That's what my husband calls my dad, a Roman Homer. My right-off-the-boat-from-Italy, pasta-fazool, old-world papa. Funny how it takes a second set of eyes for you to really be able to see people and things. In some ways my husband's really on the mark. I thought all fathers were strange. I apparently am quite wrong.
My dad is smart, very smart. He's got a head full of facts that would make your head spin, and made my spin as a kid during those father-daughter one-sided-discussion/arguments that dads like to schpeel out. But like many people quite smart, or even, gasp! genious level, he's a bit forgetful. A bit low on the common sense quotient. Sometimes he's downright strange.
Let me warm up a little. He tried to fix my mom's old station wagon once too frequently. Made my mom wince every time he hoisted up the hood to tinker with the engine. He drove it around the block and it still didn't seem right. Back in the driveway he opened the hood, and found a large wrench he'd left laying on the engine.
My next door neighbor, one fine spring day, emerged from his house to see my mom standing on the front lawn, looking up at the roof. "A little to the left! No, you missed it! Go back, no not there, left! Left!" shouted my mom to my dad's rear. It hovered above the roof like the rising moon. Apparently he'd climbed to the roof, and then couldn't find the ladder. It was too short, and was hidden under the eaves. My neighbor rolled on the ground, unable to contain his laughter, while my dad half-dangled from the roof, searching in vain for the ladder with his foot. A few more minutes and the fire company might have received a call. (To hose down my neighbor.)
Always the "home-handyman," dad wanted to check the eaves inside the house too, to ensure against leaks, I suppose. Thinking ahead this time, he strapped on a large construction helmet. So he wouldn't bang his head on the trusses in the garage attic, you see. My mom meanwhile, thought the house was haunted. She kept hearing her name over and over again. Well, haunted my by dad, at any rate. She searched until she found him, screaming her name, his head stuck under the eaves, held in place by the helmet. She left him there for some time, as punishment for his foolishness, perhaps, before she finally reminded him about the buckle under his chin.
How about a personal favorite of mine?
"Mother, I don' wan the eggs poot een the 'frigerator door annymore."
"Why not?"
"Because dee liddle light inside will make them get warm and spoil."
Hunh?
"Homer, the light goes off when you shut the door."
Did I mention that my dad is an engineer?
Growing up I was fairly used to my father's eating habits. I was used to squid and pigs legs (avec hooves, even) appearing in the refrigerator spontaneously, and my mother mysteriously disappearing at that moment when my dad decided to cook something. My husband was not, however, used to daddy's flair for avant garde gormet cooking. While searching for a job, and living with my family, he had the pleasure (?) of sharing breakfast with my father. Every morning the smell of frying onions and green peppers floated through the house. Yes, onions and peppers. He's Italian, remember? The scarier part is that when you arrived downstairs, there was no evidence of the onions and peppers, but on his plate you'd see something NO ONE puts onions and peppers IN. One day, "Bob" arrived downstairs to behold plain simple oatmeal in my father's bowl. Now that was unusual from the man who made angelhair pasta, and topped it with fried apples and raisins. Sitting down to eat, "Bob" turned his head as dad headed towards the oatmeal. PLOP! A large fried egg landed on top. As Bob, disgusted, turned to leave, having gulped down his cereal in three bites, his made a big mistake. He looked back, like Lot's unfortunate wife, to see if that was as far as dad's breakfast monstrosity went. Nope. He was slicing a banana on top of the whole mess.