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Boys Books

Dad loves Boys Books. He collected series such as Henty, Whitman, Kelland, Langworth, Saalfield, Maitland and more. The shelves of these adventure stories covered an entire wall, floor-to-ceiling in his den library. It’s wonderful to know that he read every book in his collection more than once. He enjoyed The Airplane Boys, Mark Tidd, The Lion, and The Boy Knight, The West Point and Annapolis series, The Boy Allies. Dad also read young adult selections by Zane Grey, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autry, and the Camp Fire and Trail by  Leslie. Eventually, he sold most of his collection as his Lewy Body Dementia made it impossible to read, comprehend and enjoy the stories.

To help Dad continue to enjoy his hobby of reading, I shared audio books with him. It never worked. Then I read to him and sometimes he enjoyed it for a few minutes but would usually fall asleep. Coffee table books with large images still seem to hold his interest. Yet they are a far cry from his afternoons sitting under the apple tree with a good book in front of his childhood home. I know because I am a reader too. There is nothing better than being immersed in a good book.

Recently, we rediscovered Disney movies instead of books. Adventure stories with people and animals are Dad’s favorites. Homeward Bound, Call of the Wild, and White Fang have been engaging for him. He is interested enough to watch an entire movie similar to being captured by a good book. Next I am going to try the Huck Finn movie to see if he likes it. 

Today as the movie started and the Disney Castle scrolled onto the screen, Dad said, “That could be their church.”  We chuckled at the idea and agreed we knew a lot of folks who loved everything Disney. Speaking of Disney, I only remember Dad being with me one time at Disneyland. As we entered the park, he asked, “What kind of a mickey mouse place is this?”

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Love Every Day

Scheduling appointments on calendars is routine for most of us. For Dad, it’s been about three years since he has been certain of the year, month, date, day, or hour. All he knows is existence without time. Sometimes I wonder what it is like to live not knowing the difference between night and day. I imagine this moment – and then this moment, only to realize that the epitome of the concept is a perspective for those of us with a memory of the past and plans for the future. Then I try again with a blank slate.

I wonder what Dad is experiencing when he wakes up each morning. He usually wanders about the home for a while then goes back to bed. Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he gets ready to go someplace. Sometimes he looks through a few letters and photographs I keep on his bedside table. Sometimes he whispers, talking with someone I cannot see. Occasionally he doesn’t recognize me for a few moments when I enter his room. He recently asked me, “What is your name again?.”  And on rare occasions he asks me “Where am I,” or What are we doing?”  At bedtime, we practice specific habits. I let him know we are the only people in the house, and that we are going to try and sleep all the way until breakfast. It seems to help. I keep the calendar consistent and a patterned daily routine that helps create an environment of security for both of us. Then there are the special days – the holidays.

What is a daughter to do when she wants to celebrate a holiday with her Dad with dementia? Afterall, he won’t remember it. This year, once an hour throughout the day, I reminded Dad that it was Christmas Day. I associated it with holiday traditions such as gift giving, a special meal, church, eggnog, and singing Christmas music which he enjoys. Each time, he replied as if he was being told for the first time. “Really, Oh that’s nice, or Okay.” This is after including him in decorating the tree, making cookies, watching holiday programs, and even keeping an advent calendar over the weeks leading up to the celebration. The reward this Christmas was how much he enjoyed the combination of gifts with his favorite music on a Bluetooth headset and a small plush puppy from his stocking. He was incredibly happy, petting the pup, listening to the music, and singing along. I captured the moment with video. For myself, and most importantly to show it to him so he can experience the moment again. We listen to music and enjoy the imaginary pet every day.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. As long as I can remember from the time I was a small girl, Dad always delivered cards, and candy in heart shaped boxes to his girls – my mother, sister, and I. Now I do the same for Dad, even if it’s just for a moment, or several moments of rediscovering the day. Greeting cards have mostly lost meaning for Dad, but he still has a token from a  Valentine’s Day card I gave him years ago. Glued inside the card was a silver heart with the words I Love You Dad engraved on it. Dad usually keeps it on his nightstand. Except every week I find it in the laundry, having fallen out of his pants pocket during the drying cycle. First I hear it clanking around, then I have to dig around the clothes to find it. In a funny way, Dad is still giving me valentines.

We tell each other we love each other every day – morning, noon, and night. Somehow beyond the realm of lost memories and even occasional loss of recognition, our love doesn’t fade. Like the lights on the Christmas tree or the silver heart in Dad’s pocket, every moment on our calendar, we get another opportunity to share our love, and it just keeps shining brighter. This daughter is grateful for love every day.

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Sit Here and Go With Him

1920s Victrola

Yesterday Dad was listening to songs by Marty Robbins on a tablet I keep in his room. He shared with me how much he was enjoying the music by saying, “I can sit here and go with him.” Marty and his ballads have been favorites in Dad’s music collection since I was a child. Dad was telling me that the songs were familiar, that he was listening to the lyrics, and that he was imagining himself in the musical stories. It was great to hear this. Dad’s appreciation of music, recognition of artists, and ability to play records by himself has changed dramatically in the past nine months. This isn’t the first time Lewy Body Dementia has affected our music experience. Read the post “Just a Lil Bit Country.”

Dad no longer requests artists by name even if I give him a choice of just two. He rather quickly lost his ability to operate his favorite modern turntable. He began to think he had placed a record to play when there was nothing on the machine. When he did get something playing, he worried that playing the records would lead to him losing them or breaking them and he would turn it off again. A reasonable understanding might be that this was his way of expressing his own awareness about his loss of these abilities. We never know for certain. I decided to make a change when I walked in Dad’s room, and he was trying to put a cardboard album cover on his foot like a shoe and stand up in it. I gradually removed a few albums at a time. Dad didn’t notice they were missing. Of course, the records and album covers were all mismatched. Eventually, I removed the turntable completely. I replaced it with a tablet where I can load a variety of music apps. I particularly like the voice activated ones. Dad likes the ones with lyrics that scroll while the song is playing. At first he read and sang along. Now he just looks at the words and smiles. He can’t keep up  any longer but likes that they are there. 

