My house looks like the corner of a New York City street. Signs, signs everywhere; Only difference is mine are ugly signs printed on cheap white paper in big black letters from our home printer. Lovely, just lovely. For those of you who know me, you are aware that I am a decorator by vocation and avocation. Some months ago it was my dear, compassionate husband's idea to put up the signs as a directional experiment to see if they would help Pop who never seemed to be able to find the room that he wanted to be in. My husband wanting to protect my dad's male ego announced one day that we had put up some signs to help "US" find our way around the house. My dad's remark was, "Good idea!" as if the whole families directional welfare was at stake. These signs hardly equate nicely decorated but we soon learned that they worked. So hats off to my husband.
I see him searching the walls and I know he is looking for his signs. His eye catches the one on the TV amoir. This whole scenario reminds me of the game that we used to play as kids when we'd hide something and whoever was "it" would have to find the hidden object by us telling them when they are getting hot or cold. He sees the first sign. (You are getting hot Pop.) Then he sees the sign on the fireplace with a big arrow that points left. He turns a slight left around one of our over stuffed chairs. The next sign says, "office." That's not where he was headed. But right next to that sign on the door frame is a sign with an arrow that points to the door that says "DON." The next entrance to his room is his rest room and on that door in very bold letters are "BATH." And next to that is "Laundry Room." We have that one up just to let him know that he is getting cold if he heads in that direction.
This is just the beginning. In the kitchen we have a sign that reads, "Glasses" on one cupboard, another that reads "Bowls" and on a drawer a sign that reads "Silverware." We also have signs on our bedroom doors, one for my husband's and my room and one for our son's. This is how my dad navigates our home.
Sometime today my dad feeling compelled to "organize" his travel bag containing all of life's necessities or feeling the need to rearrange his closet or head off to the bathroom I will observe him working his way through the house reading his signs. Signs, signs, big ugly signs that help keep his life and ours sane!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Oblivious
My husband had quite a week end this past week. Following shoulder surgery he experienced numerous complications from infection to his back going out on him. He was in CA at the time that his back went into a spasm leaving him in terrific pain and totally incapacitated. In San Francisco he had just finished some intense Human Resources training for his consulting business and was looking forward to down-time with our daughter, my sister and brother-in-law who live in that area. Instead their leisurely visit turned into a medical night mare with our daughter up at night tending to her dad's aching back, hospital visits and ultimately his having to reschedule his flight home.
When the day of his arrival finally came, eager to get to the airport and rescue my man, I piled our son, Pop and myself into our truck and took off. What I didn't know is that I had left behind my key ring that had on it our house key. We arrived back home close to dusk with my weary husband in tow to a house locked tight-as-Fort Knox.
After calling the lock smith we discovered we had about 20 minutes to grab a sack at McDonalds to feed our growling stomachs before we had to be back at the casa to meet the door buster. Pop sat quietly in the truck until we got our food. "Who do I owe?" we heard from the back seat. Getting a buck from my dad for his hamburger was the least of my worries at this point so I told him we'd deal with that when we got home.
Arriving back at the house my exhausted husband and son met the Smith and they attacked the task at hand. Pop and I remained in the truck. It was now dark and the men worked by flash light with no luck. Pretty soon I heard from the back seat, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop, just stay in the back seat and finish your dinner. We're locked out of the house." "Oh," came his casual reply followed by "This sure is a good hamburger."
20 minutes went by and the house was still not unlocked. Pop looked out into the dark and said again, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop. Just stay put and finish your dinner." Again, "This is sure a good hamburger," came the cheerful reply.
Pretty soon Pop opened the truck door and out he went into the dark. I'm not sure what he was planning on doing but he wandered up to where the men were. The last bit of bad news was delivered to me at my truck window. They were going to have to drill out the lock. Pretty soon I saw the front door open and I took my cue that the mission had been accomplished and I headed in, too. $165 richer the Lock Smith left and Pop turned to me and asked, "How much do I owe you?" I felt like saying, $165, Pop!" But of course I didn't say that and told him not to worry about payment for the hamburger. He turned to mosey down the hall and I heard him say, "I sure enjoyed the ride." Patted my husband on the back and said, "Good to have you home!"
When the day of his arrival finally came, eager to get to the airport and rescue my man, I piled our son, Pop and myself into our truck and took off. What I didn't know is that I had left behind my key ring that had on it our house key. We arrived back home close to dusk with my weary husband in tow to a house locked tight-as-Fort Knox.
