"Whatever You Are Making, It sure Smells Good"

I'm sitting at the computer and Pop melts into the room. He pats me on the shoulder and says, "Whatever you are making, it sure smells good." He slips out and I turn to my son and give him a puzzled look. It is 4:00 PM and I've not even started thinking about dinner let alone start preparations. Whatever he is smelling is beyond my comprehension.

Now they say that people who lose one or more of their senses develop their other senses to extraordinary levels. Maybe dementia causes a keener sense of smell and Pop is smelling the food through the refrigerator walls? Or could it be that his hunger pangs are beginning to set in and this is his attempt at getting me out of the computer room and into the kitchen? I will give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he has extraordinary powers.

Taking this cue I move into the kitchen and pull the emergency stash of stew out of the refrigerator. He follows me and the hovering begins (see my blog on hovering for more information on this topic) followed by, "If there is anything I can do to help, let me know." When I pull the steaming plate of grub from the microwave he puts on his surprise act saying, "Oh, is that for me?" Followed by, "Aren't you going to eat, too? I hate to be the only one eating." Now I don't want to be cynical, but from experience I think that in reality what he could really be thinking is, "It's about time you got that food on the table! I am ravaged and if it had been a minute more I would have passed out. And I don't care if anyone else around here eats or not, just get out of my way and let me get to that plate!"

Am I being too harsh? Nah, I'm just having fun!

Hiding From My Dad

Is it OK for me to admit that I spend a portion of each day trying to hide from my dad? I remember when I had toddlers there were times that I just wanted to hide, so I guess this is normal.

Hiding takes on various forms. There is the take-a-book-into-my-bedroom-and-close-the-door-and-read kind of hiding which is very deliberate and allows me some real down time. He's pretty good about not coming in if the door is closed and he sees the sign on the door that says, Wink and Judy's Room. But if the door is open he often just walks in like it is the living room or kitchen. No privacy with Pop.

Bathroom stops give me a few seconds. Another more brief form is just leaving-the-room-when-he-walks-into-the-room-and-go-into-some-other-room kind of hiding.

Sitting at my computer is a good way to hide for a period of time but he usually finds me, comes in, pats me on the shoulder and asks how my day is coming along, or if I'm feeling OK today (why he asks this I'll never know. To my knowledge I'm perfectly healthy). If I stay too long in the computer room, he'll come in several times and pat me on the shoulder and ask how my day is coming along, or if I'm feeling OK today.

Tea Time is my regular fall back. Sort of like bribing the kids with a Popsicle if they will go outside and eat it. I offer him tea and that usually occupies him for a good 30 minutes.

Errands or my work provides a nice lengthy escape, for hours but the trick here is that there has to be a "pop-sitter" at home. Thankfully my son and husband are self employed like me and that allows a flexible schedule for us to all take turns. Yeah!

Grocery shopping is tricky because he sometimes likes to go along and push the cart. When he does come with me, with hands on the cart handle, he'll look at me with a grin on his face and say, "Get in," like when I was a little girl and I'd ride in the cart. I joke back and tell HIM to "get in." Anyway, when it is time for grocery shopping and I want to do it alone I resort to my fall back position and make him, you got it, a cup of tea. Once he is sipping I can run out the door before he realizes that I'm gone. I remember doing that to my kids when the baby sitter came and I didn't want them to crumble into a puddle of tears before my husband and I got out the door. Distract and run!

Well, here I am sitting at the computer escaping. I guess I'd better go out and face the music, check on pop. Maybe I'll make him another cup of tea.

Chores: Laundry - "Out of Sight, Out of Mind

"Is there anything I can do?" comes the familiar question. I plunk the basket full of freshly washed and dried laundry down in front of Pop and tell him he can help me by folding the clothes. His immediate comment EACH AND EVERY TIME is, "I'm not sure I know how to do this" and I ALWAYS say, "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

In reality there are challenges connected with the process which ALWAYS ends up involving me. #1 The old saying, "out of sight, out of mind" has direct implications for my dad and laundry folding. #2 Everything gets folded, matched and mated twice.

- "Out of sight, out of mind" goes like this. As he folds, matches and mates the clothes the problem arises as to where to put the stack. Balancing a pile of folded clothes on his knee eventually gets wobbly and he has to place the stack somewhere else. Often the stack gets placed back into the basket on top of the clothes that have not yet been completed. He digs around the edges of the stack until he can't see anymore clothes to administer to and believes he is finished. So, you see "out of sight, out of mind." As far as he is concerned the job is done.

