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My father. Okay, let me be honest. He wasn't my father, he was and is and always will be my Pa. I started calling him that when I was quite young, the reason now forgotten, but it stuck and that's what he is. Father is just a noun: Pa is his name and who he is. He's right there, in the little room outside which I'm sitting. He's unconscious now, but a few minutes ago he told me all about a game we used to play. Like many fathers, Pa had many silly games that he would play with us when we were young. My favourite when I was small was tickle feet. We would cross the room, starting from opposite sides. The idea was to get to the other side of the room without being caught. The penalty for failure was to have your feet tickled.
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What made the game fun was that every time he went from one side of the room to the other, Pa would perform some ridiculous movement. Jumping along like a frog on all fours; doing star jumps; walking like a troll; rolling along like a log. Of course, these all gave my brother and me many opportunities to evade Pa's clutches, which only added to the fun. When we were older, there was the Floozie game.|
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