Dad has a Girlfriend

Steaming bowls of oatmeal and cups of apple sauce have been shared with The Girlfriend for a week now. Each morning Dad hangs his cane on the edge of the kitchen table, fluffs his red bandana kerchief onto his lap and begins his morning chat with her while stirring and stirring the “very hot, it’s very hot!” oatmeal and the “cold, it’s very cold!” applesauce. Usually he's surprised that The Girlfriend is “still here, you’re still here!”. He tells The Girlfriend stories about the house he had in Arizona which he sometimes forgets was in Arizona. Sometimes his house was in Germany or Hungary. He tells her it was “empty” and that he was glad he was here now where it is “not empty” but that he missed his house and he thought he should have a house. He asks her, “you have a house?” but she never answers that question. A reticent type. She does smile, however, all the time and with a warmth as if she truly cares about everything Dad says. She always wears the same thing, a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her neck. Dad frequently says the word “choice” when speaking with The Girlfriend. He has difficulty with the word and seems unsure of its meaning but he says it often as if he's just learning the word as a foreign student.

This is Saturday morning and Sir Karl is eating his own breakfast while Dad, at the opposite end of the table and realizing Sir Karl can hear him talking to his girlfriend, begins whispering. Dad, concentrating on the most mundane of conversation with The Girlfriend, points at Sir Karl clandestinely to warn her they're not alone. Sir Karl is reading as he eats his own meal and outlasts Dad’s oatmeal and applesauce. Dad finishes his breakfast and says “auf wiedersehen” to The Girlfriend. He brings me his bowl and cup to wash, takes his cane, slips on his shoes and wanders outside for a walk-a-bout.

Sir Karl chuckles as he too brings me his breakfast dishes to wash. “Your Dad was embarrassed to talk to his girlfriend with me here. He just whispered to her and patted her a couple of times.”

I wipe down the kitchen table were The Girlfriend lays smiling up at me from the open AARP magazine. She is a drug ad and over her head hang the words “I am happy I can now give my patients a choice”.

Morning at 7

Dad is turning 90 next month and this morning he got upset because the picture of his granddaughter is not talking back to him. And secondly "why is she behind the glass?" and thirdly "who is she and why is she in my room?". This while I’m trying to think what to fix him for lunch, a man who can no longer chew properly and chokes on anything larger than bean in his soup. I’ve rubbed some progesterone cream into my wrist, taken my thryroid med and had sufficient coffee and and now checking my sense of humor….yes, thankfully it’s still intact..whew.

Home Office Chronicles 6

The view out my window is directly behind my laptop screen so I’m constantly provided with that happy-making natural light and the soothing green of the garden. It lifts my spirits and, I think, helps me write happy emails. This afternoon my Dad is adding background to my view with his narrative in the dining room where he's carrying on a lengthy one-sided conversation. The narration could be out of my childhood, I’ve heard the story many times, how he lost the farm, not to the bank but to the Russians, how he went to prison, not for a crime but for being on the losing side of a war, how that prison was not a building but a mine in Siberia and how that when he walked home from there five years later he found his family farm belonged not to his family but to the winners of that war and how he "didn’t get a dime, not one dime!" for the land but had to walk to Germany into the arms of a refugee camp.

I walked by the dining room table and saw he had a magazine open, AARP, with an ad showing a woman smiling, someone who looked like a good listener. I asked Dad who he was talking to. "She" pointing at the woman in the ad and then closing the magazine and getting up. He had finished his bowl of spaghetti-Os and prepared to go for a walk.

Of course I feel guilty that I don’t spend more time with Dad. Of course old age is lonely even when you have someone feeding you, someone puttering around the house, someone you share a history with, even if that history is long forgotten. Dad looks at me and blinks and I know he is trying to remember who I am. Then he remembers, a spark still glows in a wizen head. He ambles out the door into the sunlight, stomps about a while with his cane punctuating every step on the wooden porch. He walks down the steps and gives his cane a jaunty twirl as he heads out into the treeline with a dog trailing him at a safe distance.

A Lost Art

Down to basics.

Cut the frills.

I’m a Plain Jane and not distraught over it. Don’t ask me about clothes, they don’t interest me much unless they come in solid black, white or beige, and can mix and match. Beyond natural fibers, fabrics also mean little to me. If a charmeuse hit me over the head with a georgette I’d only ask if it was washable. Given this penchant for simplicity in one form of textiles I’m at a loss to explain my complete enchantment with the texture, color and weight of paper and the flow, colors and hues of ink. There was a time I couldn’t pass a stationary store without stopping to buy a new pen, some linen bond and matching envelopes. The sheerness of rice papers, the scented beribboned boxes of note cards kept me lolling in the aisles while shop clerks, refusing to believe I didn’t need help, interrupted my blissful contemplation.

Of course the quaint and dusty stationary shops have been replaced by brightly-lit box stores selling the electronic age contraptions and sundries that are replacing ink and paper. With persistence, one may still find an occasional fine linen bond with a proper rag content. Ink pens abound in extraordinary styles these days. Still, finding a pen that balances perfectly in the hand while releasing ink to paper smoothly and with perfect flow is perplexing when one must decide between purple paisley with clear plastic cap and faux red burl wood with brass pocket clip. Of course a fine pen is available for a price and that price is usually well beyond my financial sensibility. I’ve managed to hold onto a favorite pen given to me some forty years ago. The gold plating has rubbed off in places but it still feels like a fine tool and good quality ink refills are still available. Paper is rather more consumable and must be tracked down at regular intervals.

The craft of paper-making was revived a few years ago but the often nubby, soft thick papers felt and looked more like corn and flour tortillas than paper and although pretty, were more suitable for framing than for writing upon. Writing paper, fine quality parchment and bond with the correct weight and smoothness, is a lost treasure and with it went the long flowing lines of India ink and the flowery and complex language of a thoughtfully written letter.

