I enter the room where my dad is enjoying a nice lounge in a comfortable chair perhaps with tea in hand. He immediately takes on a quiet-as-a-mouse profile with head lowered rolling his eyes so he can watch me cross the room. It is as if this posture will somehow render him invisible. My posture? Avoid eye contact with him at all cost. I am aware of his eyes following me but I look straight ahead and walk briskly through the room. Making it to the other side, I breath a sigh of relief and compliment myself for escaping in time. This is a little dance that Pop and I do at some point in time almost every day.
"Why," you may ask? Pop knows that if he looks my way or if I look at him he will feel an obligation to say, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Because I know his offer at this particular time is out of obligation and because most of the time I don't want him to help, we do this little dance. If you have ever had toddlers you might remember them wanting to help. Similar request. Similar dreaded outcome.
Point in check. Sweeping: "Jude, where is the broom?" -- I have not moved it from it's hook in the closet where it always hangs.
Dish drying: "I'm not sure what to do with these when I finish drying them." -- He asks this each and every time he dries even though I've been telling him each and every time to set them on the island for me to put away.
Laundry folding: "I'm not sure I know how to do this very well."
Vacuuming: "What do you want me to vacuum?" "How do I turn this on?"
Cleaning his bathroom sink: "Jude, what do I use to clean this with?"
And following each chore I'm interrupted from my task at hand with, "You'd better come inspect my work to see if it is OK."
Sometime today Pop and I will do our little dance, same tune, same desired outcome. He'll hide from me. I'll run from him. Lord are you trying to tell me something about patience?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Raisin Bran
"This cereal is good stuff," Pop says as he taps the box of raisin bran. It is sometime between 8 & 8:30 AM and he is ready for breakfast. He moseys over to the spice cupboard, "No bowls in there," he thinks to himself. He moseys over to the condiments cupboard, "No bowls in there either I see." He tries the cupboard where we keep the drinking glasses. Realizing he is having difficulty, again, finding the cereal bowls I direct him across the room to the appropriate cabinet.
With cereal bowl located he begins opening up drawers looking for a spoon. He opens the towel drawer first because it is on the island right in front of him. "Let's go with the most obvious," I assume he is thinking. No spoons in there so he pulls the next drawer only to find plastic wrap, bags and such. I direct him to the drawer behind him by the sink to locate the spoons.
"Milk" ... he starts toward the pantry, corrects himself and moves to the big black refrigerator. "Ah, ha!" Once the milk is on the island he says, "Jude, where's the sugar?" Sugar bowl being where it always is, sitting on top of the island, I point at it.
Once all the essentials are located he proceeds to pour ever so little of the raisin bran into the bowl. He moves the cereal around with his fore finger gauging if he has poured too much. As you recall from one of my previous blogs, Pop likes life in small portions. After determining if there is an adequately small portion in the bowl he sugars it, pours his milk and the feast begins. After eating he goes to the sink, rinses the bowl and puts it in the draining rack. I go to the draining rack and retrieve the bowl and spoon and put them into the dishwasher.
In about 5 minutes Pop goes to the cereal bowl cupboard (he got it right this time) and pulls out another bowl. Having determined that he had not eaten enough the first time around he opens the box of raisin bran and pours another small portion of cereal, fingers it, sugars it and proceeds to eat the second bowl. He looks at me and says, "Man this is good stuff."
Later that evening, around 8 p.m. Pop makes his way into the kitchen, pulls the box of raisin bran from the pantry. "Why bother with a bowl," he thinks to himself. He begins to eat it right from the box, no milk, no sugar leaving his trail of raisin bran all over the kitchen counter tops and dribbles all over the floor.
I think to myself, "what good would it do to clean it up tonight? It will just be spilled all over again tomorrow." I leave the room with Pop standing at the kitchen counter grazing on raisin bran as he thinks to himself, "Man this raisin bran is good stuff."
With cereal bowl located he begins opening up drawers looking for a spoon. He opens the towel drawer first because it is on the island right in front of him. "Let's go with the most obvious," I assume he is thinking. No spoons in there so he pulls the next drawer only to find plastic wrap, bags and such. I direct him to the drawer behind him by the sink to locate the spoons.
"Milk" ... he starts toward the pantry, corrects himself and moves to the big black refrigerator. "Ah, ha!" Once the milk is on the island he says, "Jude, where's the sugar?" Sugar bowl being where it always is, sitting on top of the island, I point at it.
Once all the essentials are located he proceeds to pour ever so little of the raisin bran into the bowl. He moves the cereal around with his fore finger gauging if he has poured too much. As you recall from one of my previous blogs, Pop likes life in small portions. After determining if there is an adequately small portion in the bowl he sugars it, pours his milk and the feast begins. After eating he goes to the sink, rinses the bowl and puts it in the draining rack. I go to the draining rack and retrieve the bowl and spoon and put them into the dishwasher.
In about 5 minutes Pop goes to the cereal bowl cupboard (he got it right this time) and pulls out another bowl. Having determined that he had not eaten enough the first time around he opens the box of raisin bran and pours another small portion of cereal, fingers it, sugars it and proceeds to eat the second bowl. He looks at me and says, "Man this is good stuff."
Later that evening, around 8 p.m. Pop makes his way into the kitchen, pulls the box of raisin bran from the pantry. "Why bother with a bowl," he thinks to himself. He begins to eat it right from the box, no milk, no sugar leaving his trail of raisin bran all over the kitchen counter tops and dribbles all over the floor.
