The Packrat

My dad is a packrat, not your garden variety, "Fibber McGee's Closet" kind of packrat, not your "can't close the garage door" kind of packrat, not even your "needs to rent storage space" kind of packrat. My dad is such a packrat that he had to buy a warehouse. A big warehouse.

Recently my dad called me and said, “Do you need a freezer?”
“No, Dad, I still have the freezer you gave me five years ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t really even need that freezer. We really don’t use it.”

You see, my dad loves to buy things. It's not that he needs, or even wants the things--he just likes to buy them. He loves a good deal. He loves to bargain for the lowest prices. He loves garage sales. He will stop by someone's house--a complete stranger mind you--and ask if a particular object seen in the yard is for sale. He just loves the thrill of the hunt.

Once when I was at my parent’s house, everyone was sitting around watching Field of Dreams, it was the scene when they turn on the stadium lights for the first time in the corn fields. Me, being a smart aleck said, “Oh, sure, where do you get stadium lights?” My dad said, "I have some.”

What?

Lately I’ve been looking at my closet doors, thinking that I would really rather have those louvered accordion-style folding ones. I thought to myself, hmmmm--no, he couldn’t. So I took a chance before heading to my local home store, and called him up. I described what I was looking for, and guess what he said?

He said, “What size do you need?”