After calling the lock smith we discovered we had about 20 minutes to grab a sack at McDonalds to feed our growling stomachs before we had to be back at the casa to meet the door buster. Pop sat quietly in the truck until we got our food. "Who do I owe?" we heard from the back seat. Getting a buck from my dad for his hamburger was the least of my worries at this point so I told him we'd deal with that when we got home.
Arriving back at the house my exhausted husband and son met the Smith and they attacked the task at hand. Pop and I remained in the truck. It was now dark and the men worked by flash light with no luck. Pretty soon I heard from the back seat, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop, just stay in the back seat and finish your dinner. We're locked out of the house." "Oh," came his casual reply followed by "This sure is a good hamburger."
20 minutes went by and the house was still not unlocked. Pop looked out into the dark and said again, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop. Just stay put and finish your dinner." Again, "This is sure a good hamburger," came the cheerful reply.
Pretty soon Pop opened the truck door and out he went into the dark. I'm not sure what he was planning on doing but he wandered up to where the men were. The last bit of bad news was delivered to me at my truck window. They were going to have to drill out the lock. Pretty soon I saw the front door open and I took my cue that the mission had been accomplished and I headed in, too. $165 richer the Lock Smith left and Pop turned to me and asked, "How much do I owe you?" I felt like saying, $165, Pop!" But of course I didn't say that and told him not to worry about payment for the hamburger. He turned to mosey down the hall and I heard him say, "I sure enjoyed the ride." Patted my husband on the back and said, "Good to have you home!"
Monday, March 1, 2010
Pop the Meat and Potatoes Guy
Every once in a while, especially on a Sunday evening I enjoy breakfast for dinner. Last night was one of those times when I had a hankerin' for waffles and eggs. About 5:00 PM Pop began to become restless, "Is there anything I can do to help?" came the question, which at that time of day always means "I'm getting hungry. Please make some movement toward the kitchen."
Cranking up the waffle iron I began to whip up a batch; Mmmmm, into the mix went the egg, milk, a nice sprinkling of cinnamon and a little oil. Pouring the rich batter into the waffle iron I enjoyed the sizzling sound it made as it hit the hot iron. Into the skillet went the eggs. Into the microwave went the apple sauce for a nice piping hot side. Doesn't that just make your mouth water? It did mine.
Setting the plate in front of Pop he began to eat. Silence. More eating. Silence. Through the whole meal Pop was conspicuously quiet. Not one, "Boy this is good." Not one, "Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmm." Not a single, "Great from the first bite to the last!" No continuous, "Thank you Jude, this is delicious!" Just dead silence. Obviously my meal was a total strike out for my dad. I had up to this point honestly concluded that there wasn't anything on God's green earth that my dad would not eat with relish. But this meal had proven me wrong. Dead wrong.
Thinking over this selection disaster I had a vague recollection that as a kid, if my mom suggested breakfast for dinner, my dad was all but enthusiastic. He is definitely a meat and potatoes guy.
Leaving the kitchen still scratching my head and my ego a bit bruised, I began to analyze the pros and cons of what had just taken place. My observations went like this. Most of our meals are a continuous flow of repetitive thank yous and over the top accolades from my dad. Tonight we enjoyed a very quiet, serene meal together. I think to myself, "Silence definitely has its advantages. I think I'll remember this menu."
Cranking up the waffle iron I began to whip up a batch; Mmmmm, into the mix went the egg, milk, a nice sprinkling of cinnamon and a little oil. Pouring the rich batter into the waffle iron I enjoyed the sizzling sound it made as it hit the hot iron. Into the skillet went the eggs. Into the microwave went the apple sauce for a nice piping hot side. Doesn't that just make your mouth water? It did mine.
Setting the plate in front of Pop he began to eat. Silence. More eating. Silence. Through the whole meal Pop was conspicuously quiet. Not one, "Boy this is good." Not one, "Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmm." Not a single, "Great from the first bite to the last!" No continuous, "Thank you Jude, this is delicious!" Just dead silence. Obviously my meal was a total strike out for my dad. I had up to this point honestly concluded that there wasn't anything on God's green earth that my dad would not eat with relish. But this meal had proven me wrong. Dead wrong.
Thinking over this selection disaster I had a vague recollection that as a kid, if my mom suggested breakfast for dinner, my dad was all but enthusiastic. He is definitely a meat and potatoes guy.
Leaving the kitchen still scratching my head and my ego a bit bruised, I began to analyze the pros and cons of what had just taken place. My observations went like this. Most of our meals are a continuous flow of repetitive thank yous and over the top accolades from my dad. Tonight we enjoyed a very quiet, serene meal together. I think to myself, "Silence definitely has its advantages. I think I'll remember this menu."
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Dance
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?
"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?
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.
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