The artist that remained the longest was Alan Jackson.  Dad recognized his Precious Memories Collection by the image of the church on the album art. Each time I selected this music, Dad would tell me how he was there at the church with Alan when he recorded the songs. This delusion has also since faded. His music experiences are now only in the moment.

On the fourth of July, we played John Philip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever on Dad’s 1920s Victrola Phonograph. Dad waved his arm as if conducting the orchestra through the entire recording. Last week we played Gene Autry. While singing along with “Home on the Range,” Dad swayed left and right, closed his eyes, and sang the chorus. Whether Dad is riding out on the range with Gene, at church with Alan, or on the streets of Laredo with Marty, he is happy in these moments. Music is no longer an independent past time for Dad. It’s okay.  We have been listening to these songs together for as long as we both can remember.  Wherever he goes in his mind, “I can sit here and go with him.”

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My People

Holding a picture of an ancestor near a family tree.

Dad has always had an interest in the family tree. Fortunately, a not so distant relative in Holland did extensive research and shared it with the entire family. We love knowing that just two generations ago, our paternal family immigrated to the northeastern United States. Stories of their business endeavors are consistent with the entrepreneurial spirit of the family. A great-great grandfather was a merchant who sailed his ship through the English channel trading and selling goods. With records going back to the 1600s, there is even a roster from the Queen’s court that includes our unusual family name. There has always been an idea that the family is primarily from the Netherlands.

We recently tested Dad’s DNA. And yes, 28 percent of his ancestors are from Germanic Europe and 31 percent are from England and Northwestern Europe. This includes Belgium and the Netherlands as well as the opposite side of the English Channel all the way to Wales, The Isle of Man, and south to Guernsey and Jersey Islands.

We knew less about Dad’s maternal family. Interestingly, we learned a greater 36 percent of our ancestors are from Ireland, specifically the regions of Kerry and Cork. And, if we look back far enough, variations of the family name date to medieval times and the Knights of the Templar. These ancestors immigrated to Canada before arriving in the northeastern United States.

My grandfather met my grandmother on a rainy day. She was walking or waiting for a bus, and he offered her a ride. Meanwhile, one of grandfather’s friends (or a cousin) had been hounding him about introducing him to a certain lady. When it finally happened a short time later, it turns out it was the same gal he had given a ride, my grandmother.

Although Dad’s parents passed away in the 1980s, he doesn’t remember that they are gone. Nearly every day for more than a year now, he asks me, “Where are my people?” He then shares some concern about their wellbeing or relays a story about a time when they were together. He sometimes asks if he can visit the family home. Today he told me in his own way, “My mother and my father always made everything nice for me there and worked half the night to do it.” I know this because I am blessed to be part of the same family. Over the years I witnessed how my grandparents and my Dad lived, and role modeled a loving close-knit family with an exemplary work ethic to provide and care for loved ones.

For quite a while now, Dad doesn’t remember most of his people. His younger brother, my younger sister and my mother have also passed on, just to name a few. When Dad asks about his people, I show him pictures of children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. We practice their names and count how many family members are in the generations of the future. I remind Dad, that each and every one of our people are a little bit of his mother and father, and a lot of him.

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Lollipop Lollipop

Dad loves candy. At Christmas time each year, instead of visions of sugar plums, I can still see Dad passing around his coveted box of chocolate covered cherries hoping each person takes only one. In the fall he found the candy corn. In February, he brought home Valentine boxes for every one of his gals and then helped us eat the chocolates. There were three of us. Anything in the candy dish disappeared quickly, even the hard butterscotch. Tootsie Rolls were always around. He loved fudge too, and would eat rope licorice along with all the kids in the family. My favorite vision is Dad in his blue jeans, a crisp white t-shirt with his sleeves rolled up, holding an iconic brightly colored box of Dots with the flaps open. He is chewing away while rolling the next old-school gummy around in his other hand. Dad would enjoy any and all of these sweet treats all the time if I kept them around. With his dementia, he would probably enjoy them all in one sitting. Sugar seems to spin up the delusions associated with Lewy Body Dementia, so candy is more occasional now.

Dad’s favorite candy lately is peanut butter cups. We are renovating his home and almost daily visit the local home improvement store where candy is displayed next to the checkout stands. Dad reaches for those peanut butter cups every time. He can’t get enough of them. Not every day, but when we do buy them, Dad nibbles the candy to make it last as long as possible. Which is fine except when the weather is warm. Its a bit more challenging when the chocolate is melting around his fingers. Candy seems to be a family trait inherited by my son and grandchildren. With the children, it starts with the peanut butter cups, then gummy bears, sour worms, and more. They definitely have candy in common with their Gramps.

A few days ago, while I was in a salon appointment, Dad waited patiently in a chair nearby. I gave him a bottle of water, and one of the salon employees gave him a lollipop from the candy dish. After my service was completed, I noticed to my surprise, Dad drank nearly the entire bottle of water. Interestingly, the small amount of water that remained in the bottle was pink. As he removed the lid and took a sip, I saw a white paper stick bobbing inside the water bottle. My first concern was that he might choke. Without over-reacting, I asked Dad if he put his lollipop in his water bottle. With a sheepish smile, he said, “Yes, and it tastes gooood.”

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Our Soap Opera

Handmade soap with cinnamon and vanilla on a wooden background

When I was a young women I belonged to a small theater group that performed a Soap Opera. It was a spoof of a classic melodrama with characters such as hero Sudsley Do – Right,  his girlfriend Prell, sisters Bubbles and Ivory, and the evil Snidley Splishsplash. The rescue took place in a soap factory where the drama was all about soap.

Bathing for Dad has become more dramatic over the past year; especially when he is tired. To help make it easier, we shower earlier in the day, and assist more with drying, wrap him in a comfort robe, and he now sits down to get dressed. Recently we had a positive change that is also all about soap.

For many years while Dad was still living independently, he bathed entirely with soap, including washing his hair with a bar of soap. With the progression of his dementia, I have been wondering whether he is washing his hair – I think not. Every night after his shower, I have been putting lotion on his forehead and skin to prevent dryness. Nothing works for very long.