I think to myself, "what good would it do to clean it up tonight? It will just be spilled all over again tomorrow." I leave the room with Pop standing at the kitchen counter grazing on raisin bran as he thinks to himself, "Man this raisin bran is good stuff."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Pop the Cross Dresser
It is around 8 AM and I see Pop emerging from his morning toiletries. He walks into view with a bit of a swagger appearing to be quite confident of his appearance. I note that as usual his beautiful, white head of hair is neat and slicked back. He is dressed this morning in a clean pair of jeans and a clean shirt. Knowing that I like clean clothes perhaps accounts for the swagger. Who knows. But he is obviously very pleased with the way he looks.
But what is he wearing over his shirt? It is not his "signature cardigan" nor his tan jacket. From a distance I can see that whatever it is, it is rather cute; mandarin collar, tan, looks maybe like it is made of corduroy with an elastic band waist. I also note that it is way too small. The sleeves come up above his wrists and the zipper would not be able to zip even over his small chest. The closer he gets to me the more I begin to recognize the size small, woman's jack. He has found and put on one of my jackets. Totally unaware of what he is wearing, I look closely at him and say, "Pop, I think you've got on my jacket." What an embarrassing moment for Mr macho, Mr. suave and debonair. He laughs an embarrassed laugh. I laugh a humored laugh and we exchange my jacket for his. Like the saying goes, "all's well that ends well" ... I guess.
But what is he wearing over his shirt? It is not his "signature cardigan" nor his tan jacket. From a distance I can see that whatever it is, it is rather cute; mandarin collar, tan, looks maybe like it is made of corduroy with an elastic band waist. I also note that it is way too small. The sleeves come up above his wrists and the zipper would not be able to zip even over his small chest. The closer he gets to me the more I begin to recognize the size small, woman's jack. He has found and put on one of my jackets. Totally unaware of what he is wearing, I look closely at him and say, "Pop, I think you've got on my jacket." What an embarrassing moment for Mr macho, Mr. suave and debonair. He laughs an embarrassed laugh. I laugh a humored laugh and we exchange my jacket for his. Like the saying goes, "all's well that ends well" ... I guess.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Crank Flash Light
Pop has always had a liking for gadgets; a unique pocket screw driver; a unique tool for the car. But the all of end all gadgets that delights his soul is his crank flash light. Somewhere along the way as a Christmas or birthday gift he acquired this gadget that requires no batteries and is made operational by cranking the small black handle. 30 seconds is supposed to offer 30 minutes of light. Pretty nifty!
Each and every evening, sometime after dinner we hear whirrrrrr, whirrrr, whirr, whir coming from the direction of Pop's room. The Boy Scout in my dad is awakening as he locates his tool of preference to begin preparation for seeking out the dangers that lurk in the darkness. Throughout our TV viewing we hear whirrrrrr, whirrrr, whirr, whir. It drones on through our next program and into the next.
What Boy Scout needs conventional lighting when you've got your crank flash light in your kit? This is apparently the logic that my dad follows. I find him in the pantry, pitch dark shining his light to find his evening snack. From my vantage point in the family room I can see him roaming the dark living room flashing his light and intermittently cranking the handle as he checks to make sure doors are locked and porch lights are turned off. Into his bathroom he will go using his flash light to find his nightly toiletries. Members of our family have been awakened from sleep in the middle of the night with grandpa shining his flash light into their faces during his nightly rounds. You can just feel the sense of adventure as he plows his way through the darkness, flash light in hand!
For the rest of us tent dwellers this cranking and whirring was initially quite annoying. But at the same time it was hard to not miss the humor in it all which has produced many a family inside joke. So much so that last Christmas my husband purchased crank flash lights for the whole family. If you can't win 'um, join 'um.
As I write this it is a bright and sunny morning. The flash light is tucked away somewhere in his room. But soon this day will begin to draw to a close and we will hear the familiar whirrrrr, whirrr, whir coming from my Pop's room. With a look of purpose on his face Pop will emerge with light in hand readying himself for his evening of adventure securing the home land and battening down the hatches.
Each and every evening, sometime after dinner we hear whirrrrrr, whirrrr, whirr, whir coming from the direction of Pop's room. The Boy Scout in my dad is awakening as he locates his tool of preference to begin preparation for seeking out the dangers that lurk in the darkness. Throughout our TV viewing we hear whirrrrrr, whirrrr, whirr, whir. It drones on through our next program and into the next.
What Boy Scout needs conventional lighting when you've got your crank flash light in your kit? This is apparently the logic that my dad follows. I find him in the pantry, pitch dark shining his light to find his evening snack. From my vantage point in the family room I can see him roaming the dark living room flashing his light and intermittently cranking the handle as he checks to make sure doors are locked and porch lights are turned off. Into his bathroom he will go using his flash light to find his nightly toiletries. Members of our family have been awakened from sleep in the middle of the night with grandpa shining his flash light into their faces during his nightly rounds. You can just feel the sense of adventure as he plows his way through the darkness, flash light in hand!
For the rest of us tent dwellers this cranking and whirring was initially quite annoying. But at the same time it was hard to not miss the humor in it all which has produced many a family inside joke. So much so that last Christmas my husband purchased crank flash lights for the whole family. If you can't win 'um, join 'um.
