GiST, paternal edition

No matter how much he can drive me completely batshit (as my friend Erik rightfully said on my FB, we all get our crazy from somewhere, and I know my annoyance is sometimes merely displaced)– I love that I got to enjoy the following things (among many others, but brevity, so forth) with my Dad while we were away:

His own personal variant on the all-caps voice whenever we saw DONKEYS or PONIES, right before he’d revert to his disquisition on the “original town in” England or Scotland or France or WHEREVER of whatever town we were happening to drive through at the moment;
His equal opportunity old-school flirtation with sales clerks of all manners and stripes, even while he incessantly complains about changes in quality, price, etcetera, what-have-you and gabs about the way things were when he was a kid and then winks at the end of the transaction because he knows they’re humoring him even as he enjoys yanking their chains;
The way he said, completely deadpan, “This is really disgusting,” as he plastic-fork-stabbed my hand and then stole the grease and gravy-stained plate from me so he could scrape up the last remnants of his first taste of poutine.


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