A few weeks ago, my cousin sent us several bars of her hand-crafted goat milk soap. The soap is amazing! It lathers nicely, is creamy, doesn’t leave a residue, and rinses clean and clear. Dad enjoys the “special soap” and is washing his hair every shower. I know because although he washes it, he just doesn’t rinse it. With many bath and hair products a second rinse would be required. With this natural goat milk soap, I can use a towel to massage it into Dad’s hair and scalp. It is our new moisturizer for his skin which is looking great, and his hair is pleasantly soft. Dad is now Sudsley Do-Right, I have been rescued, and my cousin is definitely the heroine of our soap opera!

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When Solitaire Takes Two

Card games have been a source of enjoyment and relaxation for our family. Upon reflection, it was an intergenerational pastime. Many of the games like Cribbage, I learned from grandparents. I remember them playing Euchre, Bridge and Canasta. Dad taught me to play Rummy. As children we played simple games like Go Fish, Slapjack, War, Concentration and Old Maid. My teenage friends taught me how to play Hearts and Poker. The older the cards, the better. Yet, the King of all card games remains Solitaire. Although it has evolved into variations like Spider and Five Crowns, the original version rules our home for about an hour each evening.

Early in his retirement, Dad adapted to technology quickly, conducted business online, used email communication with ease, and regularly challenged his brother in the game of FreeCell. He mastered the game and kept records to prove it. Dad’s spreadsheets listed every game he won by number. There were thousands. If he missed a win, he would search the game by number until he won, filling all the pages of a complete bookkeeping ledger. Like many independent activities, FreeCell, and the use of technology have faded with dementia.

Falling back on the reliability of Solitaire, Dad uses a tablet which I set up for him. Once I bring up the Solitaire app, he can play the game in his own way. Dad rarely finishes a game because once he moves most of the cards to the upper stack, he then moves all of them back to the playing field. He hands me the tablet to show me the cards lined up below from King to ace with the upper stacks empty. Until recently, Dad insisted on moving every card individually back to the top for an official win. Now he enjoys the “auto collect” feature and the dancing card patterns. On days where, as Dad says it, “my brain is working backwards,” the cycle of moving cards back and forth occurs many times. When he gets tired or can’t make a play, Dad asks for help, and we play together for a little while. 

When Solitaire takes two, it’s  a Win – Win!

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Just a Lil Bit Country

Close up of a vinyl record being played on a modern turntable

Do you remember where you were the day that Elvis Presley died? I do. I was at work in a Super X Drug Store stocking shelves when it came over the radio. Dad remembers the day Hank Williams, Sr., died. As he tells me, he came home to discover his mother, my grandmother Helen, crying while ironing the laundry. Dad and I recently discussed the most iconic song by Patsy Cline. Although I like “Baby, Baby,” he and some of our friends and family think “Crazy” was her most memorable recording.

Music is an important part of our day. We listen to create an atmosphere of calm, cue an activity in a certain room, relax during dinner, and pass the time on long road trips. I remember listening and singing to country music as a child. First on the radio, then on an 8-track which was monumental. The 8-track was portable and meant we could listen to music while we were outside doing chores, working on Dad’s 1947 Ford truck, and with an adapter to the cigarette lighter in the car, even when we were camping. I carry an iPod shuffle in my purse with about four hours of music for unexpected occasions, long appointment waits, or in case Dad becomes restless on an airplane flight. It is small enough to fit in his pocket, clips on to his shirt and he listens with earphones.

Nowadays we listen to Pandora on Portals and cell phones, and vinyl on a turntable that is set up next to  Dad’s chair. With his dementia, we sometimes listen to the same album several times before he realizes he has already heard the other side.

Recently, Dad began sharing his in-person experiences with country music artists. One involves Johnny Cash discovered hiding out on the family property of sixty acres of woods to evade the draft. Another was Jim Reeves walking down the street in the small town where Dad grew up. When he recognized and spoke to Jim, Dad learned he was living there in hiding to keep his wife from knowing he was alive. Dad also shares how he met Dolly Parton and was invited to one her rehearsals. He was the only one there and was privileged to see the entire show. Dad was out for a walk along the lakeshore one evening and found Patsy Cline in a dilemma. She needed to get to a large boat out on the water and had no one to assist her. Dad found a small rowboat. He delivered her safely just in time for her performance on the dinner yacht. Patsy was so grateful.

Dad particularly enjoys country gospel music performed by Alan Jackson and Jim Reeves. He listens to Eddy Arnold, Charley Pride, Sons of the Pioneers, Hank Williams, Sr., Tammy Wynette, George Jones, George Strait, Tom T. Hall, and other artists. We sing along as we have since I was a child.

If Dad ever tells you a story about Charley Pride, its true. I purchased tickets to a concert for his birthday a few years ago. Although I could not take him, I arranged for a caregiver to attend. They had front row balcony seats and as Dad will tell you, “We could see everything, and it was a great show!”

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The Snail Whisperer

Dad has been living with us in southern California where almost everything grows year-round. He enjoys helping in the garden and it is a regular outdoor activity we share. One day while Dad was helping with some pruning, he discovered several snails crawling underneath leaves. He began to talk with them and even placed one in the palm of his garden glove to introduce the snail to me. Although snails are considered pests and I pluck them by hand and place them in the green waste, I too have admired them and even photographed them. It was no surprise when Dad took to the creatures. They are fascinating and Dad loves critters of all kinds. He has always had a quiet connection with most animals.

Since then, Dad is keeping a snail in his bedroom – well not really. It is an imaginary snail that is quite real to him. He calls him Buddy. Buddy is a rolled up brown napkin Dad found in his pocket after a lunch date with friends. Next to Buddy sits a tiny seashell – a saltwater snail. Apparently, the combination of the two items visualize for Dad as one of the garden snails. In case you are wondering, I had Dad’s eyes checked recently and clean his glasses daily.