As I write this it is a bright and sunny morning. The flash light is tucked away somewhere in his room. But soon this day will begin to draw to a close and we will hear the familiar whirrrrr, whirrr, whir coming from my Pop's room. With a look of purpose on his face Pop will emerge with light in hand readying himself for his evening of adventure securing the home land and battening down the hatches.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Pop and "That Cat"
What is it about cats? They seem to gravitate toward those that want the least to do with them. We have a great domestic short hair that loves to annoy my dad. Pop's intolerance of cats goes way back partly to do with his allergies and partly due to upbringing. I believe my grandfather was a literal cat hater. Now I would not classify my dad as a cat hater but he definitely does not have furry friendly feelings toward them. He sort of tolerates them.
I remember him telling the story about his shooting out the sliding glass door trying to ping a cat that annoyed him and my mom every night. The story goes likes this. One afternoon my dad spotted the culprit wandering through their back yard. Pop called to my mom, "Myrn, get my bee bee gun, get my bee bee gun." With my dad fully armed he asked my mom to very quietly open the sliding glass door. Evidently she didn't open it wide enough, my dad's aim was off and after letting the bee bee fly, crash, down came the whole sliding glass door.
Tazzie our black furry friend, seems to know which chair is my dad's favorite and plunks himself right in that spot. Pop will go over to the chair and make some comment like, "That cat (he never calls him by name nor does he refer to his gender) is in the chair" prodding me to take care of the nuisance. Sometimes he will swat at the cat, never touching him, as if Tazz is contaminated and he doesn't dare have contact with the contaminant. I've seen him tip the kitchen chairs to dump the furry contents onto the floor.
Nearly every night, around the time that my dad is getting ready to settle down for his long winters nap, Tazz will sneak into my dad's room and crawl under the bed in his attempt to leave his allergens as close to Pop as possible. If my dad happens to see him go under the bed he will come out and alert my husband and me to the fact that, "That cat is under my bed." Occasionally though Tazz makes it into Pop's room undetected and is not found out until the rest of us are on our way to bed. On those occasions Tazz gets the last laugh. Not wanting to wake my dad up with our aerobic attempts to drag kitty out we will just leave well enough alone and crack my dad's bedroom door slightly so that the cat can get out when he is good and ready. Tazz always gets the last laugh. I think my dad has met his match in "That cat."
I remember him telling the story about his shooting out the sliding glass door trying to ping a cat that annoyed him and my mom every night. The story goes likes this. One afternoon my dad spotted the culprit wandering through their back yard. Pop called to my mom, "Myrn, get my bee bee gun, get my bee bee gun." With my dad fully armed he asked my mom to very quietly open the sliding glass door. Evidently she didn't open it wide enough, my dad's aim was off and after letting the bee bee fly, crash, down came the whole sliding glass door.
Tazzie our black furry friend, seems to know which chair is my dad's favorite and plunks himself right in that spot. Pop will go over to the chair and make some comment like, "That cat (he never calls him by name nor does he refer to his gender) is in the chair" prodding me to take care of the nuisance. Sometimes he will swat at the cat, never touching him, as if Tazz is contaminated and he doesn't dare have contact with the contaminant. I've seen him tip the kitchen chairs to dump the furry contents onto the floor.
Nearly every night, around the time that my dad is getting ready to settle down for his long winters nap, Tazz will sneak into my dad's room and crawl under the bed in his attempt to leave his allergens as close to Pop as possible. If my dad happens to see him go under the bed he will come out and alert my husband and me to the fact that, "That cat is under my bed." Occasionally though Tazz makes it into Pop's room undetected and is not found out until the rest of us are on our way to bed. On those occasions Tazz gets the last laugh. Not wanting to wake my dad up with our aerobic attempts to drag kitty out we will just leave well enough alone and crack my dad's bedroom door slightly so that the cat can get out when he is good and ready. Tazz always gets the last laugh. I think my dad has met his match in "That cat."
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Appearances
"Pop, come on. I've got some errands to run. Let's go for a ride," I say. With a lift in his step and an upbeat, "OK," he dawns his baseball cap and out the door we trot. On his feet are a pair of enormous black suedeish looking, platform heeled shoes. Covering his lower torso and legs are a pair of jeans with a few random pen marks (or is that grease?) which he's possibly worn every day for the past couple of weeks. He has on a plaid shirt with a few streaks of soup or gravy down the front, his cardigan sweater with pulled threads and his baseball cap that comes to a point at the top. Once in the truck he pulls out of his pocket the finale for his fashion statement of the morning; his HUGE aviator, clip on sun glasses that he slides down over the top of his toothpaste spotted, finger printed glasses. When in place, these sun blocks cover half of the upper portion of his small face. What a fashion statement to behold!
I have tried to help him with his wardrobe. But the response is a rather exasperated, "What's wrong with these pants? They're just jeans!" If I mention new shoes, the expression on his face says, "And how much is that going to cost me? These shoes are perfectly functional, thank you."
What ever happened to my well dressed father with a little touch of "cool?" By dad's orders, I remember my mom ironing his white shirts to a state of perfection, not a wrinkle on them. Dawning the white shirt it would be followed by a tasteful tie, equally wrinkle free slacks, snappy suspenders, well polished shoes, a nice sports jacket with a clean handkerchief tucked nicely into the pocket, finished off with a cool pair of shades. Every day wear was equally tasteful, a little outdated by my sister's and my standards, but clean, neat and always a pair of cool sun glasses.
