Halloween and year-round Christmas lights at the Shipyard. Next to the sign that says trespassers will be shot.

The television at home on Cape Cod measures 26×45 inches. The living room itself is rather small, and I remember when the flatscreen initially was purchased that my Dad proudly explained how it “*just* fit the space.  Here is a photograph of the television:

And go Patriots, by the way.

Now I suppose that, depending on your point of view, you might agree with Dad. It did indeed just fit inside the living room entryway before being mounted on the wall and taking over the window trim. As for me, I’m a bit confounded by his home cinema configuration that is not only limited to the TV, but also to no fewer than 9 bombastic speakers that are drilled into the walls around our heads.

The audience is now deaf.

I’d like to think that my own version of living life is the best one that I could have possibly constructed. Take my family. If you were following my Twitter feed as of late, you would have seen that I valiantly Marie Kondo‘d my way through Dad’s mess using documentary-style humor. It’s the only way I could get through without feeling overwhelmed. I’m well aware of how he lives (and I understand why my mom couldn’t put up with his chaos), and personally, I don’t think his habits are close enough to normal for me to try them out.

But Dad has spent eight decades perfecting his unique brand of living, and I am sure that he deems his rituals to be quite sound.  Every night he cozies into an old swivel writing desk chair that is five feet from the flatscreen while some sort of programming reverberates across the living room and echoes into the kitchen. As he tilts back and raises his iPhone aloft, a battle for sonic supremacy commences between two of his most treasured pieces of technology.

Primetime competition.

As this goes on, I opt to flutter in the periphery, hungry instead for quieter spaces where my idle hands would be useful in the quest to make Dad’s house more habitable according to my own personal standards.

Dad and I live two different lives— and if I’m extending that thought, I will acknowledge that everyone follows a beat that is in sync with the individual score playing in our own heads. If on the rare occasion that I come into the living room and plop onto the couch, Dad will usually tire of what’s on (or maybe he’s aware of my presence), and hand me the clicker.

“Watch whatever you want,” he’ll say before returning to his phone. Typically I’m overwhelmed by the television’s array of choices, and invariably I’ll poise my index finger like an inbound missile until it lands squarely on the power button. The fresh layer of silence gets my dad’s attention.

“Ooooh-kay,”  Dad says with a momentary pause. He is unsurprised by my selection of silence— meanwhile his iPhone rages on.  Ultimately, this game will end with me remembering that I have something to paint, purge or pester in another room of the house.  I’ll abandon the couch and be gone only a few moments before the TV is back on and the THX battle resumes in earnest.

The usual family texts.

While I was home I had the good fortune to spend time with all of my siblings, as well as my wonderful mum, and two of my favorite Cape Cod aunts. As I made the rounds and interacted with each one, the experiences were similar to that of time spent with my dad. Each one has their pet preferences and habits– and while ultimately the decision to live their lives is different from mine, I still can’t help but observe.

The usual “just running out to Stop & Shop” purchases, courtesy of my brother. Normal.

Family. You’ve known these people forever, and as a consequence each time you meet again you it’s a bit like setting off an old pullstring toy. You pull the chord, and while you expect that it will function more or less as you remember, all the same you are monitoring for any change in performance that is an indicator of time and overuse.

I write notes on my hand. And my thigh if I’m driving. Normal.

Now, I’m not going to call any other family members out for things that I deem curious; after all, I don’t want any of them coming after me with guns or their army of extra-caffeinated children. Furthermore, I strive every day to remain cognizant of my own brand of psychoses. I do crazy shit too- but by God I swear that I am not super abnormal. I don’t bring guns into Boston Garden, nor do I shriek about how Pope Francis is driving the Catholic Church towards moral decrepitude.  These jobs are reserved for the older generations in my family.

But I do love to go home, and this is primarily because I feel the need to confirm the soundness of Hallinan Operations, even while I’m away for extended periods. When Dad pokes his head into the living room and asks us kids “Do you guys still need the lighthouse on?”, we don’t bat an eyelash. “No,” we say in unison before returning to the hockey game on our fantastic TV.

Dad then switches off the beacon before coming in to join us. He sits back in his chair. We don’t mind so much if he turns on his iPhone.