The other day my little sister (not so little, I suppose, she’s twenty six) and I went home for the day, and she starts yakking about how men never talk about things and Dad’s an emotional cripple and I’m stupid and she should expect more from her family.  Mom, of course, patted her on the back and agreed, but seriously, I don’t get her.  I suppose the problem really is that she doesn’t get it, not that I don’t get her.  Men like to express themselves instead of communicating. 

Dad and I like to grill, and fish, and feel like we’re part of the natural cycle of life and food chains and all that.  We don’t need to talk about our emotions in front of a gas grill island.  We don’t need to see a deeper meaning in using the outdoor kitchen supplies.  It’s not like I can wash my hands in the outdoor sink next to the grill and feel ‘emotionally cleansed’ or whatever she goes on about.  When you can make something with your own two hands, like dinner for your family, then for a moment, all is right with the world.  It’s that simple.  We don’t need to talk about everything like we’re on Oprah.

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