These days his wardrobe is just a source of tension. Every bath-day a tug of war ensues as I begin to enforce the clean-underwear-and-clean-socks-law. On the towel rod in his bathroom I will hang a clean pair of jeans and a clean shirt. Often, though, he will emerge from his cleansing ritual with last weeks pair of jeans and shirt. After inspection I discover that inside those enormous suedish, black shoes are last weeks pair of socks, as well. Too much trouble to get him out of his clothes so I settle for making him sit down, take off the shoes and at least put on the clean socks.
Tonight while he is asleep I will slip into his bedroom take the dirty jeans and shirt, stuff them in the laundry and put out a clean set. Tomorrow morning he will emerge from his morning toiletries wearing the washed and ironed clothes without a clue that he is now as fresh as a daisy.
I have tried to help him with his wardrobe. But the response is a rather exasperated, "What's wrong with these pants? They're just jeans!" If I mention new shoes, the expression on his face says, "And how much is that going to cost me? These shoes are perfectly functional, thank you."
What ever happened to my well dressed father with a little touch of "cool?" By dad's orders, I remember my mom ironing his white shirts to a state of perfection, not a wrinkle on them. Dawning the white shirt it would be followed by a tasteful tie, equally wrinkle free slacks, snappy suspenders, well polished shoes, a nice sports jacket with a clean handkerchief tucked nicely into the pocket, finished off with a cool pair of shades. Every day wear was equally tasteful, a little outdated by my sister's and my standards, but clean, neat and always a pair of cool sun glasses.
These days his wardrobe is just a source of tension. Every bath-day a tug of war ensues as I begin to enforce the clean-underwear-and-clean-socks-law. On the towel rod in his bathroom I will hang a clean pair of jeans and a clean shirt. Often, though, he will emerge from his cleansing ritual with last weeks pair of jeans and shirt. After inspection I discover that inside those enormous suedish, black shoes are last weeks pair of socks, as well. Too much trouble to get him out of his clothes so I settle for making him sit down, take off the shoes and at least put on the clean socks.
Tonight while he is asleep I will slip into his bedroom take the dirty jeans and shirt, stuff them in the laundry and put out a clean set. Tomorrow morning he will emerge from his morning toiletries wearing the washed and ironed clothes without a clue that he is now as fresh as a daisy.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Translating Pop's phrases
Pop is not much of a conversationalist anymore. If he is addressed he responds back with obvious comprehension and good articulation. But initiating dialog does not happen. Instead his version of communication comes in the form of pat phrases that he relies upon, sort of like lines that he has memorized for a play and recites at appropriate times throughout the day. Same phrases but I've learned they can have a variety of meanings. Following are some of those phrases and their translations:
"Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."
Translation:
"I am bored. Help me find something to do."
Or
"I am here. Don't ignore me."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
"How are you feeling today?"
Translation:
"I have no idea what to say right now, but I care about you, and I want you to know it."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
After a walk, while sipping his tea: "I needed that to bring me down."
Translation:
??????????????
"Sure smells good."
Translation:
"I'm hungry."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the
kitchen."
"How's your day going so far?
Translation:
"I have no idea what to say right now but I care about you and I want you to know it."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
"That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." "That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." "That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Translation:
"Meal time is the high light of each day. I can hardly wait for my next meal."
Or
"I am so grateful that you didn't forget to prepare my meal."
Or
"Food, food glorious food!"
"Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."
Translation:
"I am bored. Help me find something to do."
Or
"I am here. Don't ignore me."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
"How are you feeling today?"
Translation:
"I have no idea what to say right now, but I care about you, and I want you to know it."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
After a walk, while sipping his tea: "I needed that to bring me down."
Translation:
??????????????
"Sure smells good."
Translation:
"I'm hungry."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the
kitchen."
"How's your day going so far?
Translation:
"I have no idea what to say right now but I care about you and I want you to know it."
Or
"It is getting close to dinner time and I don't see you in the kitchen."
"That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." "That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." "That was delicious. Thanks for the dinner." Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Translation:
"Meal time is the high light of each day. I can hardly wait for my next meal."
Or
"I am so grateful that you didn't forget to prepare my meal."
Or
"Food, food glorious food!"
Friday, February 12, 2010
Keeper of the Change
Once the dishes are dried, the floors swept and vacuumed, clothes folded (twice folded as I mentioned in my previous blog) what do we do with Pop? I can tell he sometimes gets bored. My husband is a change collector, emptying his pockets nightly into a change basket. One day he made the suggestion that I have my dad sort the change into bags of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. This sounded like a good fine motor activity that would involve repetition and probably provide for some good cerebral exercise.
Emptying the change onto the kitchen table I explained the task to Pop and he began to go to work. I could tell he enjoyed the feel of the coins, something that he does not have opportunity to experience anymore as all his necessities are now purchased for him. Once all was sorted, I put the bags back into the basket and the basket back up onto the shelf. The next day I secretly emptied the coins out of the bags back into the basket and set it before him with the same instruction, "Sort the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters into the bags." He repeated the instructions back to me making sure he understood correctly what he was to do. After another set of bags was successfully sorted I put the basket back on the shelf.
Feeling rather smug that we had found something that he enjoyed doing, could be successful at accomplishing and assuming that he did not remember that he had just sorted the same coins the day before, I started giving him this task on a daily basis. One day after he'd successfully bagged the change, Pop turned to me and said, "Where are you getting all of this change?!" OOps.
Emptying the change onto the kitchen table I explained the task to Pop and he began to go to work. I could tell he enjoyed the feel of the coins, something that he does not have opportunity to experience anymore as all his necessities are now purchased for him. Once all was sorted, I put the bags back into the basket and the basket back up onto the shelf. The next day I secretly emptied the coins out of the bags back into the basket and set it before him with the same instruction, "Sort the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters into the bags." He repeated the instructions back to me making sure he understood correctly what he was to do. After another set of bags was successfully sorted I put the basket back on the shelf.
