"I'm not Dumb. I'm Just Tired"

For a moment my Grandma Coleen emerged from the murky abyss of Alzheimer's, looked at Paco, and carefully punched out those words.  And then she was gone again.  Maybe senility is just a well-deserved vacation from all those years of putting up with so much crap.  Paco, or Wiggles, Spot, Chucky or whatever the residents choose to call him, is a favorite guest at Sunrise Gardens.  And a very good listener.

Back From DC

I'm so into blogging it's sad.  There I was visiting my uncle who was part of the elite Underwater Demolition Team of World War II.   Then after a stint in the Pentagon with the Joint Chiefs of Staff he became an accomplished artist and writer, and there he was sharing with me combat stories that could curdle dirt and I'm thinking "crap, I haven't updated my website in three days." 

Uncle Bruce's life and stories are incredible.  When I'm 82--heck 42--I hope to be half as active.  He even remembers more about my last visit than I do.  Apparently I was a hit at a party he took me to.   The reason I was the life of the party may very well be the reason I forgot it, but Uncle Bruce even described my reaction to the undercooked chicken he served me in 1997.  Amazing.   While  he's a pioneer of today's Navy Seals and was an active player in most of the major American wars of he 20th century, the most amazing thing about him is that he was born in 1924 and isn't afraid of dvd's or computers.  He has a Dell with dial-up and accesses the Internet without consulting AARP or Andy Rooney.  And how many 82-year-old sailors with an accent from somewhere near Nantucket take daily trips to O Street in downtown DC?  That's where his artists studio is located...across the street from a soup kitchen.   His street name--I kid you not--is Santa Claus.  He's pretty loose with his change and that may very well have kept him alive on a block that once had five homicides in a year.   When Sarah and I got out of his Volvo station wagon we walked to the entrance of his studio with the trepidation of a cow in a drive thru. 

So it was a nice trip and we even got to spend time with Sarah's parents.  They live in Baltimore with two cats.  The pets, Jolly and Trumpet, exist so that the two humans can communicate through them.  "Jolly, tell daddy that he's smelling up the house," might be a suggested cat-related comment.  It works.  Sarah's dad goes on lots of long walks.  

I spent some of the in-law time in the back yard chopping blocks of wood.  I grew up in a wood-heated house and even though I was always the smelly kid who never had friends over because my dad would put them to work stacking wood, I've grown to miss the chopping.  It's good therapy.  

And I think one of the cats told me to stop fidgeting and go do something with myself.

An Unlikely Perfection

Last week we threw a birthday party for my Grandma Colleen.  My wife and I, my aunts and uncles and several friends all gathered at my grandma’s new home, a memory impaired facility in Boulder.  We were all aglow and feeling good about ourselves for throwing grandma a party.  We had everything in place, the food, the presents, balloons and cake.  The one thing that we didn’t have was grandma.  She'd boarded a tour bus and was spending the day on the town.  The home's activities director provided us with her approximate whereabouts.  When we found her she was enjoying dinner with strangers at a Macaroni Grill.  

Alzheimer’s is considered a most horrible disease but I'm thinking it's more like a little vacation after years of putting up with jobs and kids and life in general.  

I mean how often have you just wanted to forget about your birthday?  Everybody wants to make a big deal out of your journey to antiquity and you just want to go hide.  If I were to sneak away from my birthday party everyone would think I was a jerk.  My grandma gets away with it.

Last night we had a birthday soiree for my deceased mother.   I’m beginning to think we just like an excuse to party.  Not anything, not death or degradation, will stop us from doing so. 

It was a year ago yesterday that my wife and I had planned a big surprise to-do for my mom.  Crappy weather left the three of us stranded at home.  

Out of some kind of insane generosity I had purchased ten gallons of cookie dough to support my nephew’s preschool.   A quick estimate had us in hock for about two hundred dozen cookies.   We could live snowbound for several years.  And at least for one day that’s what we did.  April snow showers pounded the city and Sarah made a huge cookie cake.   I fixed the entree, a family favorite called Welsh Rarebit.  

I was feeling bad that my mom wouldn’t get the big party we’d planned.  She said it was perfect.  

Last night we all gathered at my sisters for dinner.  Again, the birthday girl was the only thing missing.  We wouldn’t be finding her at an Italian restaurant.  Unless of course the Christians are wrong.  

We moved around stiffly, hugging each other and eating barbecue.  I looked for distractions.  The two dogs doing their cute dog thing and my aunt’s donation of some party noisemakers were sufficient.   We ate pie and made fun of the 1976 version of King Kong.   Tyler had insisted upon watching it.  He’d since surrendered to sleep.  So had his mom who was curled up on the carpet.  It was time to go.

Sarah and I drove the hour it takes to get from Loveland to the city of Englewood.  Our Toyota’s missing window invited the scent of fresh farm fertilizer.

We gagged and laughed simultaneously.  

My mom would have sworn it was another perfect evening.