Mission to the Czech Republic

There’s always been humor in my family. It’s one of the best parts about coming home. We sit around the dinner table, probably one of the last families in America to do so, for a mealtime full of witty banter and good-humored mockery. It usually starts off with my dad telling a story from work, of some unusual copilot or, more likely, some embarrassing situation he found himself in. This undoubtedly leads to reminiscing of other past humiliations, whether it be the time he clung for dear life to a wildly spasming tree trunk he’d tied himself to, running chainsaw in hand, or the time he repeatedly called our interior decorator by her first and last name combined into one. This time, my mother was recounting in disbelief that my father, upon being asked to take our old magazines to the recycling center, had managed to come home with more magazines that he’d left with, collected straight from the 4ft x 6ft dumpster. “I mean, why would you get a subscription?! They must have hundreds you can choose from!” He did have a point. He was also banned from recycling duty.
Dad’s never been much for admitting mistakes. He’s an intelligent person (I suppose you have to be to obtain an electrical engineering degree and a pilot’s license) but it doesn’t seem to cross his mind that intelligent and infallible are not the same thing. Occasionally the story comes up of how he’d never heard the phrase “my bad” because, well, nothing is ever his bad. The following night, as we enjoyed dinner on the back deck, I was nervously going over possible interview questions I could face the next day. Of course everyone was keen to offer their own suggestions, and before we knew it we had launched into a role play of what a hypothetical interview with Dad would have been like:
Q: What would you consider some of your strengths?
Dad: How much time you got buddy? Anyone need a coffee break before we get started?
Q: How about your weaknesses?
Dad: …………(silence)………………(blank stare)………..
We could, of course, never get by without his infinite wisdom and wit. After all, it was him who wrote out in neat bullet-pointed steps just exactly how to apply for/sign up for/buy/whatever it is you actually do/ a CD at the bank. Zach and I marched into our local Wachovia, proudly prepared to do something that requires a certain level of responsibility and knowledge; thank goodness Dad prepared us:
Bank guy: So, you’d like to buy some CDs…
Me: (glancing quickly at the paper in Zach’s hand) yes…
Bank guy: ok…so we’ve got a couple of options…
Zach: yes, we’d like the, uh (looks down)…the one at 4.25%...at…uh….
Bank guy: …….(raised eyebrow)….you reading this?
Both: ….er, yes…
Yes, in spite of slight embarrassments that come with reintegrating back into America, or the good-hearted bickering that goes on at my house, what can I say? It’s good to be home.