Feeling rather smug that we had found something that he enjoyed doing, could be successful at accomplishing and assuming that he did not remember that he had just sorted the same coins the day before, I started giving him this task on a daily basis. One day after he'd successfully bagged the change, Pop turned to me and said, "Where are you getting all of this change?!" OOps.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Slammed by Pop at Denny's FREE Grand Slam
As some of you will recall Denny's Restaurant had a nation wide promotional FREE Grand Slam Breakfast yesterday. Our son Bret was pumped about this opportunity for a pile of free pancakes, eggs, bacon and sausage. So about 30 minutes before the offer expired, the four of us jumped into the car and headed for Denny's. We made it along side all the homeless and downtrodden with 15 minutes to spare!
From the moment we landed Pop started asking how much he owed us. We explained the "FREE" scenario to him knowing that the information would not stick but, what the heck. You can't be rude. You gotta answer his questions.
The waitress came, we ordered our 4 Grand Slam breakfasts and waited expectanly. Pop turns to me and asks, "What we are ordering?" "We already ordered Grand Slam breakfasts," I say. "Oh," says Pop. "Who do I owe?" We give Pop the shortened version to the story. "It's free, Pop." He looks at me and frowns with a surprised look on his face.
Our steaming hot plates of cholesterol arrived and Pop gleefully dove in. He downs 2 large pancakes, two sausage links, two strips of bacon, two eggs, two cups of tea and a portion of a pancake hush puppy. We look at each other in amazement and roll our eyes. Where does he put all the food in that thin little body he carts around?
He finishes his last bite. "Boy that was good" and starts to dig in his pocket for his wallet. "Who do I owe?" This time we don't bother to explain that the breakfast was free. I take a dollar from him and tell him we are even. Handing him his baseball cap and coat he turns to me again, "How much do I owe you?" Again I don't bother to explain I just take another dollar from him.
As we move out into the crisp afternoon air he moseys over to me and asks, "How much do I owe you?" I ignore him pretending I don't hear. We get home, walk in the house, he reaches for his wallet and asks, "How much do I owe you?" I walk over to him take his shoulders between my two hands and look him square in the face. "Pop you don't owe us anything! The breakfast was free!! A promotional deal!!! Stop asking me how much you owe me!!!! You don't owe anything!!!!!" I leave the room and that's the end of it. I've learned that sometimes a little volume and a straight-look-in-the-eye approach sometimes works.
From the moment we landed Pop started asking how much he owed us. We explained the "FREE" scenario to him knowing that the information would not stick but, what the heck. You can't be rude. You gotta answer his questions.
The waitress came, we ordered our 4 Grand Slam breakfasts and waited expectanly. Pop turns to me and asks, "What we are ordering?" "We already ordered Grand Slam breakfasts," I say. "Oh," says Pop. "Who do I owe?" We give Pop the shortened version to the story. "It's free, Pop." He looks at me and frowns with a surprised look on his face.
Our steaming hot plates of cholesterol arrived and Pop gleefully dove in. He downs 2 large pancakes, two sausage links, two strips of bacon, two eggs, two cups of tea and a portion of a pancake hush puppy. We look at each other in amazement and roll our eyes. Where does he put all the food in that thin little body he carts around?
He finishes his last bite. "Boy that was good" and starts to dig in his pocket for his wallet. "Who do I owe?" This time we don't bother to explain that the breakfast was free. I take a dollar from him and tell him we are even. Handing him his baseball cap and coat he turns to me again, "How much do I owe you?" Again I don't bother to explain I just take another dollar from him.
As we move out into the crisp afternoon air he moseys over to me and asks, "How much do I owe you?" I ignore him pretending I don't hear. We get home, walk in the house, he reaches for his wallet and asks, "How much do I owe you?" I walk over to him take his shoulders between my two hands and look him square in the face. "Pop you don't owe us anything! The breakfast was free!! A promotional deal!!! Stop asking me how much you owe me!!!! You don't owe anything!!!!!" I leave the room and that's the end of it. I've learned that sometimes a little volume and a straight-look-in-the-eye approach sometimes works.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tapping and Popping
My dad has always had a love for rhythm. His wife, Mary picked up on this and actually bought him a drum set one year for Christmas. I don't know what happened to that drum set but thank goodness it is not here. Now in his present state of mind tapping and what I call popping has become a compulsive form of producing rhythm.
He taps on the dash board of the car while he is riding, taps on the kitchen table while he is eating, taps on the counter top while he is waiting to eat, same beat using his fingernails, his ring or the palm of his hand.
Popping occurs by hitting one hand to the top of the other hand rolled into a fist. The only thing missing is snapping the fingers before he gives his fist a pop. There seems to be some macho thing going on with this hand-popping-thing because often after he has accomplished some task in a manner that he considers successful, like drying the dishes, he will follow it with popping. It's like he's saying, "Man, I'm good!" And I'm saying, again, "Lord, give me patience."
He taps on the dash board of the car while he is riding, taps on the kitchen table while he is eating, taps on the counter top while he is waiting to eat, same beat using his fingernails, his ring or the palm of his hand.
