Let the train whistle blow

And now for something not-so-completely different.

I talked to my Dad yesterday and found out that he had been robbed. Someone actually broke into their house in the middle of the day and took a bunch of old money he had been collecting. He's still trying to figure out what all is missing, but mostly silver certificate dollars and old silver coins etc. Even though it sucked, he didn't seem to be too upset about it. I know I would have been on an ass-kicking mission to find the punks. I had The Agent call him and chat, not that she can do anything other than he likes her and they tease each other. She offered to interrogate any persons of interest for him. He once called and told her he had found an old bone on his lake property and wondered whether she'd want to come investigate it and see if it was Jimmy Hoffa. My dad looks a lot like Johnny Cash, even more so as he's gotten older but also when he was younger. He's a retired railroad man and right now, a pretty damn good Texas Hold 'em player. He taught me how to fish, how to golf, how to drive. He indulged my tomboy ways when I was a kid and coached my softball team, bought me a bb gun, and took me to Dairy Queen for lunch. When my parents got divorced when I was 10, he stayed close and eventually, remarried. I got a boatload of new step-brothers and sisters. My first car was one of his, a 76 Buick Regal that I still miss. He came to football games when I was in college and he has helped me move more times than I care to count. He was the first person I called the night my mom died. I knew I would need his help figuring out what to do next. Our conversations now consist of the following things: the weather, sports, how my car is running, birds, what's happening at the Navy Club, what project am I working on in the shop, and what The Agent is up to these days. You know, surface stuff. Since my mom died, we have had a couple of very personal, intense conversations -- which are often a curse and a blessing. I have found that as I get older, the truth doesn't necessarily get any easier to hear and it's impossible to resist. I'm one of those people who would rather know than not, even if knowing is the more painful choice. So my dad and I now walk that line between doing the Midwestern thing of talking about everything but what really needs to be said and truth-telling. I'm more like him than I realize at times and I'm perfectly content to talk about Bobby Knight and the cold front that's coming through today, better get the car in to be winterized and what time is it now in Indiana - an hour ahead or an hour behind?