My father is a curmudgeon. I've written this before, but in case you've forgotten, and lest you think I'm cruel, here are a couple of incidents that should serve to reinforce that statement.

When I went home for my class reunion, my mother - so frightened of my dad's rigid behavior and the impact it could have on not only us but herself - paid for us to stay in a hotel room in "downtown" Bloomington. Bloomington is population 702, down from 747 when I was a wee girl there. The "hotel room" has had several previous incarnations - once as a medical clinic (which perhaps explained the florescent lights that exposed our every enlarged pore) and more recently as an apartment. The accommodations were comfortable, and really, who needs TV or phone, or cell reception for that matter.

My sister, her two kids, me and Robby stayed there two nights, on Mom. There was no talking her out of it, or reimbursing her.

But my final night in Bloomington, my sister and her children having left for their home, Robby and I stayed with our folks.

I knew the routine. Lights out at 9:40. No talking beyond that point. No sitting in the glider, which is Dad's chair, right down to the stain from his greasy head. I knew what to do, and more importantly, what not to do.

I pissed him off anyway.

My first mistake was in putting a bag of cheese into the refrigerator. I'd picked up several to take home to Colorado. Rather thoughtlessly, I suppose, I found a spot for them on a middle shelf and tucked the bag behind the milk.

My dad called out from his glider seat around the corner. "Helene!" he shouted to my mom. "She didn't put that cheese on that middle shelf, did she?"

My mom grimaced. "No, Carl, I'm sure she didn't."

"She sure as hell better not have," he grumbled.

Asking Mom, apparently, was easier than addressing me directly.

"Mom," I whispered, "I did put it on the middle shelf."

Her grimace turned into a frown. I saw mild panic flit across her 81-year-old face. These were expressions of which she no doubt was unaware; she'd been making them for the entire 50 years of their marriage.

She opened the refrigerator door.

"I'll do it," I said, moving toward her.

"No," she said, waving me off. "Let me."

I watched as she shoved, stacked and otherwise renegotiated items within the refrigerator to make room for the large brown cheese-filled bag on a lower shelf.

As she completed her task, we heard the sound of Dad's boots hitting the kitchen's linoleum floor. These were the same style of boots he'd worn for years on the farm. Leather, above-the-calf lace-ups, far sturdier than needed for a man whose most difficult daily activity was walking loops round his basement - my dad's version of exercise.

He yanked open the refrigerator door to inspect it for himself. I heard him exhale through his nose, a sound of unwarranted disgust. "Sure as hell better not put that on that middle shelf. It can't take it."

With the commission of this grevious error, I became an object of suspicion.

Scarcely 10 minutes later, Dad was up again.

"Jane," he beckoned me with his index finger. "Come 'ere."

My dad has been bent with age for many years, yet his stride is nearly as long and purposeful as ever. Unfortunately, this lends him a comedic posture, particularly at a time like this - when he strode down the hallway, boots clomping, on a mission I was certain was bizarre by any one but my dad's standards.

I followed into the bedroom in which Robby and I would sleep that night. The small room held a double bed, matching dresser and a chair. There was room for no more. My suitcase yawned open on the bed.

He leaned over and pointed under the bed. "Look here," he said. "You see that?"

I followed his finger and saw the edge of a package of white toilet paper peeking out from underneath the bed.

"Now bend over further and look over here," he said, bending to point further under the bed.

I ducked lower and realized there were a multitude of packages underneath the bed. The local grocer must have had a sale. Dad had stockpiled at least 15 packages of toilet paper.

"Don't you god-damn throw anything heavy under there," he growled. "I don't want that toilet paper getting squished."

He was serious as a heart attack - as serious about his toilet paper's viriginal condition as he is about his bread - and I didn't even consider laughing.

"Sure, Dad," I said.

"Huh?"

"I said 'sure'."

Dad met my eyes briefly, no doubt to see if I understood the gravity of the situation.

Then he left me, and the 60-plus rolls of toilet paper, alone.

Could it possibly be true that we all become our parents someday?

I consider this as I change a roll of toilet paper. Do I feel any special affinity toward it, any motherly protectiveness? I have searched my soul and thankfully can say this is not so.

When I buy a loaf of bread, I am strangely happy if I forget that it's in the cart and accidentally squish it with a heavier item. Even if the clerk offers to replace it for a virgin loaf, I refuse. Instead, I eat misshapen sandwiches for a week.

I like it squished, daddy dearest. I like it squished just fine.

The only thing is - and it's a very small thing - I prefer it when it's squished on the right third of the slice - not the precise middle, definitely not the left. It makes for a more interesting-looking loaf of bread that way, and I know exactly how to curve the peanut butter so it precisely fills that little defect.

There's nothing wrong with that ... is there?