Popping occurs by hitting one hand to the top of the other hand rolled into a fist. The only thing missing is snapping the fingers before he gives his fist a pop. There seems to be some macho thing going on with this hand-popping-thing because often after he has accomplished some task in a manner that he considers successful, like drying the dishes, he will follow it with popping. It's like he's saying, "Man, I'm good!" And I'm saying, again, "Lord, give me patience."
Monday, February 8, 2010
Pop, the Pack Rat
There are certain things that Pop likes to hoard and pack away. He's a selective pack rat. They are sugar and cracker packets from restaurants, pens, cross word puzzles and granola bars. I find them on his night stand by his bed, in his pockets, in his closet and stashed in his over night bag that he still keeps filled with his essentials. No one can know for sure why he packs these things away and why he chooses the items that he chooses but I have formulated some opinions.
Sugar and crackers are FREE and you can carry them out of a restaurant pretty easily. Remember he is a Depression era kid who grew up with frugality embedded in his DNA. It doesn't matter if it is something that one needs or not. It is the fact that it is free and accessible.
Pens, well they are essential for carrying on the business of life. One never knows when one of the family members will ask, "Pop, can I borrow one of your pens?" When we do ask that question he pulls one out of his pocket with a flourish and presents it to us with a look of satisfaction. Pop to the rescue. He has materialized a pen in a moment of need.
Cross word puzzles are nostalgic for Pop. I don't pretend to be a psychologist but knowing how much pleasure these puzzles have brought him through the years I would guess that just having them around gives him a feeling of enjoyment. Tearing them out of the newspaper gives him that sense of anticipation for solitary moments of playing word games and using his skills of recall. Now though, the puzzles just collect on his bed stand with not a word on them. A very sad commentary on where he is at at this stage in his life. Actually I think it bothers me more then it does him. After tearing them out of the newspaper he takes them down to his room, sets them on the bed stand with every intention of doing them later. But as soon as he leaves his room he has already forgotten all about them, and the one from the day before, and the day before that.
Now, as for granola bars ... well that is an easy one to figure out, too. I'm sure that he is sure that at some point in time I am going to starve him to death by not having dinner on the table at 5:00 PM. One can never have enough of a food stash on hand for emergencies like that! Granola bars are not only good for emergency rations but also for snacking between meals, after meals, while watching TV, while moseying around the house, while sitting on his bed, and most any time of the day that a little hunger pang may come along.
Pop doesn't eat his granola bars. He picks at them. And after each bite he'll very carefully rolls the remaining bar back into the pack. It goes something like this. I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, .... crinkle, crinkle, crinkle as he opens the pack to take a snippet. Then I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle ..... crinkle, crinkle, crinkle as he wraps the remaining bar back up and puts it in his pocket. A few minutes later I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle ... you get the idea.
Granola bar eating is a huge source of irritation for me not only because of what I have to listen to as he goes about the nibbling process but also because they are very crumbly and leave a trail. I find granola crumbs in the pantry all over the floor where he gathers and opens them. I find them on the duvet cover on his bed, on the over stuffed chairs where he sits, on the carpet in front of the chairs where he sits, in the car, in his bathroom, on the kitchen floor, inside his pockets, pretty much all over the house.
Well, I see Pop out the window taking his 15th ... or is it his 20th walk for today? He'll probably be back in soon wanting a cup of tea and maybe a granola bar. I'll take advantage of his absence to go throw the sugar and cracker packets away, gather a few pens before he hoards them all and get a few granola crumbs picked up. But the cross word puzzles I'll leave right where I find them. On his night stand.
Sugar and crackers are FREE and you can carry them out of a restaurant pretty easily. Remember he is a Depression era kid who grew up with frugality embedded in his DNA. It doesn't matter if it is something that one needs or not. It is the fact that it is free and accessible.
Pens, well they are essential for carrying on the business of life. One never knows when one of the family members will ask, "Pop, can I borrow one of your pens?" When we do ask that question he pulls one out of his pocket with a flourish and presents it to us with a look of satisfaction. Pop to the rescue. He has materialized a pen in a moment of need.
Cross word puzzles are nostalgic for Pop. I don't pretend to be a psychologist but knowing how much pleasure these puzzles have brought him through the years I would guess that just having them around gives him a feeling of enjoyment. Tearing them out of the newspaper gives him that sense of anticipation for solitary moments of playing word games and using his skills of recall. Now though, the puzzles just collect on his bed stand with not a word on them. A very sad commentary on where he is at at this stage in his life. Actually I think it bothers me more then it does him. After tearing them out of the newspaper he takes them down to his room, sets them on the bed stand with every intention of doing them later. But as soon as he leaves his room he has already forgotten all about them, and the one from the day before, and the day before that.
Now, as for granola bars ... well that is an easy one to figure out, too. I'm sure that he is sure that at some point in time I am going to starve him to death by not having dinner on the table at 5:00 PM. One can never have enough of a food stash on hand for emergencies like that! Granola bars are not only good for emergency rations but also for snacking between meals, after meals, while watching TV, while moseying around the house, while sitting on his bed, and most any time of the day that a little hunger pang may come along.
Pop doesn't eat his granola bars. He picks at them. And after each bite he'll very carefully rolls the remaining bar back into the pack. It goes something like this. I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, .... crinkle, crinkle, crinkle as he opens the pack to take a snippet. Then I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle ..... crinkle, crinkle, crinkle as he wraps the remaining bar back up and puts it in his pocket. A few minutes later I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle ... you get the idea.
