My inaugural blog just had to be about my dad, who sadly ties into the paranormal theme because he passed away not long ago, on Friday the 13th–of all days. What a theatrical exit that only my dad, a part time actor in Play at Home Theatre could pulloff.
His name IS Arnold M Sennett (last name backwards pronounced tennis) and he IS the best geriatric tennis player on the West Palm Beach circuit (though I may be slightly biased). The guys he played with at the country club call themselves “The Gents,” and put up a memorial bench in his honor. That gives you only a small inkling of how loved my dad IS.
SENNETT~~~TTENNES
Arnie, a most jovial kind of guy, a hideously awful punster, and somewhat of an obsessed word engineer, began his career writing jokes for Ed Sullivan. Who is Ed? you twixters and tweeners may be asking. Check out the movie, Bye Bye Birdie–a high school musical classic that paved the way for Zac and Vanessa’s future sophomoric romp.
Under my father’s steady influence, I am many things. But in the wee quiet hours, alone with my laptop and unbridled imagination, I transform into the LittleRedWriter–minus the cape–trying to fulfill the dreams dad gave up on to become a more stable provider.
I insist on the present tense, when referring to my dad, because presently he’s still here, and continues to show up repeatedly as a tennis ball.
Mom, still dealing with her grief and learning to take on her husband’s handyman role, called a guy to replace the dishwasher. Upon removing the old one, he found a tennis ball somehow wedged in the non-existent space in the back. Scratching his head, he wondered aloud how it had gotten there. No one knows, except my dad, of course.
Only last week, I was on the phone with my sister–who is the most like him, by the way. She was with my brother and mom and they had all been watching one of his favorite movies, Kill Bill (Two)–go figure. At that moment, suddenly my dog, Oliver Dudley, appeared with a tennis ball in his mouth that he dropped at my feet. Where he got this tennis ball, no one knows–except my dad, of course. While I freely admit I do play tennis and, in fact, use my dad’s racket, all the balls are in a closed hopper, neatly tucked away in our garage.
So, bounce that mystery around in your head for awhile, and I’ll come back next week with a new entry for my paranormal journal.
Have any similar tales? Drop me a comment. Would love to read them.