforter over himself and closed his eyes.
Seething, I fetched him a pillow and a Polartec blanket.
"Good night," he murmured. "I love you."
I didn't answer. That night, sleep for me came slowly.
The next morning, Dad's spirits were high. "Better than the Four Seasons!" he said of the closet. What's more, he'd had to use the bathroom only once all night.
I conceded limited defeat to the Marines.
That day, I swept the closet clean. The children and I put sheets and a matching blanket on the futon and set a vase of daffodils beside it. Beneath his pillow the kids put a couple chocolate eggs and taped to the ceiling a sign that said "Sweet dreams."
Who loves whom best? In families like ours, it's always a draw.
Contact SUSAN AGER at 313-222-6862 or ager@freepress.com.
Ellie
March 29, 2005
BY SUSAN AGER
FREE PRESS COLUMNIST
My 74-year-old father refused to come out of the closet.
He behaved like a mule, bullying me into letting him sleep on the closet floor, on a lumpy 20-year-old futon.
For four nights he stayed in the closet while the rest of us, all younger, luxuriated on thick mattresses in well-dressed beds.
The closet, on the second floor, has a sloped ceiling that meets the floor. In it we keep most of our clothes, hanging from a long, heavy metal rod. We also store an assortment of aging suitcases, an antique shipping trunk, black plastic bags stuffed with old comforters and bedspreads, other sacks full of clothes intended for Goodwill, and many pieces of so-called art that may someday get hung on walls.
Although the closet's wood-planked floors are painted white, they never get swept. Hundreds of lady beetle bodies decay in the corners. Dust balls grow into dust globes.
Still, my husband and I decided we could sleep in the closet over Easter weekend after we learned, at the last minute, that Dad would be joining us, too. Five other guests had already spoken for the other beds, so we'd give Dad ours.
Evasive maneuver
Trouble started as soon as he arrived, though, when I told him to park his suitcase in our room. "I'm not taking your bedroom," he said. "Yes, you are," I replied. "No, I'm not," he countered. "This is my house," I retorted. "I am your father," he said. "Exactly," I said. "That's why you're sleeping in our bed."
We backed off, but the issue reignited throughout the day. My brother intervened. My stepdaughter intervened. Various sleeping arrangements were proposed and rejected by Dad. A lavish ham dinner and lots of good wine distracted us until suddenly, about 11 p.m., he declared, "I'm going to bed, and I'm going to bed in the closet."
He marched up the stairs. While my brother and my husband shrugged in outrageous indifference, I marched up after him. I found him on his hands and knees in the closet, unrolling the futon. The instant it lay flat I flung myself on it and urged my brother's partner's kids -- 10 and 4 -- to join me.
They were giggling, but I wasn't and neither was Dad. He announced, "I'm going to take off my clothes now." What a low ploy! "Close your eyes, kids!" I shouted. We would not be moved.
The few, the proud
He skulked to the bathroom for privacy, and my heart pounded. I couldn't believe this! Was he exhibiting early symptoms of Alzheimer's disease? When he returned in his pajamas I gave it my best last shot.
"I'm astonished," I told him, "that as a guest in my house you refuse to abide by my wishes."
"Sorry," he said, flopping on the futon beside me. "I'm a Marine and I'm sleeping here." He pulled an old patched comforter over himself and closed his eyes.
Seething, I fetched him a pillow and a Polartec blanket.
"Good night," he murmured. "I love you."
I didn't answer. That night, sleep for me came slowly.
The next morning, Dad's spirits were high. "Better than the Four Seasons!" he said of the closet. What's more, he'd had to use the bathroom only once all night.
I conceded limited defeat to the Marines.
That day, I swept the closet clean. The children and I put sheets and a matching blanket on the futon and set a vase of daffodils beside it. Beneath his pillow the kids put a couple chocolate eggs and taped to the ceiling a sign that said "Sweet dreams."
Who loves whom best? In families like ours, it's always a draw.
Contact SUSAN AGER at 313-222-6862 or ager@freepress.com.
Ellie