Member-only story
I Don’t Want to Pick Up Papa
How do we care for the people who cared for us?
I’m embarrassed to say it, but I don’t want to pick up Papa today. In five minutes I have to go.
For two decades we had hosted Papa for weekends and summer weeks so he could see his grandchildren. He was a fun person to be around. A little selfish, for sure, but not mean.
Our first father-to-son-in-law conversation was about my pots. Three weeks before we married, his daughter and I had moved into a miniature garden apartment. “Garden” was a euphemism for a below-ground unit that offered a sliver of sunlight piped in past the parking lot.
The kitchen was tiny, and I had installed a pot-rack to hold my collection. Family and cousins had gifted us (me) a host of pots for our wedding: among them a cast-iron skillet for cornbread, a wok for fried rice, and a box set of copper-bottom Revere Ware pots and pans. (Editors note: Revere Ware pots were discontinued in 2018. Since then they have become an eBay collector’s item.)
When my in-laws peeked into the kitchen during our unpacking they saw the crammed pot rack and the box of pots underneath. I heard an exclamation and ran out of the bedroom feet away.
“What are you doing with all those pots!?!” exclaimed Papa and Nana
