Haven’t the foggiest &045; I mean after all, how many of us really understand our parents? We who are lucky find that we can love and respect them. Understand them? Why? I learned fairly early in life not to waste time trying to understand anyone.

Depite all the literature and talk about understanding someone, the attempt to do so is usually an attempt to understand why the person you want to understand is not like you.

Life is chaotic enough without attempting to pychoanalyze our friends and relatives. It has often seemed to me that Freud did the public an extremely poor service when he gave them terms to put down those with whom they disagreed.

I suppose I’ve been thinking about all this because of an article in my grocery store magazine relating to Father’s Day. The article asked questions: Were you your father’s little princess? His buddy? Was he a strict disciplinarian? Did he ignore you?

Scratch the &uot;little princess&uot; bit and I could probably answer &uot;all of the above.&uot; The answer, though, would have absolutely no bearing on Daddy’s feud with Lawrence Welk.

Essentially kind and always good to animals, my father had an extremely low boiling point. Not being able to find something could cause him to raise his voice to the point where he could be heard, fierce and tigerish, three houses down the street. It was customary at such times for one member of the household to join in the search, while the rest of us rushed to close the windows.

There was something about Lawrence Welk that provoked in my father the same lack of joy. If even a guest wandered over to the TV set and turned it to a Welk program, my father would shout, &uot;Off! Off! Off!&uot; increasing the volume and slicing the air at a higher point with each &uot;Off!&uot;

Strangely enough my father loved music and had a good ear for it. If in my daily practice I struck a wrong note, he would groan aloud. He liked all kind of music: classical, including opera, both grand and light, college songs, early American folk songs, Irish and Scottish ballads, bagpipe, marching bands, you name it. He liked it. He didn’t like Lawrence Welk.

I never asked him why and he never volunteered an explanation. Dad, in company of the rest of the family, did enjoy the Perry Mason show, that followed the Welk program every Sunday.

I wandered into the TV room one Sunday. Mother was in the kitchen pouring out bowls of popcorn to go with Perry Mason and Dad was sound asleep in his chair. Thoughtlessly I turned to the channel from which Perry Mason would visit us.

Unfortunately, I was a bit early and the Welk show was just rounding off. My father, who had been happily asleep until that moment was immediately awake.

&uot;Who the hell turned that robot on?&uot; he snarled.

Well, as I say, I haven’t the foggiest notion what there was about Mr. Welk that irritated Dad. Perhaps it’s just as well. There are already too many mysteries in my world to ponder. But I quite often watch Welk re-runs. He is a bit stiff, but would you say &uot;robot?&uot;

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.