- Once the clothes are somewhat folded, matched and mated I take the basket into my bedroom, empty its contents onto the bed and undo all the black socks that have been mated with the navy blue, the checkered that were mated with the dotted and redo the whole pile of towels, wash clothes, hand towels that were folded awkwardly and finish the pile that he never saw underneath. So everything gets a second fold, second match and a second mate. (Fitted sheets are out of the question. He doesn't even try.)

Once the job is done I tell him "thanks" and he always says, "Oh, I don't think I did a very good job." And I usually I tell him he did fine. Today he added another expletive after the task was completed. "You'll probably never ask me to do this again!" Today I laughed and said,"You did fine."

Tea Time

When we think of Tea Time we usually think of the British rendition, if I am correct, occurring sometime in the early afternoon. But for Pop it is all day long. Tea time starts in the morning around breakfast and then repeats itself about every 30 minutes or so until about lunch time. Or at least that is how it feels. Tea Time is also after every walk which are numerous and any time that I need to distract him or just get him out of my hair. Needless to say he consumes an enormous amount of tea in one day.

Sometimes I find him rummaging through the pantry looking for the bags. I have purposely hidden them because he doesn't know how to set the microwave correctly and it did lead to a near catastrophe a few weeks ago. One day I came home from running an errand. My husband was outside and in that duration of time Pop decided that he was going to MAKE HIS OWN TEA. Going about it the old fashioned way he put my bright yellow tea pot on the burner, turned it to high and left it to boil. When I came in the door the house reeked of the smell of something burning. Running to the kitchen I saw my yellow tea pot in a state of an orange glow, burned dry of H2o and close to melt down. As I frantically lifted the pot off the burner, the pot which was stuck, lifted the unit shorting out the stove. The kettle being a lost cause went into the trash. The stove was the next more ominous concern. After pulling it away from the wall, checking the plug for damage and finding none the search was on to locate the reason for our inoperable stove. Eventually we tracked down a breaker switch that had flipped to off. Whew! Needless to say NO MORE TEA MAKING FOR POP. With the tea pot gone, I then put the tea bags out of sight making it necessary for me to be the ongoing tea maker.

Unfortunately I have not found a suitable hiding place for the quart size tea bags and those are the ones he still manages to find. Sometimes if I see him at the pantry searching I'm able to intervene. But occasionally if I am not prompt or out of the room I will find the left over mess from his attempts all over the microwave plate.

The scenario unfolds like this. To his credit he finds himself a cup, locates the quart sized tea bags high up on the top of a pantry shelf (intentionally high but evidently not out of reach). Putting the quart sized bag into his mug he places it in the microwave and proceeds to punch buttons until it starts. After boiling the water out of the cup all over the microwave he retrieves the mug and sips. With the enormous bag floating in the remaining tea and with a look of accomplishment he exclaims, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's good! Today I will relocate the quart sized tea bags.

Living in Don's World

Pop walks in the door with his coat in hand and proceeds to the pantry. Opens the door, oops that's not my closet. He looks for the signs that tell him where his room is. "Ahh," he thinks to himself. "DON, I see a sign that says DON and it points this way." Pop proceeds to the next sign that says OFFICE. He peeks in. Nope, not that room. The next sign says DON'S ROOM. "Aha!" he's arrived. Hangs up his coat and goes to the kitchen. He has just come in from one of his many walks of the day and needs a cup of tea.

He proceeds with accuracy to the pantry again, this time looking for a tea bag. But finds none. And that is because several weeks ago Judy stopped putting the tea bags in the pantry because he kept getting into the quart size bags and was using them for one cup. Judy get's involved and makes him his tea.

After tea he may decide to go for a walk. "Let's see. Where is my coat?" He meanders down the hall and roams from room to room. Seeing the sign on my husband's and my bedroom reading WINK'S AND JUDY'S ROOM he moves away and proceeds to BRET'S ROOM. OK those were not right. So he continues until he finds the signs, once again that read DON! Yea! We are making progress. Down the hall he proceeds reading the signs. Once in his room he is not sure why he is in his room. So he is out the door and finds the sign that reads DON'S BATHROOM. Aha. "I think I will shave," he thinks to himself. "Not sure if I've shaved today but think I'll do that anyway." We hear the whirrrr of his electric razor for the second or third time that morning and out he comes rubbing his bare chin.

"Let's see," he thinks to himself. "Think I'll go for a walk. I haven't had a walk yet today." He heads for the laundry room but instantly recognizes that this is not his room. Turns around and, voila, there it is, the sign. DON'S ROOM. Not sure why he is there he goes and finds Judy and asks, "Is there anything I can do?" Maybe he vacuums, maybe we dry dishes, or maybe he folds clothes. But then it is time for a walk. "I haven't had a walk today," he thinks to himself. "Judy where is my coat?"