Granola bar eating is a huge source of irritation for me not only because of what I have to listen to as he goes about the nibbling process but also because they are very crumbly and leave a trail. I find granola crumbs in the pantry all over the floor where he gathers and opens them. I find them on the duvet cover on his bed, on the over stuffed chairs where he sits, on the carpet in front of the chairs where he sits, in the car, in his bathroom, on the kitchen floor, inside his pockets, pretty much all over the house.
Well, I see Pop out the window taking his 15th ... or is it his 20th walk for today? He'll probably be back in soon wanting a cup of tea and maybe a granola bar. I'll take advantage of his absence to go throw the sugar and cracker packets away, gather a few pens before he hoards them all and get a few granola crumbs picked up. But the cross word puzzles I'll leave right where I find them. On his night stand.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Pop, Riding Shot Gun
My dad was always an excellent driver and had a robust love for automobiles. Buying a "new" car (they were never new for that year but always new to us) he would pop his buttons with pride and enthusiasm, take us for a family drive to one of my parents friends to show it off or take us all for a drive in the country just to "get the feel" of the new vehicle. When I was a little girl, because of my dad's influence, I knew the name, make and model of every car on the road. We'd play a game of identifying the cars as we passed by them or followed them. Strong eye-hand coordination and attention to detail made him a great driver right up until the time that he had to give up that privilege. I remember how confident I felt as a child with my dad behind the wheel.
At first it was not so much his inability to drive carefully and accurately that caused us alarm but his inability to remember directions. We noticed that he was getting lost on routes that he had driven over and over again for many years. In time the driving skill began to slip as well and he had a few close calls. Evidently a new fear of being behind the wheel began to grow because we observed that he was no longer choosing to drive the freeways but taking the back streets to get to his destinations. So when the dreaded time came for us to pry his hands away from the steering wheel it was very hard on his male ego.
After his arrival here in Austin I would put him in "shot gun" position in the passenger seat. Every once in a while as we drove along he'd say, "If you get tired of driving let me know. I'd be happy to help out!" I don't know if he really thought I would say, "Yippy, Skippy, OK!" But he'd ask anyway. I guess this was just an attempt at bolstering his sagging ego, giving the impression that he was still capable.
These days he doesn't offer to drive anymore but has taken on the significant roll of helping me maneuver traffic and help me scope out the issues. When I drive to the end of our little road to enter the street, I of course look to my left in preparation to make a right hand turn. Pop will look to the right and check the oncoming traffic in the opposite lane, totally insignificant for my making a right hand turn. He'll tell me, "All clear!" with such finality and confidence!
Often when I am sitting at a red light preparing to cross the intersection he'll again check the oncoming traffic to his right totally unaware of the red light in front of us. Watching the cars roll by he'll tell me, "No, here comes a car. Here comes another one. Here comes another one." When the traffic slows or the light turns green and the traffic stops, he'll say, "All clear!"
One wonders how I ever made it all these years of driving without my dad riding shot gun!
At first it was not so much his inability to drive carefully and accurately that caused us alarm but his inability to remember directions. We noticed that he was getting lost on routes that he had driven over and over again for many years. In time the driving skill began to slip as well and he had a few close calls. Evidently a new fear of being behind the wheel began to grow because we observed that he was no longer choosing to drive the freeways but taking the back streets to get to his destinations. So when the dreaded time came for us to pry his hands away from the steering wheel it was very hard on his male ego.
After his arrival here in Austin I would put him in "shot gun" position in the passenger seat. Every once in a while as we drove along he'd say, "If you get tired of driving let me know. I'd be happy to help out!" I don't know if he really thought I would say, "Yippy, Skippy, OK!" But he'd ask anyway. I guess this was just an attempt at bolstering his sagging ego, giving the impression that he was still capable.
These days he doesn't offer to drive anymore but has taken on the significant roll of helping me maneuver traffic and help me scope out the issues. When I drive to the end of our little road to enter the street, I of course look to my left in preparation to make a right hand turn. Pop will look to the right and check the oncoming traffic in the opposite lane, totally insignificant for my making a right hand turn. He'll tell me, "All clear!" with such finality and confidence!
Often when I am sitting at a red light preparing to cross the intersection he'll again check the oncoming traffic to his right totally unaware of the red light in front of us. Watching the cars roll by he'll tell me, "No, here comes a car. Here comes another one. Here comes another one." When the traffic slows or the light turns green and the traffic stops, he'll say, "All clear!"
One wonders how I ever made it all these years of driving without my dad riding shot gun!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Pop and His Faith
Pop grew up on "that old time religion." Camp meetings and gospel music, lot's of shoutin' and praisin' God, good old fashioned music about the pearly gates, streets of gold and when "the roll is called up yonder." No dancin', no smokin' and no drinkin'. I remember when I was six years old my parents struggling with the idea of letting me go to the movies to see Bambie. Fortunately as the years rolled along he and my mom began to recognize that it was not so much about the do's and the don'ts as it was about what Jesus did for us on the cross. The crazy rules began to lighten up. But those old gospel choruses never diminished in significance in Pop's spiritual life having a huge impact on shaping him and his views about the Lord.
We have a small collection of Gaither CD's, a favorite Gospel group of his. Recently a dear friend back in California sent a CD of one of his favorite soloists from years ago at our church in Los Gatos, California. Vern had a lovely baritone voice and was a personal friend of Pop's making the music even more significant. When we put those CD's on the player they never cease to move him to a tear or two.
