My father, Ira, is a 90-years-old pirate. He’s blind in one eye—he wears a patch and he whips aroundhis cane like it’s a sword.He cruises his Dallas retirement community in a beat-up Lexus with one foot on the gas, one on the brake… so, there’s these unpredictable bursts of acceleration and jarring stops.

Now, it’s not that my father’s a chain-smoking, MAGA hat-wearing guy that sets me off. It’s that… he can be so… stubborn and pig-headed. My father does give me plenty of opportunity to practice compassion. But the Buddha, I am not.

My mom tried to get my dad to give up driving. She failed. So, she called his doctor, asking for help. During my dad’s next appointment, not only did the doc rat my mom out, but he told my father, “Welp It is Texas where freedom rings. I’ll leave it up to you, Ira.”

During my recent visit to Texas, my father complains me his fender’s rubbing against his front tire. He doesn’t tell me how it happened. I agree to fix it, but I warn him “It won’t look pretty. I’m gonna do the job with duct tape and zip ties.”

So I’m lying on the 100-degree driveway, my t-shirt’s sizzling on the cement. I’m dropping f-bombs. My father’s supervising while puffing Marlboros from the shade of his garage… When I get the job done, I know it’s time … to have the conversation.

“Hey Dad, have you noticed that all four corners of your car are smashed? And… someone smacked into your garage door. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me with his watery blue eye… When I remind him of his limited vision, his horrible hearing, his rotten reflexes, he raises his cane like he’s gonna give me a good whack.  I step back…

“Dad, you’ve had a good long life; I love you. I’m just worried… you might hurt or kill someone else.”

“Welp, I guess you’re going to have to keep on worrying…”  Am I going to lie to myself about my capabilities when I get old…er?

…I head back to Berkeley… defeated. So I decide to knock out a few house projects; this is an area where I still have some control. My roof needs patching. Gutters need cleaning.

While gathering my gear, my wife, Mimi’s fixing a nice salad for lunch. But when she sees me setting up the ladder, she steps outside and tells me… she doesn’t want me going on the roof. The pitch is too steep; my balance isn’t so good anymore… She reminds me I have osteoporosis. If I fall–and don’t die– my body’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

  I just stare at her with my… two watery blue eyes. Mimi tells me she’s just… worried something bad might happen. I don’t tell her she’s gonna have to keep on worrying. I am not… my father’s son! I just remind her that I have a very particular set of skills (like Liam Neeson in Taken). She doesn’t laugh. So I turn away… and head into the garage…

A few minutes later, I return carrying my old rock-climbing gear; I’m wearing a diaper sling (I look really good in it). I tell her, “I know I haven’t touched them in 20 years, but the ropes look pretty good. Carabiners don’t wear out. I still know my knots.”

  She says, “You’re a stubborn man, Ira!” And she grabs a massive head of cabbage and chucks it at my head… It’s a horrible throw. I don’t even have to duck, but when the cabbage explodes against the wall, something inside of me breaks open: a wave of compassion… for my father: It’s not so easy to give up power and control when someone tells you what you can’t or shouldn’t do.

Mimi promises to find a licensed roofer if I put my gear and ladder back in the garage. And so, I… step into this… next phase of my life, a shrinking universe with fewer things to do and fix… I do appreciate Mimi’s love and concern, but I warn her to never call me Ira again. Even though I can be stubborn and pig-headed, I live in Berkeley! I practice compassion…  I’d never wear a MAGA hat or smoke a cigarette.

For the record, my father gave up driving… when he was good and ready. He’s still smoking…