Hovering

Now as hoverers go my dad is the best of the best of hoverers. Hovering happens throughout the day at various times and for various reasons. With arms neatly folded at the wrist in front of him he will hover quietly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I call it his good-boy-stance. Favorite hovering times are any time that he has a need, a want or is bored. But his most favorite of all favorite hovering times is dinner time.

It starts about 4:30 when the hunger pangs begin to settle in. I may be sitting at the computer working and I will see him quietly melt into the room and come and stand behind me. Shifting his weight from one foot to the next he'll pat me on the shoulder and say, "Is there anything I can do for you?" Or "How is your day going?" or just plain old, "how are you doing honey." What he is really saying is, "it is 4:30, you are not in the kitchen starting to cook and I am getting very, very worried that dinner will not be on the table by 5:00."

When I can't take the hovering any longer I make my way into the kitchen. Then the BIG TIME hovering begins. He will mosey over to where I am peeling potatoes or whipping up my concoction and watch me. I know at any moment he is going to say, "Is there anything I can do to help?" and when I say, "No" he says, "Well let me know if there is anything I can do" and he slips a few steps away. He might even circle around the kitchen into the living room but he always comes back to the kitchen to hover at a distance.

I know when the hunger pangs are getting really bad because hovering will be coupled with pacing. He will hover at a distance watching me and then begin to pace around the room, followed by walking from room to room and back again to me. When I've had all the hovering and pacing I can stand I sometimes resort to drastic measures like POINTING. With a great sweep of my arm I will point in the direction of the family room which means, "leave now, and it can't be fast enough!" He will mutter something under his breath like, "I guess you just want me to get out of your hair."

The more compassionate approach is for me to offer him a cup of tea. Tea is his solution to all of life's problems and my way of escaping from every irritating, bothersome, annoying thing that he can throw at me (I will get more into the topic of tea-time in another blog). Often if I offer him a cup of tea it not only gets him to stop hovering but it takes the edge off his appetite giving me added time to complete the meal with some level of peace.

Once the food is being ladled onto the plates I hear, "Oh boy." He gets up from his tea and taking his "good-boy-stance," he hovers one last time before I say, "Come and get it!"

Bath Time

If looks could kill I'd be dead every Saturday -- bath day. Yes, he bathes once a week and only because I make him. Also, because I can't handle the push-back I get from him any more then once a week. Why he hates bathing so much I will never know. Is it the confusion that it creates trying to keep the dirty clothes straight from the clean? Is it the unsettled feeling of climbing in and out of the tub? Or just the imposition of something that he is required to do weekly rather then something he would prefer to do?

As I place his clean clothes in the bathroom I say, "Here is your clean underwear. I'll get the space heater for you." I have learned that I must handle this process very matter of fact or he will engage me in an "if looks could kill" expression-battle or sometimes a full blown verbal battle, pushing my buttons and bringing me to the verge of melt down.

11:00 AM -- After depositing his necessities in his bathroom I leave and he begins to putts around, going back and forth from his room to the bathroom, digging in his overnight bag looking for who knows what, an obvious avoidance approach and an attempt to gain control of the process. It almost appears that he is trying to create confusion for himself so he can blow his own cork and engage me in a verbal argument.

11:15 AM -- Pretty soon he is at my bedroom door. I ask, "Do you need something pop?" He gives me an "I dare you to mention a bath" look. I see we are in for an all out war today.

Round #1 -- I fall into his trap and I say, "I thought you were going to take a bath?" He tells me that he'll do it when he is ready.
One point for Pop.

Round #2 -- Pretty soon he is at my back in the computer room with hat in hand with another "I dare you" look on his face. I ask him what he is doing and he tells me he is going to take a little walk. This time I take my emotions in hand and I am in control. I say, "OK." And out the door he goes.
One point for Judy.

I begin to plan my battle strategy.

Round #3 -- Perhaps if I bring my husband into the scenario this will help. In front of my dad I "mention" to my husband that today is bath day but pop doesn't seem to want to take a bath. The response comes back, "I'm gonna take one. I'm gonna take one" and my husband tells me to "chill." Big help he is!
Round three I lose.
Two points for Pop.

Round #4 -- I'll try the guilt approach. It is getting close to lunch time by now so I say, "Pop, are you hungry?" He drops his head a little. "Well, I don't want to be a burden. I can make it myself" The guilt approach appears to be working. I say, "well I always take care of your needs," ... the one two punch!
Two points for Judy.

Round #5 -- Our son gets into the fray. "Hey, grandpa. You gonna take a bath?" SILENCE from pop.
Three points for pop.

Round #6 -- "Anything I can do for you?" he says. He's trying to make peace with me. I tell him, "not right now" and walk away.
Three points for Judy.

