Nothing is perfect

My father's sense of humor was so dry that it is a wonder I had one at all.  My first word was "Ahem," accompanied by raised eyebrows and a slight clearing of the throat.

I didn't cry, just tapped my tiny fingers impatiently on the nearest sounding board and when I learned to walk, it was with the sure knowledge that one didn't down off an elephant, but off a duck.

I took everything he said literally.  When he said a dollar was ten dimes or a hundred pennies, I thought he said "and" and decided that dollars were very cumbersome things.  He never had many and I could see why.

I asked him about ghosts one day and his answer was vaguer than they were.  From that day on I was afraid of things I couldn't discern.

I asked him where I came from.  He started talking about eggs and "worms" and I was sure he'd thought I asked about chickens.  My mother's story about a field where you could pick babies made much more sense.

I grew up in a strange place where dragons and deserts fielded my questions with an irony that left me persistent and prickly.

And the one sure thing I took away from it was that nothing is perfect -- except Dad -- he told me so.