Not infrequently we are dinner guests at my parents-in-law’s home. This particular Saturday night Frank, Emma, Cabell and I had just joined Grammy and Granpa around the dinner table. We said our “For every cup and plate full, God make us truly grateful,” and began to eat when Granpa politely said, “So Cabell, how are you?”
“So Cabell, how are you?” Cabell replied with a grin.
“What did you do today?” Granpa pressed ahead.
“What did you do today?” Cabell snickered in response.
“Now Cabell cut that out!” Said Granpa, smiling despite himself.
“Now Cabell cut that out!” Came Cabell’s echo.
“You’re silly,” Granpa said.
“You’re silly,” Cabell replied.
“I’m silly,” said Granpa, hoping to snare the copy cat.
“No, you’re silly!” Laughed Cabell, feeling his 6 year old victory.
At the conclusion of this meaningful interaction Grammy leaned toward me across the dinner table and said, “That Cabell is just like his father. When Frank was that age he did just the same thing and he made all sorts of silly faces, too.”
I believe she tells the truth. I have pictures of Frank at about age 6 with his crew cut and impish grin. I can imagine the delight he had in driving his older sister crazy with the copy cat routine. Frank’s dad, Cabell’s Granpa, is none too serious either and I’m suspicious of the Y chromosome as the common thread.
In addition to the frequent absence of appropriate seriousness there is the male tag issue, too. During my early courtship with Frank I arrived at his apartment one summer day to find him attacking his sandals with a pocket knife. The target of his surgical excision was a thumbnail-size Nike tag on the side of the right sandal. “I hate tags,” he declared as he completed the removal of the Nike tag.
In the past month Cabell has taken to operating on all visible tags on his tee shirts and shorts as well. He will take the scissors and trim the tags himself and insist on my assistance if he discovers a tag on a piece of clothing he is already wearing. On the other hand Emma and I accept Calvin, Liz and Tommy as part of our daily lives. We girls have never fretted over the tags that adorn almost every garment we wear.
There is also the towel thing. Last week Frank’s dad had done some outside work and had to take a shower and change his clothes at work. Grammy was puzzled about his available linens, but he assured her that he had no problem drying off with a hand towel after his shower. I was not surprised. I have heard my own dad claim to be quite satisfied with a hand towel after a nice shower and Frank has been known to use a hand towel on occasion as well. Cabell frequently steps out of the tub and streaks naked through the house until he air-drys.
Would a hand towel ever be adequate for any of my female relatives? Never. The only discussion we might have is whether to purchase a full-sized bath towel or a larger bath sheet. We could debate on the amount of time one must stand outside the shower enclosed in cotton swathing before venturing to drop the towel and grab a bathrobe at the risk of freezing to death. We would never skip the towel all together.
So I say to Frank, “All this silliness, I think, is related to the Y chromosome.”
“What?” He asks.
“This copycat conversation, cutting off tags and drying off with hand towels,” I say.
“Who?” He inquires.
“You all,” I reply. ” You and Cabell.”
“When?” He questions.
“Well, the conversation at Grammy and Granpa’s house,” I answer.
“What?” He asks.
“The silliness!” I say.
“Who?” He counters.
“Everyone with a Y chromosome!” I shout. He would think that was funny.