Round #7 -- He sits down in his chair.
Four points for Pop.

12:30 -- Round #8 -- Our son asks again if he is going to take a bath? "Yah, I'm going to," said with irritation in his voice! Tactical error on Bret's part. Pop is digging his heels in now and has headed out the door for walk #2. Gonna work up a little more sweat for the bath I guess.
Five points for Pop.

1 PM -- Round #9 -- Pop is in the bathroom. It is quiet. I believe we might be making some progress. Nope he is shaving, again.
Six points for Pop.

1:15 PM -- Round #10 -- I go to the bathroom door and put my ear to the door to see if I can hear water running. Another point for pop for getting me to stoop to such stupid measures.
Seven points for Pop.

At 1:30 he is still wandering back and forth between his bathroom and his bedroom. I have no idea what he is doing. I put his laundry basket in the bathroom and remind him he can put his dirty clothes in the basket when he takes them off for his bath. He ignores me, get's his cap on and goes outside for walk #3.
Eight points for Pop

By this time I am being so badly beaten I'm wracking my brain for some strategical advantage to try to regain some of my lost points. Ignore him back, I think to myself. Deny him the opportunity to do chores for me when he asks, "Is there anything I can do?" Yup. I've got two great plans.
Four points for Judy

2 PM -- Pop has returned from his walk and is sitting in an easy chair. I normally offer him tea after he returns from a walk. I'll deny him his tea. Maybe he'll get the connection.
Five points for Judy -- I'm making some progress.

2 PM -- Round #11 -- He is pouting. Yeah!
Six points for Judy

But I am feeling really, really annoyed. It has been three hours since I first mentioned bath time.
Nine points for Pop

Round #12 -- I'll take a walk and show him!
Ten points for pop for getting me to compete with him.

Round #13 -- It is a warm, sunny day with a cool breeze. I take a brisk run down the road to and from the mail box. I come back exhilarated and pop is still pouting. Another point for me.
Seven points for Judy

He is pretending to be asleep but cracks his eyes open when I walk by. Ha!! He's competing! One more point for me ... but I must admit, he is still not in the bathroom. So that is one more point for Pop as well.
Eleven points Pop
Eight points Judy

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It is three O'clock in the afternoon. I am out of tactics. Pop has completely forgotten the 4 hour competition that we had going on earlier today and out of shear resignation I start the same scenario all over again. "Pop, here are your clean clothes. Here is your laundry basket. Here is your towel and wash clothe, your shampoo and soap." I wait totally at his mercy to see what he is going to do with that information.
AHA!!!! I hear water running in his bathroom.
One more point for Pop because nothing I said all day long had any impact on the outcome. He is taking his bath because he just decided it was time to take a bath.

Total Points:
Pop 12
Judy 8

POP WINS AGAIN!

"How'd You Sleep?"

I see the light on underneath my dad's bathroom door. He's up. I hear the whirrrr of his electric shaver. He comes out of the bathroom to put his razor back into his travel bag. He has not taken his "essentials" out of his travel bag since he arrived here 19 months ago. I don't know if he thinks that one of these days he is going to need to make a quick exit or just because the bag is familiar. Probably the later. At any rate, these trips back and forth from the bathroom to his room go on for about an hour. Soon he emerges from his morning routine and I hear, "How'd you sleep?" I turn to him. He's all dressed; jeans, shirt and signature cardigan sweater and fully shaved (he wears the sweaters year round) Still in my jammies I greet him with "Fine, pop. How'd you sleep?"

At this stage in his condition his conversation is for the most part restricted to pat phrases. Because he doesn't remember that my husband and I were out last evening with friends he doesn't have much else to ask or say. As I still have on the tell tale clues of just getting out of bed, my night ware, this particular phrase for this time of day is safe and appropriate.

If I leave the room and come back I will get the same warm greeting as if he is just seeing me for the first time this morning. If I leave the room again and come back ... well, you get the idea. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

As I prepare to close this blog and leave the computer room to go have my breakfast, I know I will hear "How'd you sleep?" Guess I'd better get out of my jammies.

Pop and his chores: Vacuuming

"Is there anything I can do?" is one of Pop's most infamous questions. Sometimes he is sincerely wanting to help. Other times the question is asked out of boredom. And lastly, sometimes he asks out of a feeling of obligation. When it is out of obligation and I say, "Not right now." I can tell he is relieved and settles into his nice comfy chair. But when I do say, "Yes, you can vacuum," this affirmative is usually met with a positive reaction.

I don't know if it is the cords, hoses, noise, all that good stuff that taps into his machismo or just the fact that he is able to see instant results. Whatever it is vacuuming is another way that Pop likes to "help."