It began with Dad showing me the brown round napkin snail and gently placing it on a shelf in his bedroom. Now, several times each day I hear Dad softly talking to Buddy. Recently, he has been asking me for bits of food to place for Buddy to enjoy. What is a daughter to do? I give him a little something and then go back and remove it later. It appears that Buddy is eating well. I love the tenderness with which Dad cares for his little Buddy and the comfort Buddy brings to Dad.

While we were out for a walk a few days ago, Dad noticed, for the first time in more than a year of walks, a few snails crawling across the sunny sidewalk. He picked them up, relocating the snails from the dry concrete to the shady landscape nearby.  If they were inside their shells, he left them where they were. I was relieved it had not rained the night before. There can be hundreds of snails in the neighborhood in certain weather conditions.

As we came upon the last snail of the morning, I waited for Dad to gently grasp the shell and place it on a bush along the sidewalk. Instead, Dad said, “I will just give this one a little shade”. He bent over and created a shadow with his hand. What some of us might have interpreted as a black cloud was the Snail Whisperer providing protection from the heat of the day. After a minute – one long minute, I reminded Dad it was nearly lunchtime. He calmly moved the snail to a spot just under the leaves of a blooming Honeysuckle hedge and we finished our walk. Whew!

Coincidentally, I had been thinking about getting out my origami kit to see if Dad would enjoy making paper animals. I have decided to wait on that idea for a while. Who needs origami paper when you have a brown napkin?

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Saturday Sandwiches

Dagwood Tower Sandwich On Glass Plate

Dad’s favorite foods are picnic foods and sub sandwiches. The menu includes macaroni and potato salad, corn on the cob, hotdogs, baked beans, chips and cookies. Every Friday night I make him beanie weenies, we have corn once a week and a variety of salads with lunch. About once a month we go out to lunch for subs. Interestingly, he no longer enjoys chili, hot peppers or anything spicy. I can remember walking into the living room when I was about eight years of age to see him sitting on the couch snacking on jalapeno peppers right out of the jar. As I sided up next to him, he said, These peppers are so hot! I asked him, Why don’t you stop eating them? Dad replied, They don’t get hot until I stop eating them. They are so hot I can’t stop.

A jar of jalapeno peppers was always on the table for Saturday lunch. On Saturday Mom would bring out the leftovers from the week and we would eat whatever was on the table. If there wasn’t quite enough Mom would cook up a little bacon. Sometimes Dad picked seasonal fresh pear tomatoes he grew in the side yard. I brought radishes (red and white), carrots and lettuce from my corner garden. I’m not sure exactly how it started, but I can hear my sister saying That’s gross, as Dad sliced hardboiled eggs and radishes and stacked them on top of white Wonder bread covered with barbecue beans. I placed a few slices of bacon on my bread and peanut butter. Dad winked and we just kept going. We started to combine anything we liked to eat onto our sandwiches. Sometimes we toasted the bread or added another slice of bread in the middle. I don’t know where we put all the food, but we ate everything on our plates. The messier the better.

We came up with some traditional combinations like creamy Limberger cheese and onions and added the liver too. Our bologna and mustard layers were usually topped off with potato chips. If there were leftover Bisquick biscuits, we used them instead of bread. There are many recipes that taste just as good cold as hot. Cold split pea soup with ham makes a great spread. Cold SOS is great with lettuce tomatoes and radishes. Who needs mayo when you have gravy? Grapes and onions stick to cream cheese. Macaroni, potato and egg salad are no brainers with sliced hot dogs. There was usually some canned Spam or corned beef and occasionally sardines. If Mom was making pickles, we added the pre-soaked Persian cucumber slices or the Butter Pickles. The more Mom and Sis fussed the more creative we were. Before we took our first bite, we carefully smashed the layers from the top down hoping to get a bite tasting of every flavor at once. We had so much fun.

Dad’s Dagwood inspired Saturday Sandwiches became a tradition. We eat much healthier these days, but when we have BLTs I always make them with peanut butter and Dad makes them with peanut butter and mayo. Dad is almost always willing to eat up leftovers so food doesn’t go to waste. Yesterday during his picnic food lunch he crumbled his chips onto his macaroni salad. I’m grateful he is a good eater. Tomorrow is Saturday. I think we will get out the Borgasmord.

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An Alphabet Morning

Dad walked out of his bedroom this morning with an old brown leather address book in his hand and began to read it to me from the beginning. Yes, the letter A. With each name I asked him about the person listed. Several were woman that were described as “just a friend”. Which is understandable as Dad was married, divorced, widowed and dated during different times in his life. There was a man that went by the name “stick” because he was tall, and according to Dad, the nickname “stuck to stick”. A man that ran a tractor business, the local realtor, friends made through the radio club, tractor club, and his automobile restoration and antiques hobbies. We chuckled when we read names like “5 Star ED”.  

When Dad found the name of a close friend or family member, he read the address and birthdates, most of which have changed. A couple included short directions like “left 6 blocks then right” or “exit then stay for 2 miles”. Local phone numbers were written without the area code. Dad read the name of his sister, her birthdate and said, “in case you need it.” He remembered I had recently looked up her address. “Okay, now be really careful to keep this one”, Dad said, then laughed. It was his next-door neighbor and friend of 40 plus years.

When he made it to the letter L, Dad said, “We can do this til the cows come home. It goes all the way to the back still with numbers.” When he reached the letter N, Dad said, “It would be nice if I talked to some people once in a while.” Dad has outlived the majority of his friends. Knowing this he would occasionally say, “There’s not much use in this number.” Sometimes he would read a number as …3057 or 8. About one long-lost friend, Dad said, “We know where they are because of all the traffic noise.”  He remembered a few young friends like Gus and his brother. Gus was the little brother to a childhood friend of Dad’s that followed the bigger boys around. Dad said, “He cried a lot.” There were also quite a few names Dad could not recall. When he got to the letter T, Dad hopped up and went to get his teeth, which I had not yet noticed were missing.

As he continued to read, Dad mentioned “On this page there is an arrow going all the way to the next page.” While there was only one Barney, Bud, Doug, Dale, Gus, Macel, Meleese, Robin and Roger, there were half a dozen Bobs, several Joans, a few Johns, a couple Bettys and Maries, and the copious amount of Eds, Barbaras and Charles that run in our family. In some sections several generations of a family are listed. Dad thought the entry for his father at the family home was instead for himself. The entries traveled across the country through Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Kentucky, New York, Michigan, Ohio, Virginia, Utah and more. In the middle of the letter V Dad realized his untouched breakfast was cold and we stopped to warm it up.

