Pop and Junk Mail

Being my dad's trustee, any mail that comes to our house addressed to him, is automatically opened by me. Bills have to go through my husband who manages the banking. Medical and financial reports I take and file away in a big, thick, blue binder that I keep on the shelf in our home office. Like the rest of us, he still gets his fare share of junk mail.

Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.

Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.

Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"

As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.