Getting the project started often presents some problems, though. He is sometimes not sure how to get the electricity from the wall to the machine. I've seen him holding the electrical cord in one hand and with the other flipping wall switches that turn lights on but not vacuums. Hmmmmmm. This requires me to get involved, get the cord plugged into the wall socket and get the project launched. Now that the power is connected the next trick is for him to remember how to get the machine started. Sometimes he remembers that there is a button on the box that you can touch with your toe and other times I find him flipping switches on the handle of the hose which is NOT how to get the motor started. Enter Judy and I step on the button getting the power from the wall into the machine. At this point I am wondering if I should have just done the job myself.

Once the machine is running he tears into the chore with pains taking accuracy! He moves methodically across the carpet, turns around and re-vacuums the same area all over again ... and then again and again and again. Because his memory does cooperate on exactly where he has vacuumed, the end result is multiple strokes over and over again, back and forth, back around to the same area that he started from, over and over and over again. The end result? A very, very clean carpet!

Pop: On Eating Out

I don't know if the Great Depression traumatized my dad or just had a tremendous impact on his views about money and the way he spends it. But whatever it was, he turned out to be an extremely frugal guy. Not only is he financially frugal but he is compulsively living in a world of the:
small, modest, used, simple, free, recycled, inexpensive, few, worn and patched. For example I can hardly get him to change his socks because he has decided that washing them wears them out faster requiring an eventual purchase(I won't get onto the topic of his underwear). A small glass for his drink. A small bowl for his cereal. A small amount of cereal in the bowl. A small amount of milk on the cereal. And when he is still hungry after eating the small bowl of cereal he will pour another small amount of cereal and eat again from his small bowl with a small amount of milk and drink from his small glass of water. So on and so on and so on. Thus when we announce that we are all going out to a restaurant to eat he receives the news with very mixed emotions. Food, yeah! Spending the extra money to eat out, ugh! Now as frugal as he is he is still a fare minded guy and wants to pay his own way. So before we walk out the door, with a strained look on his face, he will pull his wallet from his back pocket, carefully examining its contents making sure he has enough on hand (we actually sneak bills into his wallet so he feels that he has his own spending money).

From the moment the food arrives he starts in with, "How much do I owe you?" To ease his pain we say, "A buck, pop." Followed by, "Are you sure that is enough?" We have learned that once he pays his dollar it is best to leave the George Washington sitting on the table so that when he asks 5 to 10 times more about payment all we have to do is tap the dollar bill and say, "See pop you've already paid."

Pop and His Chores: Sweeping

Not liking disorder, I often find my dad stacking piles of junk mail, pushing itmes around on the counter tops lining them up in neat little rows and inspecting the floor. Slightly hunched over he scans the wooden planks below seeking out the pesky intruders on tidiness. Soon I hear, "Where is the broom and dust pan?" They are where they always are. I never move them. Always in the same place. But the question never ceases to be asked.

If I leave him to his own devices, soon I see him telescoping the kitchen and eventually his eyes will fall on the pantry. I can almost read his mind, “Ah ha! I think they are behind THIS door.” Bingo!

Sweeping is a great way to keep him occupied for a while but the down side is that he always wants his work inispected. "I'm not sure I did a very good job. Would you come and look at my work?" comes his question. Often sweeping is the chore I've given him to busy him and keep him out of my hair for about 10 minutes. In response to his question I usually say, "You always do a great job, Pop so I am sure that it turned out fine. I'll look at it later."

In a couple of hours all of the above will be repeated again and from his perspective it will have been the first time of that day.

Pop: On walking

I'm in our bedroom and in walks my dad, totally unannounced. "Where you goin' pop. Do you need something?" "Oh, I don't know. Just walking," is his reply. Pop raps on the computer room door (privacy all of a sudden?), "What'cha doin' pop?" Just wandering around looking for you," he says. Whether lost, confused or for exercise, Pop is a good walker.

Somewhere along the way he picked up the concept that walking is very beneficial to one's health. Several times a day, winter, spring, summer or fall he will dawn his baseball cap and out the door he goes. I see him through the window tooling around the loop in our yard. Once, twice and then back into the house. This will happen several times a day and each time he comes in he acts as if he has just climbed Mt. Everest. "Pop, you want some tea?" "Yes!" is the reply. "I just took a couple of laps around the yard and I really need something to bring me down." Bring me down? Not sure what that means but, OK. Tea coming right up (tea time is another topic that I will address in another blog).

In the evenings the walking picks up. Sundowners? Not sure but while we are all watching TV it is very hard to keep him in a chair for long. Up and down. Up and down. From the chair to his room, from his room to his bathroom, back to the chair, out into the living room. Maybe even into our bedroom, again. "What cha' doin' pop?" "Oh, I don't know, just walkin," comes the reply.