The last entry in Dad’s book is my younger sister and her family. Like many names in his brown leather book, we lost her a few years ago to a complicated illness. Her birthday is in a few days. After Dad read all their names and birthdates, he asked, “Guess what?”  and without waiting for an answer said, “My book is empty from here on – two blank pages. That’s all there is of that.”

This alphabet morning, we found some of Dad’s life in his address book. Time was forgotten and people were remembered.

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Childhood Memories

Dad tells great stories about his childhood. I heard most of them early in life and know the difference between the stories then and the stories that have evolved with dementia. He grew up on 60 acres of land in upstate New York where the woods and creek were his playground. Swimming in a water hole in the creek and lounging with a book under the apple tree are just a few of the images I can capture in my imagination as he describes them. He built several forts throughout the property. Some near the ground, and some in trees that most likely doubled as deer blinds.

One of my favorite stories is hearing about Dad, his young friends and his brother hanging out in their clubhouse near the millrace. As the story goes, brother caught a minnow in a can, and we decided to keep it in our fort. When we came back the next day, the water in the can was frozen and so was the fish. As the morning air warmed, the icy can melted and the fish started swimming around again. That happened for a few days in row. That fish would freeze overnight, then thaw and swim the next day. Dad has shared this story many times over the years. Even today he has never told me what eventually happened to the fish.

Dad loves to tell me about a time when he watched an interaction between his dog and the farm cat. Trixie chased the cat everywhere all the time. One day the pup went racing toward the cat, only this day the cat held its ground. Trixie put on the brakes so hard she flipped up and over the cat. This memory makes Dad laugh every time he tells the story.

Although our family moved to the southwest, I visited Dad’s childhood home several times. When I was eight-years of age my grandmother and I picked blackberries just outside the back kitchen door. She placed them in a small bowl with a little milk and a sprinkle of sugar. Best of all, Dad hooked up a flat trailer to the tractor and took us to the swimming hole at the creek. The road was narrow and lined with trees with a grassy ridge running along the center. It was referred to as the lane. Dad backed the trailer into the water, and my sister and I jumped off it, and spread out our towels on it while we played.  That day I lived one of his stories.

During a visit in the winter when I was 16 years of age, we enjoyed a great family gathering and snowmobiling. A few days later, Dad and I took a quiet walk in the woods. It was a wonderland with sun glistening on the snow clinging to leafless trees. The only footprints were the ones we made together. On this visit I sketched the old barn covered with deep white drifts.

The old barn was torn down some years later, but there are still remnants of old tree forts. The property was sold and the home remodeled. The new owner sent Dad fresh maple syrup from the trees every year for a long time. Dad and I stopped for a visit once and toured the remodel. It was beautiful with an entire wall of windows looking toward the woods. As we were getting ready to leave, we paused for a moment to look at the woods one more time. We noticed a particularly tall old tree that I imagine recorded memories in its rings as Dad grew up and played with his friends and pets and worked the small farm with his family. I learned of aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins visiting the woods too. I am grateful that the tree also journaled the next generation while I played there as a toddler and my daddy, like the tree, watched over me. The old tall tree is now home to a pair of Osprey which seems apropos. Most of Dad’s new stories are for the birds.    

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Driving and Life Lessons

Old leather key wallet on top of an antique drivers license

Dad loves his wallet. Lately he looks through it several times a day then hides it somewhere in his room. During his professional life he conducted a good amount of cash business,  is accustomed to carrying large bills, and more than most of us might. Although he doesn’t remember to purchase anything anymore it is a way for me to give him a sense of purpose and perhaps comfort. The amount is much smaller and I have already decided it’s alright if he should lose it. He counts the twenty dollar bills again and again. Until recently he never bothered to carry ones and fives, and he doesn’t count them.

Dad also loves his driver’s license. Although it has expired, he still carries it. I keep other expired cards in his wallet as well. Strangely, this morning he pulled out his draft registration card dated 1956. I’ve never seen it before and have no idea how it was placed in his wallet. Then he shared a story I’ve heard many times. He was thinking about his “poor momma” and how she tested several times before passing the driving test for her license. My grandmother would get nervous and make mistakes. Finally, Dad went with her for moral support and she passed the test. Dad said she was a careful and safe driver and it was just a few years later that she was driving me all over town. Dad was also an excellent driver, but because his reaction time and vision were affecting his confidence, he willing stopped driving a couple years ago. 

Dad began teaching me to drive at a very young age. He would find a backroad in Arizona and put me on his lap behind the wheel of his 1947 Ford truck. When I was very small and squeezed into the middle of the seat with Dad on one side and my sister and mother on the other, Dad would grab my knee to make the horn honk. He was discretely pressing his elbow on the horn with his other arm. I still find myself in childlike awe of Dad.  As I grew into preadolescence, Dad would ask me to move the truck around our property or  just roll it forward a few feet while he was dumping a load of dirt. I had to stand on the gas and clutch, work the gear shift and wasn’t tall enough to see over the dash.  One day I drove into our neighbor’s fence. Dad and I spent hours repairing the fence before our neighbor arrived home. This is the only time I can remember him handling a situation this way. Dad and I still chuckle about how Mr. G. never noticed the fence repair. These days whenever Dad’s truck or a tractor needs to be moved around his property I ask him to do it.  If we have the time, I jump in and we sneak in a few laps around the block. 

At 16 years of age, a few months after I started driving, I got a speeding ticket. I was running late for the start of a parade and was the girls’ drill team commander for my high school junior reserve officers training corp (ROTC).  As taught, I took a backroad hoping to save a little time. Oops! My age and the nature of the ticket required I appear in court. To my surprise, Dad wanted to go with me. He asked me to wear my ROTC uniform. He thought it might help me make a positive impression in court. He still values a tidy appearance and tucks everything in to everything.

