When I was five or six and we lived in Colorado, my mother was out walking with a friend when a large piece of driftwood caught her eye. She liked it so much she brought it home, where she intended to display it in the corner of the living room. My father took one look at the hulking piece of wood and told her it was too damp to bring in the house right away and that she should leave it outside until it dried out a bit.
Each day, she would check the wood in the morning, but despite decent weather, it remained damp to the touch.
Finally, assuming heavy dew might be dampening it overnight, she decided to check it just before the sun went down, which is how she caught my father standing over the driftwood with the garden hose.
Apparently, he'd been hosing it down each evening while watering the lawn. Passive-aggressive tendencies or pure conflict-avoidance genius? You be the judge.
I guess I don't have to tell you which way my mother would've voted.
The Skin of Our Teeth
1 day ago