"Hey, Jude"

Trying to figure out how my dad's mind operates at this stage in his dementia is a bit of a mystery. When I am out running an errand I am Mary to him, his wife who is now living in Oregon close to her children. He will ask my husband or my son, "where is Mary?" Or "When will Mary be home?" When I am around the house I am Jude, like in the Beatles song "Hey Jude," his daughter.

I am obviously the hub of his life; his source of security, his source of direction, his meal provider, his house keeper, his friend. Such a strange role reversal from the days when he was the hub of my life, my dad, my daddy, the one who called me June Bug, whose knee I sat on, who tucked me in at night and told me it was OK when I couldn't sleep.

Fortunately his memory still embraces the people in his life both present and past. I can bring up a name and recollection is there. Sometimes I'm not sure if he has it all sorted out especially newer additions to the family circle. He knows my grandsons, Bret's sons because he sees them often. My nephew, Dusty who lives in California is a new father to an adorable little boy, Ryder. Pop enjoys hearing stories about Ryder but he has to be reminded who he is and whom he belongs to. New acquaintances/friends definitely are new to him every time he sees them. New information does not sink in quickly and much repetition must occur before it becomes, if ever, embedded in his mind.

Often when I leave the room and return I hear, "Hi, Jude. Welcome back. I missed you!" He thinks I've been out of the house and just returned home. In the morning the familiar phrase is, "Hi. How'd you sleep?" I leave the room and come back and I hear, "Hi, how'd you sleep?" This may go on until I have changed out of my jammies and into my day wear.

So glad he at least remembers me.

Dishes

Dishes ... who likes to do dishes? I see that hand, Pop.

Daddy loooooooooves doing dishes. But I won't let him. "Why," you say? Because his idea of washing dishes is running some hot water over them and then into the drying rack. That's it. No soap, no washing, it's just rinse and then into the rack. After my mother passed away, before he had dementia I had many a lunch at his house. Now that I understand his idea of clean, I have wondered how many dirty dishes and utensils I have eaten from without knowing it?

Before I became wise to his dish washing practices I occasionally let him do the washing. I couldn't figure out why I kept finding dingy looking glasses in my cupboards and silverware that still had food stuck to them. Once I realized the problem, pop was banned from the sink and handed a dish towel. He seems to have accepted his demotion and doesn't often ask to wash anymore.

Most of the dirty dishes go into the dishwasher, which he hates because that means he will have to wait to do the drying. He's been seen standing in front of the dishwasher with towel in hand waiting for the machine to finish it's lengthy cycle so he can dry its contents. The ones that do not go into the dish washer I wash by hand and yeah!!!! pop gets to dry them on the spot. What fun! And when we are done I usually announce, "Well I guess that's it for now, pop" And he says, "Oh. Are we done already?"

Drying dry dishes is not uncommon either. Sometimes I will suggest that he dry the dishes that have been sitting in the drying rack and have already air dried. The goal is not so much drying dishes as it is giving him something to do. Grabbing the towel with a flourish he stuffs the towel deep into the dry drinking glasses or dry mugs, all the way to the bottom twisting and turning making sure every “drop” is thoroughly removed. The dry plates are carefully wiped down to make sure there is no chance of any drips or streaks. Once the dry dishes are dry, he attempts to put them into their appropriate cupboards often requiring me to relocate them to their more appropriate cupboards.

Always after he starts his drying task the question comes, "And where do I put these when they are dry?" I used to tell him to put them on the island so I could put them away to be sure they got to their proper place. He didn't seem to be satisfied with that though seeming to want to finish the task fully by putting them in their proper place. Perhaps to prove to himself that he can still figure out how to bring a job to closure he wants to put them up. Or perhaps because he wants to prolong the process. I don't know. But anyway, I have started letting him figure out where they belong.

Sometimes I will leave the room listening to the clink of the glass ware. From the living room I can see him moving around at one end of the kitchen. Opening the doors I watched him observing spices, oils, sugar and flour but no plates, cups or glasses. Getting up I go into the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors so he can see the two appropriate options; the drinking glass/cup cupboard and the dishes/bowls cupboard and I turned him lose to just let him have a blast!

If I decide, as I occasionally do, that after preparing the evening meal I'd rather leave the dishes until morning ... heaven forbid! My mother left behind a wonderful spy to make sure that her daughter never got away with such a sin. I have observed him after the evening meal fingering the mess that I have put on hold and then turning to me ask, "Can I do these dishes for you?" I know he and my mom have a conspiracy going on from across the grave because every time those 7 little words are uttered what power they have over me. As ill equipped as he is mentally at this stage in life it is amazing to me how much power he still has sway over me. Before I know it I'm up to my elbows in sudsy water. "Here pop. Here's the dish towel. I'll wash. You dry." He wins again.