Dad met me at the court in our small downtown. We parked on the street, walked in off the sidewalk and stopped.  If my memory serves me correctly, there was just a few feet between the front door and a wall-to-wall partition of fancy wood. Looking up, there sat a small old man in a black robe. We were the only ones in what appeared to be a one-room courthouse. Dad was right, the Judge noticed my uniform and asked me about it. I explained the circumstances of my ticket and apologized. Dad was also in uniform wearing a shirt with his employer’s business logo neatly tucked into trousers with a belt.  He obviously made the most positive impression but not necessarily because of his appearance. I recall the judge asking him if he had taken off work to be with his daughter in court. The judge gave me a warning with six months probation. The ticket never went on my record. I was a fast learner.

Dad and I were recently in an accident where another driver drove into the back of us on the freeway. Thankfully, we were not injured. Dad told me I did well handling the moment. After dropping off my car for repairs, we took off in the rental car and stopped for lunch. I was delighted when Dad took out his wallet and paid for our meal – in cash.

 

Stock photo ID:870902952 Cindy Shebley

 

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The Beachcomber

Dad is barefoot wading in the water at our local beach. It is his newest favorite pastime in any weather to walk, collect rocks and shells, and watch the shorebirds and surfers. The other day he said, “Get your children and grandchildren down here on the beach. I wish I had gotten myself out there on those boards when I was a younger man.”

It hasn’t always been this way. In fact is has been a lifelong process. Dad has naturally been a fit muscular guy. He looked great without a shirt and in swim trunks which he wore without hesitation. Yet in our early teens my sister and I noticed he didn’t wear shorts. We talked with him about it and finally persuaded him to try the popular cutoff jeans around the house. He liked them and has worn shorts since the 1970s. But our job wasn’t finished. It wasn’t until the early 2000s that we convinced him to wear sports socks with his shorts. We reminded him how great his legs looked. Who knew it was that easy?

This past spring Dad arrived for an extended stay with us in southern California. During our regular walks on the beach he was always high on the dry sand wearing socks and shoes. Invariably he would get wet even though he tried not to. Then one day after watching us remove our shoes, he spontaneously took off his sneakers and socks and joined us along the waters edge. Now he loves it! Then another miracle happened. We bought him a pair of flip flops to wear with his shorts on the way to and from the beach. He loves them! We found a light weight pair with a soft toe insert and we stay nearby to avoid falls. But he really does great with them. It only took him until age 82.

We go to the beach every few days. If not he asks when we can “go to the water”. Dad fills his pockets with shells and rocks every beach walk. He displays them on trays and looks at his collection every day. If you visit us he will bring them out to show you. He has so many rocks we created an outdoor space for them in the garden. Dad especially enjoys the colored rocks and rocks with holes. He is particularly fond of a Chestnut Cowrie he found. We recently purchased a seashell identification guide for him.

Yesterday we packed our lunch and beach chairs and set ourselves right in the tide. He laughed as the water washed up around our feet. Then we watched the sanderlings scurry and the pelicans diving for fish. We combed the beach for shells and sand dollars. Dad has expressed many times how much he enjoys our time on the beach. We treasure it! But our work is not finished yet. We are still practicing knowing the difference between sand dollars and sea gull dollars.

Oops!
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Go West Young Man

Tonto Natural Bridge, Arizona

Dad moved our family west in 1964. We settled under the shadows of the Superstition Mountains in Apache Junction, Arizona when I was just four years of age. Western novels and movies have been a lifelong source of enjoyment for Dad until a few months ago. He has read every Zane Grey novel and owns a complete collection. Then added Louis L’Amore to his library. Last year he made the effort to read the complete collection of Louis L’Amour in sequence. It was the last time. Although, he stands and admires the books sometimes touches them. I remember Dad taking us to the Round Up Drive-In movie theater to see John Wayne in Red River and when Blazing Saddles was released. Over the past few months, books have become difficult to read and western movies with the “shoot em up” as Dad describes it, seem to bother him. Bookmarks are a challenge to keep in place and while he was on page 122 one day, the next day he would be on page 90.

As we transition to trying audio books and watching more country music videos instead of westerns, I reflect on Dad’s love for Arizona and everything cowboy. On special occasions he wore the hat, jeans, boots and a Bolo tie. He even had a holster and a pistol. Dad hiked and explored all parts of the state climbing all over the Superstitions, and into Geronimo’s Cave. He took us camping at many lakes along the Apache Trail and throughout the White Mountains and taught my sister and I how to fish. Then we learned how to clean and cook the fish including eating a delicious crispy tail. He eventually purchased property near the Mogollon Rim for family getaways. On some adventures, Dad drove his 1947 Ford pick up truck on steep mountain roads. We were scared half to death as we looked down the steep sides of canyons while he bumped along nearly impassable roads.

Shortly after moving to Arizona, Dad turned a 1956 Ford into a desert buggy. We would spontaneously head out for adventures turning off a dirt road in the middle of what I thought was “nowhere” only to come across an abandoned homestead or “ghost town”, as Dad would call it. One childhood memory includes images of my mother and sister and I walking through an old cemetery in a long forgotten town and seeing three snakes within a matter of minutes; a rattlesnake, a king snake and a red and black coral snake. We weren’t frightened as Dad and Mom had taught us about all the desert creatures like Gila monsters, snakes and tarantulas.

To spark Dad’s love for Arizona and enjoy his adventurous spirit, we recently drove to the Tonto Natural Bridge. We reminisced about the friends and family we had shared the bridge with in decades past. We hiked short trails, watched wild Javelina and then went to lunch at a vintage cafe not far from the Zane Grey cabin museum. I thought we might visit the museum. When I asked Dad, he shrugged and said it had been moved from its original location. He then ordered a big slice of cherry pie which he did not share. I thought to myself, “Cowboys must really like cherry pie.”

