Ever since I met my dad—some seventy-one years ago now—he’s lived according to plan, setting up a system and following it, precisely.
Yesterday, he leaned back in his office chair at the retirement home and told me one I hadn’t picked up on.
“You know that grandfather wall clock back at Elm Street?” he asked. “I wound that up on the first day of each month. Then I’d scrub the electric kettle and charge my razor.”
I hadn’t known, but I’m not surprised.
Back when his legs still took him where he wanted to go, he had six routes around town, one for each day of the week, except for Sunday, his day of rest. One day past the library, another through the park, and then, on successive days, winding through a north-side subdivision, along the creek on Walnut, down Elm toward the schools, and past the century-old houses on Main.
When I was a kid in Michigan, we had family night on Mondays, church on Wednesdays, mowing the lawn on Fridays, committee meetings on Thursdays, and cleaning the church on Saturdays. I’m sure there was something for Tuesday, but I can’t recall what.
At ninety-three his pace has slowed, but not the ordering of his days. Each day holds patterns of reading his Bible, historical research, processing mail, banking, and naps, increasing naps. When he wakes up each morning, he knows what to do—at least if doctors’ appointments don’t interfere.
In the writing world, there are words to describe two styles of writing—plotters and pantsers. The key difference lies in when the story is invented. A plotter maps it out before drafting, while a pantser discovers it while writing.
I’ve rarely seen my dad fly by the seat of his pants. He gets his plan, plants himself in his office chair, and works it.
Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t breathed in so much of my dad’s air, that I’d have more serendipity, start out my day by following one path and then veering off into new paths as I find them, never knowing where I’ll end up.
On the other hand, I sure do like a checked-off list at the end of a day!