I Cut Down The Cherry Tree. I Can Not Tell a Lie.

As honest as Honest Abe or George Washington, pop is right up there among the greats. We've been having quite a bit of trouble with him losing a ruby ring that he has had 60 plus years. Because his finger is smaller now then it was when he first purchased the it years and years ago the ring kept falling off. In and of itself it is probably not worth a whole lot but the sentimental value makes it invaluable to our family. About three weeks ago he came to me, showed me his finger and announced that the ring was missing. Sure enough. I examined his hand where the ring usually adorns his pinky finger and it was most definitely not there. Thinking that all was lost I tried to put it out of my mind. Then this morning I noticed that there on his pinky was the ruby ring. "Pop, where did you find your ring," I exclaimed? "I don't know," was his response. And he didn't know.

Well, to make a long story short I found stashed away a less valuable but much flashier ring with a cubic zirconium set in a fake gold band and swapped this for the ruby ring. My intention was to take the ruby and have it sized to fit him so he would not continue to lose it.

Later in the day I came home from shopping to a very breathless and distraught dad. "I have something to show you," he said with a sorrowful frown on his face. He held out his pinky finger and said, "I think I walked out of the store with this ring on." He held out the gold ring with the CZ and showed it to me with an expression that screamed, "I'm dead meat and I'm sure the police are on their way to haul me off to jail." Poor guy thought he'd stolen a diamond ring.

Pop in the Kitchen: Part I

At this stage in pop's life simple pleasures are the riches of life. A box of raisin bran is a source of great delight. "You can't beat this stuff," he says with relish in his voice, tapping on the box top. Meal time, snacking, food anything to do with food is the all of end all's, Nirvana, bliss, the high light of every day ... especially dinner time.

Around 4:30 he starts to get restless. If I am at the computer or somewhere in the house other then in the kitchen he will find me and begin to engage me with comments like, "How is your day going?" Or "Is there anything I can do to help?" What he is really saying is, "I am getting a bit nervous because I don't see you in the kitchen."

As soon as I do make my way to the kitchen he starts in, "Can I help?" When I say, "No." He continues, "Well, if there is anything I can do just let me know." "Thanks, pop." This continues until I come up with some creative method of removing him from the room or I simply lose my cool and point in exasperation for him to LEAVE THE ROOM. I'm finding that I can turn on the news and get him side tracked for a few minutes before I hear again, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Once I call, "come and get it" the exclamations begin. "Oh, boy ... sure smells good ..." and once the meal commences the scenario is right out of the Bill Murry movie, What About Bob? From pop's direction we hear sounds like "MMMM".... mmmm .... mmmm, "Oh, boy this is good," repeat, repeat, repeat. Under his breath we'll hear him say with great sincerity, "thank you Jesus, oh, boy."

Now after hearing this you would think that I am the world's greatest cook. Perhaps I was even beginning to believe his press. But one evening that bubble was soundly popped. In a rush to get his meal on the table before he exploded I ran to the refrigerator, which looked like Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. In desperation I pulled out from the freezer a box of off-brand chicken tenders, microwaved them, dumped some soy sauce on them, threw a few canned green beans on the plate along with some form of a potato concoction and put it front of him. "From first bite to last, gourmet all the way, Jude" is what I heard. The accolades did not cease. "Boy this is good. Gourmet all the way!!!! Thank you, Jude. This is really gourmet!"

What can I say? The man is easy to please.

Pop: On getting locked in the truck

We've all read stories in the newspaper about children who lock themselves in or get locked into a vehicle. Sometimes the stories are funny ... sometimes tragic. Have you ever heard of locking a parent in a vehicle?

This morning pop and I were off in our new, not new like 2010-new or even 2009-new, but new to us, Chevy, Avalanche to have our one and only key made into another set of keys. As I drove down our little road to the main street I noticed that a yellow light on the dash was on indicating that I was low on fuel; very, very low on fuel. Rather then risk driving the distance to my favorite, less expensive gas station I had to choose the price gouger's on the corner (we call them the terrorists) to get a few gallons to tide us over. On our rear view mirror we have a handy, dandy temperature gage that indicates what the temp is outside. I noted that it was 27 degrees.

We pulled into the station. I hopped out leaving pop snug in the co-pilot seat eager to get those few gallons so I could get out of the cold and on our way to buy the extra truck keys. Now there are several bells and whistles on this truck. One that I especially don't care for is the automatic lock which locks all the doors shortly after the engine has been turned off. It means that the driver is always having to unlock the truck to re-enter and obviously it could lead to some real problems if for example, the keys were left in the vehicle, or ... somebody unable to open the door got left in the vehicle. As I closed the drivers side door and moved out into the cold toward the pump I heard that chilling sound ... click, click indicating that the truck doors were locked! I peaked in and next to my warm comfy pop were the truck keys, the one and only set sitting on the console.

