"Drummond?" my mother calls.
"Yo!" he answers back.
"The dishwasher is broken. I'm going to call the repairman."
My father comes shooting into the kitchen. "Don't do that. I'll fix it right now."
I look up from my coloring books spread over the kitchen table and watch the exchange.
My mother looks a little pale. My lips twitch as I try to hold in a giggle.
"Well, do you think you have time?" she asks. "I thought you were supposed to go meet Noah for golf."
"Probably gonna rain," he explains.
As he walks into the garage to get his tools, her shoulders slump, and she sighs. I understand that sigh. God bless the man, he always has to fix things on his own. If it doesn't go smoothly, cuss words will fly out of his mouth quicker than ice melts in July.
Mama comes and falls into a chair at the table, probably mentally preparing herself for what's about to happen. She looks at us girls as we all carefully color pictures of Winnie the Pooh or Minnie Mouse.
Dad comes back in and sets his tool box down. The banging commences. We're only a few minutes into the fixing when the cussing begins. I feel bad for my dad, but sometimes, his irritation is really quite funny. Just picture Yosemite Sam, and you'll understand.
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