Went downstairs to grab a Sierra Mist this evening.  My parents don't want me drinking pop, but then they buy it for me.  Who else is going to drink it?

Before I went downstairs I heard classical music coming from downstairs.  Oh, my parents are getting culture.  When I was downstairs and going to the fridge down there, the music was getting louder.  Realized the stereo downstairs was on.

But I recognized too late who was listening to it.  In the darkness, slowly, my eyes made out the spectral outline of My Father, haltingly rocking on the rocking chair to the local classical station.  He looked like, rocking excepted, he couldn't move in that chair.

Two things:

1. I remember seeing my Grandmother -- my real Grandmother, My Father's mother -- rocking back and forth in that same rocking chair when I was young.  She used to sleep in what used to be my sister's bedroom (which is now the pantry), and while I was running around the house I caught her in that chair and looking out of the window pensively.  And before she could catch me I looked for a few nanoseconds, wondering what she could be so worried about.
2. He's talked about it a couple times, but I don't really know that My Father is a classical music fan.  The only indication that he likes it was through the way he tried to cram playing the piano down me and my sister's throats.