Pop sat and stared at me as I began to tap on the window trying to tell him that I was locked out. He does not hear well, see well or comprehend well. In an agitated voice I began to make pounding gestures with my finger trying to show him he needed to push a button on my door panel. The longer I gestured the more my volume went up and the gesturing and tapping became more hysterical. At one point I tried to get him to put the key in the ignition to start the truck hoping the doors would open. What was I thinking? When I realized how dumb that was I began to make frantic, sweeping gestures with my arm directing and yelling for him to crawl over the console into the drivers seat where he could get to the buttons on my door. Why I did that I'll never know! First of all how was an 87 year old man going to climb over this rather large console? Secondly, he had his own buttons on his door that would have accomplished the needed task. He stared at me blankly trying to figure out what this crazy woman was wanting him to do. Not only was he locked in this truck, but he had a nit whit outside in rapid fire fashion tapping on the window, pointing, gesturing and hollering incomprehensible instructions at him. When a moment of understanding finally came he strained to reach the drivers door and with fumbling fingers pushed at the buttons on the panel. "Yes, yes that is the one I yelled." But being a double sided button -- one side for lock and the other side for unlock -- he could not get the combination correct. As the emotions in both of us rose he grabbed at his door handle, said a couple of choice words, and finally in a gesture of frustration hit the window. Somehow by some streak of luck he happened to hit the unlock button on his door and I heard that wonderful sound ... click, click!

How It All Began

It was July and my father was living in a home for the elderly, in the Alzheimer's ward, a patient but still not yet really a patient, not nearly advanced enough in his disease to need that type of care. Via the encouragement of my husband (he goes by a nick name, Wink), my sister, Debbie and I decided it best to check him out of the home and move him here to Austin, Texas back into a family unit again. For nearly 2 years now he has been happily living with my husband, son and myself via a giant coup, that I am very proud to say, my sister and I pulled off that summer of 2008.

I don't remember exactly when or where the decision was made to make this snatch. But once it was, my sister and I both knew it was going to require some real cunning on our parts. We knew it would have to be done totally apart from our father's knowledge because there would be no cooperation on his part. After all he had lived all his life in the Santa Clara Valley in Northern California and had never stepped one foot in Texas. Frightening questions surfaced, like would he dig his heels in at the last minute at the airport gate and refuse to get on the plane? How were we going to get his belongings packed without him realizing that something was up? We had purchased a plane ticket for him and there could be no mistakes, no turning back. There had to be a plan and it had to be a good one.

The day of our departure my sister and I arrived at the home mid morning fully prepared to pull off our great sting! The first step was to engage the staff in distracting Pop while the two of us packed his bag. Knowing we only had minutes to accomplish this task before he became suspicious, we dashed upstairs. With pounding hearts and sweaty palms we stripped his closet and bathroom of his earthly possessions and stuffed them into a suit case. Taking the elevator downstairs we quietly left the residence and loaded the bag into the back of my sister's car.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm ourselves, we returned to the lobby where Pop was waiting. Escorting him down the hall to the nurses station we received final instructions on his meds and then the three of us casually walked the front door knowing that our dad had no idea he would never be returning there again. On the verge of hysterical laughter, or was it fainting, Deb and I usher Pop into the car under the auspices of making a trip across town to my sister's house for a visit. We had our short "visit" and then encouraged my dad to go with us to the airport so he could see me off, back to Austin. We were getting no push back from him at any point in our adventure. "This was too easy," we thought to ourselves.

At the airport, we checked him through all of the boarding security, all the way up to the gate, the whole time listening to him lament my departure. Each successful step in the whole process built our confidence and we began to relax. We realized that we were almost ready to pull this thing off.

Soon we heard the announcement over the loud speaker that it was time for the passengers to Austin, TX to board. This was my sister's and my cue and turning to to our dad we cried, “Surprise! The three of us are making a trip to Austin!” He looked at us dumbfounded and with a little tug at his arm we were on the plane.

Once on the plane there was no exiting and the coup was complete. My sister and I breathed a huge sigh of relief and inwardly relished our unbelievable success at pulling off such a grand plan of espionage.

Several weeks later, back in our home in Austin, Pop said to me, “There isn't a round trip ticket for me is there?” We chuckled and said, “No. How do you like the idea of living with your family now?” All things considered he agreed that the room of his own, the comfortable bed, nice roof over his head and three decent meals a day was not so bad. Thus the adventure began.