Zane Grey Under the Tonto Rim

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Made in America

Infants foot stamped with text Made in USA

Dad is one of about 23 million “Silents” in the United States. This group of United States citizens now known as the “silent majority” carry a mix of values formed by the Great Depression and World War II. Fewer children were born during this time between 1928 and 1945. Dad’s father was self-motivated delivering milk and eggs with a horse and wagon. His mother ran the home and worked factory jobs. From the stories Dad shares, both his parents were a part of his life every day. The family lived on a small farm and sustained themselves with the bare necessities. Dad learned early in life that hard work, honesty, and saving his pennies were the key to success. He was rarely without a job of some kind beginning at a young age. He willingly worked the family farm and helped other farmers seasonally. Later working in local garages and some light construction with friends if that was all he could find. The family owned only American made automobiles and tractors. In fact, everything in Dad’s life at that time was made in America.

My “Silent” spoke up recently when he noticed some of the labels on his clothing. Dad requires some assistance selecting clothes so I lay them out on the bathroom counter for him. The plan is to drop dirty clothes on the rug for me to pick up later and to put on the clean clothes. Lately the two get mixed up and I check on him more frequently. One evening Dad took a particularly long time getting dressed so I tapped on the door asking if everything was okay. It wasn’t. Dad had his long sleeve dirty shirt tied around his waste and nothing else on. He was staring at his clean briefs holding them up with both hands. As I peeked in, he said, “my underwear are made in Vietnam!” I responded, ” Oh, well they will work better if you put them on.” He did. A little more time passed so I cracked the door again. “My tee shirt is made in Honduras!” “Gee Dad, aren’t you cold? Let’s get that tee shirt on.” He did. Then as he put on his flannel pajama bottoms, he said, “these are made in Bangladesh! Maybe I should join a nudist colony.” We laughed all the way to the laundry basket. Dad picked up a pair of pants from the laundry and checked the label. He looked at me and said, “Nicaragua. Next thing you know newborn babies will come with labels on them from the countries where they were born.”

Just before we turned out the lights at bedtime that night, Dad said, “I’m glad I am made in America. I said, “Me too Dad, me too.”

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God Bless the Road Rebel

Dad has always been a “car guy”. Nearly every story he shares begins with a car, truck or tractor and then as the tale unfolds I learn about family history. During his teen years Dad and some of his friends started the Road Rebels club. The purpose of the club was to share a common interest and learn more about automobiles through hands-on experience. The father of one of the young men owned a garage where meetings were held. Dad enjoyed it so much he continued to wear his Road Rebels leather jacket for years afterward. One Sunday morning, as the story goes, the family was running late for church. As he ran out the door Dad grabbed his favorite jacket. Dad and mom settled into the last row pew just in time for the service to start. When it was time for the offering, the Deacon was short an usher and gave Dad a tap, asking him to help. Dad willing assisted in collecting the offering, moving row by row up the aisle to the front of the church for the blessing. As the congregation prayed over the collection, Mom looks up and sees in large white letters R O A D R E B E L S across Dad’s back. I never heard anything more about the jacket after that Sunday. Since then Dad has worked on many automobiles and enjoyed restorations. Industrial and truck engines became a significant part of his successful career. What I appreciate the most is that Dad taught me how to maintain my own car.

Dad is a NASCAR fan. Over the years I would often buy him tickets to races as birthday or Father’s Day gifts. He would always take Jim; his best friend of more than 40 years. They had a great time and every year gave me a detailed accounting of their day at the raceway. Lately, I have been recording the races for Dad to enjoy in shorter segments during the week since he doesn’t sit through a full-length race anymore. Dad loves it if someone watches the race with him so I sit nearby and get computer work done during the race. Imagine my surprise when I started a race for him today and he said, “This is the same one as yesterday.” I reminded him that yesterday we watched the end of a race in Atlanta and this race is in Miami. He said, “It can’t be. Its the same drivers in the same cars with the same numbers.” I wasn’t sure what to say and replied, “Yes Daddy, that’s how it works. There are quite a few races in a season.” Dad then inquired, “You mean all they do is drive around in circles for hours?” I said, “Yes Daddy.” Dad continues, “and they spin out and hit each other and roll over?” I nodded yes. Dad shakes his head and says, “That can’t be good for those drivers.” I said, “We hope they don’t have accidents but sometimes they do.” Dad jumps up and exclaims, “Stupidity!” Although still bewildered, my brain is finally catching up to the moment and now I’m trying not to laugh. I asked, “Who is your favorite driver?”, Dad says, “All my favorite drivers are dead.” I told Dad we could turn the race off if he didn’t want to watch it. He said, “I want to watch it. ” I asked him who he was rooting for and he said, “Jimmy Johnson”. Dad is enjoying the race and even laughing at a few comments by the announcers. I haven’t told Dad Jimmy Johnson is retiring this year. All I can say is, “God bless the Road Rebel!

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Grand Canyon – Light and Laughter

Photo by Daughter

Dad and I went to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. We went because he did not remember having been there and always wanted to go.  While we were waiting to check in to our cabin we decided to hike the Bright Angel Point Trail. The trail starts near the lodge and winds along sheer drop offs with dramatic views of the canyon. While we were hiking, Dad began to tell me how much he “hated this trail” sharing he hated it the entire time he helped build it. I was surprised but just listened. He explained that it was cold and snowing and he and all the workers feared they would slip and fall. I encouraged him to walk away from the edge and we continued along the trail. I asked him where he lived when he was working on the trail and he told me he drove to work from his home every day. He lives more than eight hours one-way from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. He also told me a good friend of his, one he worked with for years at his primary profession, quit after just one day. He was adamant about his experience, so I just hiked along with him in his moment. Along the way we stopped for a few sips of water under a shady rocky overhang.  At this same stop was a couple visiting from India. Dad told them in great detail how he built the trail sharing how the stones were placed along the edge and about the dangerous work. The couple listened to his story with interest and became excited to meet him. I just stood there quietly watching and listening. After all, my mission was to give Dad a happy visit to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. We had a wonderful evening watching the light sweep across the canyon at sunset and a glass of wine with dinner. Our cabin was just 20 yards from the edge of the canyon. We slept peacefully under the pines with a fire in the stone hearth. We woke early to watch the sunrise and enjoy the changing hues as much as possible. Just one day – a few hours together as father and daughter to be remembered…or not. A few days after we returned home, Dad called me and said he needed to apologize. I said, “Dad, you never do anything you need to apologize for.” He said, “I never built a trail in the Grand Canyon.” I said, “well, there is a couple in India telling their friends they met a guy that did.” We laughed and laughed. Dad still remembers our trip to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Sometimes we look at the photographs together, talk about how beautiful it was, and laugh about our adventure.

