After my mother died, I took my father on a trip to Ireland. It was where his own mother had come from decades before and a place he'd always wanted to see. He drove me crazy. He made noise 24 hours a day: whistling, singing, sneezing, snoring. My journal from that trip has several pages where all I've written, as large as the page would accommodate, was SHUT UP. SHUT UP. Still, I think he had a good time. And, well, that was the point. I guess.
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