These days Pop stays home from church. We invite him but he doesn't care to go. The music has changed from the organ and piano to drums and base guitar. The place of worship is dimly lit like a theater and he can't see well to reach his seat. The style of worship has changed from the old days and he doesn't seem to fit in anymore. So on Sunday morning, and often through the week as well, we will dig out the CD's he loves so much and fill the house with his kind of music. He will sit with his eyes closed, chin resting in his folded hands and gently swaying his head back and forth as he enters into his own little church service, his own little place of worship. He'll turn to me and say, "Oh, that's beautiful." And I agree. It is beautiful.
Sometimes I find pop sitting in one of our overstuffed chairs praying in earnest. With his eyes tightly closed I can see his lips moving but can't quite decipher what he is saying. My kids have heard him praying for safety for us. I've seen him tapping his forehead and I am guessing he is praying for his slowing brain -- it appears his prayers are being answered because he is doing far better then expected more then 10 years into his dementia. I'm not sure if my father's prayers are full of faith or full of fear but I appreciate the fact that he still turns to our Lord petitioning on behalf of his family and himself. I know that God filters them through His grace. What a treasure this Christian heritage is that he has passed on to his family.
We have a small collection of Gaither CD's, a favorite Gospel group of his. Recently a dear friend back in California sent a CD of one of his favorite soloists from years ago at our church in Los Gatos, California. Vern had a lovely baritone voice and was a personal friend of Pop's making the music even more significant. When we put those CD's on the player they never cease to move him to a tear or two.
These days Pop stays home from church. We invite him but he doesn't care to go. The music has changed from the organ and piano to drums and base guitar. The place of worship is dimly lit like a theater and he can't see well to reach his seat. The style of worship has changed from the old days and he doesn't seem to fit in anymore. So on Sunday morning, and often through the week as well, we will dig out the CD's he loves so much and fill the house with his kind of music. He will sit with his eyes closed, chin resting in his folded hands and gently swaying his head back and forth as he enters into his own little church service, his own little place of worship. He'll turn to me and say, "Oh, that's beautiful." And I agree. It is beautiful.
Sometimes I find pop sitting in one of our overstuffed chairs praying in earnest. With his eyes tightly closed I can see his lips moving but can't quite decipher what he is saying. My kids have heard him praying for safety for us. I've seen him tapping his forehead and I am guessing he is praying for his slowing brain -- it appears his prayers are being answered because he is doing far better then expected more then 10 years into his dementia. I'm not sure if my father's prayers are full of faith or full of fear but I appreciate the fact that he still turns to our Lord petitioning on behalf of his family and himself. I know that God filters them through His grace. What a treasure this Christian heritage is that he has passed on to his family.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Pop and Schlotzskys
I'm not sure if Schlotzsys is a chain only in Texas, or just in the South or if it has traveled over the US by now. But when we first moved to Austin from California 10 years ago,I had never been to one. For those who are new comers like I was to this eatery, they make pretty terrific sandwiches. Their key feature are the "home made" buns made fresh daily. I don't know how they do it but these buns are fluffy and sort of crunchy at the same time. Well, Pop loves discovering Schlotskys each an every time we go. One of the advantages of dementia is you are always having NEW experiences.
Recently Pop experienced Schlotskys again for the first time. After ordering three regular sized "Originals" and one large we moseyed over to a nice sunny table. My husband, son and I engaged in our usual laughter and good family conversation. Every once in a while from Pop's direction we would hear, "Boy, this is a good sandwich!" After we had devoured our cuisine, we gathered up our debris and headed for the door to leave. Arriving in the foyer and readying to exit I noticed only my husband, son and myself. "We lost Pop," I said. Leaving the foyer and reentering the restaurant I gazed across the room to the table we had vacated. There sitting with his baseball cap and his signature cardigan sweater was Pop looking around appearing to be people watching. I have commented before that sometimes having Pop in tow is sort of like having a toddler around. This is where the similarities split. Fortunately when he gets separated from us he first of all does not realize it and secondly there are no fits of crying and wailing for "Judy."
After realizing we had left Pop behind I worked my way through the tables and diners and arrived at Pop's location. Motioning for him to follow he picked up his little sack of left overs, shuffled behind me out to where the "menfolk" (as he sometimes refers to them as) were waiting. Then the three of us with Pop in tow moseyed out, Pop having no idea that he nearly got left behind. I guess this another example of how ignorance is bliss.
Recently Pop experienced Schlotskys again for the first time. After ordering three regular sized "Originals" and one large we moseyed over to a nice sunny table. My husband, son and I engaged in our usual laughter and good family conversation. Every once in a while from Pop's direction we would hear, "Boy, this is a good sandwich!" After we had devoured our cuisine, we gathered up our debris and headed for the door to leave. Arriving in the foyer and readying to exit I noticed only my husband, son and myself. "We lost Pop," I said. Leaving the foyer and reentering the restaurant I gazed across the room to the table we had vacated. There sitting with his baseball cap and his signature cardigan sweater was Pop looking around appearing to be people watching. I have commented before that sometimes having Pop in tow is sort of like having a toddler around. This is where the similarities split. Fortunately when he gets separated from us he first of all does not realize it and secondly there are no fits of crying and wailing for "Judy."
After realizing we had left Pop behind I worked my way through the tables and diners and arrived at Pop's location. Motioning for him to follow he picked up his little sack of left overs, shuffled behind me out to where the "menfolk" (as he sometimes refers to them as) were waiting. Then the three of us with Pop in tow moseyed out, Pop having no idea that he nearly got left behind. I guess this another example of how ignorance is bliss.
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