Photo: National Park Service

“A short trail leads visitors from Grand Canyon Lodge to a viewing area at Bright Angel Point. Looking east, hikers can see Roaring Springs Canyon, a major tributary to Bright Angel Creek and the source of Roaring Springs. Deva, Brahma, and Zoroaster Temples are visible to the southeast. To the west is The Transept, a large tributary canyon of the Grand Canyon. The Colorado River, however, is hidden among the multicolored buttes and rock outcroppings that fill the Canyon’s depths. Along the trail are displays of marine fossils and crinoid fossils that illustrate the evolution of the landscape and life through the millennia as revealed in the exposed layers of the Canyon.”  Bright Angel Point

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The Funnies – Together

Smokey Stover – One of Dad’s favorite comic strip characters.

Dad makes almost daily references to comic strips like Smokey Stover which he enjoyed growing up.  The other day Dad said “Cash U. Nutt” and then asked, “Do you remember Nancy?” I didn’t so I asked him to tell me about it. We looked it up on the internet and he was so excited to see the comic strip Nancy. We read a few and chuckled. Then he asked me if I remembered Henry. I didn’t. Dad said, “You youngsters can’t remember anything!”. Here are strips of Smokey, Nancy and Henry we found on the internet with Wikipedia excerpts describing each. I think we will make reading the “funnies” a daily activity. Enjoy!

“The puns and “silly pictures on the wall with various items hanging clear out of the frames” was the feature that provoked the most reader mail, according to articles and interviews with Holman. The cartoonist often visited the syndicate office to pick up the puns which readers suggested for the walls. He called these items “wallnuts”. For example, a picture of a fish opening a door is labeled “calling cod”.[2] The panels of Smokey Stover regularly include sight gags, mishaps, absurd vehicles, and bizarre household items, including oddly shaped furniture, clocks, vases, headwear, cigarette holders, and telephones. Framed pictures on the walls change completely from panel to panel or feature the subjects literally jumping out of the frames. The strip also abounds in nonsensical dialogue, non-sequiturs, and puns.”

“Comics theorist Scott McCloud described the essence of Nancy: Ernie Bushmiller’s comic strip Nancy is a landmark achievement: A comic so simply drawn it can be reduced to the size of a postage stamp and still be legible; an approach so formulaic as to become the very definition of the “gag-strip”; a sense of humor so obscure, so mute, so without malice as to allow faithful readers to march through whole decades of art and story without ever once cracking a smile. Nancy is Plato’s playground. Ernie Bushmiller didn’t draw A tree, A house, A car. Oh, no. Ernie Bushmiller drew the tree, the house, the car. Much has been made of the “three rocks.” Art Spiegelman explains how a drawing of three rocks in a background scene was Ernie’s way of showing us there were some rocks in the background. It was always three. Why? Because two rocks wouldn’t be “some rocks.” Two rocks would be a pair of rocks. And four rocks was unacceptable because four rocks would indicate “some rocks” but it would be one rock more than was necessary to convey the idea of “some rocks.” A Nancy panel is an irreduceable concept, an atom, and the comic strip is a molecule.[18]

Cartoonist Wally Wood described Nancy‘s design more succinctly: “By the time you decided not to read it, you already had.”[19]“

“Art Baxter analyzed the appeal of the character and the strip: Henry was a strip that was supposed to be contemporary, but it never looked that way. There were almost no modern trappings. There may be cars or telephones, but that’s about it. It always seemed like Henry could always find the coal wagon, horse-drawn ice delivery or a five-cent ice cream cone. There were always shadings of nostalgia in the strip, even when it began in the Depression. Part of that has to do with the fact that Henry’s creator, Carl Anderson, was already an old man in his late sixties when he created the character by accident. Henry is autonomous in The Saturday Evening Post strips. Henry would not pick up a regular cast of characters, all with no proper names, only titles: the mother, the dog, the bully, the little girl, until it became a William Randolph Hearst comic strip. The Saturday Evening Post Henry is similar in many ways to the Little Rascals/Our Gang comedies of the same era. That is children free from the tyranny of an adult presence (mostly): children navigating the world as best they can with the knowledge and experience they currently possess; sometimes getting things right, often getting things wrong, and frequently coming up with solutions to problems unique to their limited experience. Necessity is the mother of invention with funny, surprising results.[4] Later strips of Henry would be somewhat a reversal of earlier themes, such as adults having the last word when Henry and his friends misbehave, or Henry walking around town to see free samples of common household items, then seeing another sign advertising ice cream for expensive prices, to his unspoken consternation.”

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It’s just a bucket of golf balls

A bucket of golf balls at the driving range

Dad has lived in the same home with the same neighbors for more than 40 years. When one of his neighbors decided to downsize, Dad snagged a few old golf clubs from the front lawn “free” pile. He called to tell me he was taking up golf and was practicing in the backyard. “I found a couple golf balls around the house!” he exclaimed. Concerned about the small size of his backyard and the six foot block fence, I asked Dad if he thought is was a safe thing to do. He said, “I opened the door of the garden shed for a target. The balls really make some noise when they actually go in.” Pleased that Dad was taking an interest in something new, during my next visit, I took him to the nearby driving range. Since golf was new to Dad, I took him to the pro shop, showed him the practice putting green and we watched a couple of starts from the first tee. He purchased a bucket of balls. We figured out the ball machine together. We had a great time just hitting golf balls. A few days later, Dad called to share he was just returning home from the driving range. He said, “I enjoyed it a lot. But I did get a bit tired and only hit about half the balls in the bucket.” I told Dad it was okay as long as he enjoyed himself. Then Dad shared, “Well, I just poured the rest of the golf balls into a box in the back of my truck. I’ll use them up the next time I go.”