Thomas Jefferson's autobiography sits on my bookcase. I open it often. In it I can become lost in his fine letters to persons of political note as well as of those to his wife and children. I fall in love with the man, with the pen, with the paper, with the words, with the fluidity of thoughts and the perfection and completeness of the whole. This is what is lost. This is what we may never recover. The art of the letter.

On ethnic musical instruments:

Remembering my cruise to Philly on the Liberty SS Mayweed (1954) a musical night was arranged to indoctrinate passengers to American music. The purser played Yankee Doodle on his banjo resulting in the captain being petitioned by the accordion playing passengers to turn the ship around forthwith.

The Home Office Chronicles 5

Mom and the Anarchist

(this is unfortunately a true story from 2008 and too good not to share)

Mornings are usually uneventful: coffee, let the dogs out, let the dogs in, let the dogs out, check my email, let the dogs in, more coffee. But this morning Mom called and she almost never calls me, I usually call her, but this morning she called. The conversation began on the usual note of “hello! It's me...ha..ha..ha!”, but it rapidly deteriorated into “I think I’m in trouble with the FBI”.

“Which FBI?” I asked without blinking, my mom is straight as an arrow, odd, but otherwise straight. “How many FBIs are there? I’m being followed by men in black and helicopters!” She was yelling into the phone now over the beating of a helicopter apparently hovering over her condo. I blinked, took a sip of coffee and sat down in front of my laptop. “Ok Mom, take it from the top, what did you do to tick off the FBI”? “I had my teeth cleaned!” she was still shouting over the din of the blades, “and the taxi didn’t come back to pick me up!” That seemed like a rational reason for the FBI to get involved. I knew there was more to the story so I made the requisite listening noises one makes while waiting. “I don’t have much time, he’s in the bathroom” she had lowered her voice and was evidently cuffing her hand around the phone. “Who is in your bathroom?” I was concerned now. Having the FBI after my Mom was not nearly the worry that a man in her bathroom was. Mom didn’t like men, didn’t want them in her life let alone in her bathroom. “My dentist!” she whispered. Ok, that also seemed rational, her dentist, in her bathroom after having her teeth cleaned, why not? The phone went dead. I took a couple more sips of coffee before trying her number. No answer. Mom didn’t believe in voice mail so the line rang and rang. I hung up and considered calling 911 but what would I say? My Mom’s dentist is in her bathroom and FBI helicopters are hovering over her condo? I decided to wait. Mom called back. “He’s gone” she said flatly. “And the FBI?” I asked. “They’re gone too” she breathed deeply. “Okay Mom”, I said with more concern in my voice than I wanted her to hear, “ what exactly is going on there?” Mom finally was able to give me a chronological explanation of the morning events and it was rather mesmerizing. Here's what happened.

Mom took a cab (she sold her car after a fender-bender) to get her teeth cleaned. Her dentist, a known anarchist, with propaganda instead of National Geographics in his waiting room gave her his usual spiel about how the government was infiltrating everything and he was fighting to combat the administration (then George W) and the FBI was after him because they know he's part of a larger group that plans to...well you get the picture. Mom's cab didn't come back to pick her up so the dentist, who was eager to entice her to donate her social security check to his worthy cause, gave her a lift home. And yes, helicopters did follow them and yes, did hover over Mom's condo and yes, did leave when the dentist left. Whew. So after listening to all of this from Mom I advised her to find another dentist.

About a year later Mom was going to have her teeth cleaned and I asked about her dentist. “Oh I found a new dentist” she said. I asked about the old dentist and she took a deep breath and said “he's in prison”. “Really?!” I said. “Yes,” she said, “they caught him and some of the group just after he left my condo last year. It was in the news. CNN. I had to find another dentist.”

I Must Go Down to the Sea

 …...With my apologies to John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a sushi bar and a map to find it by,
And a cold beer and salty chips and a doggie bag for taking,,
And a borrowed board on the sea's face and a green wave breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the rip tide
that floods you out of your beach chair and cannot be denied.
And all I ask is a dry towel and to stop my book from flying,
And I wish the lady next to me would stop her kid from crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the dog poop and the blowing sand where the suns like a burning knife;
And all I ask is parking space given up by a Range Rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the damn trips over.

(Sadly, this was my take on a day at the beach not long ago)

You'll like Masefield's version better:

http://www.poetseers.org/the_great_poets/misc/i_must_go_down_to_the_sea/

The Home Office Chronicals 4

In Warp Drive holding my Droid, logging into my Facebook, blogging and checking out the latest technology on the Internet so I can jump into Hyperspeed and gain even more....what exactly will I gain I wonder...but put that silly drivel out of my head for now and keep moving forward and forward and forward.  There is no going back, I am here, the only thing is the future with just a breather here and there, a slow cup of coffee, a quiet moment of contemplation, I pet the dog, take out the trash, toast a muffin, the leaves are starting to turn and nights are getting cooler.

The Home Office Chronicles 3

WOW

While cleaning out a file cupboard this morning I ran across the WOW filed under W. It was a copy of a copy of a copy and time had not been kind but I could distinctly see the image of the Big Ear Radio Telescope covering an area the size of three football fields in Delaware Ohio, 30 miles north of the Ohio State campus in the late 1950s. The photo copy was given to me by the late John Morrow. He, my grandfather and my uncle had helped construct it.

I’ve kept the photo copy as a reminder of my relationship to the WOW; the first sound heard when the telescope was turned on. WOW, the sound from outer space as interpreted by the space ear on Planet Earth. WOW, the word from then on used in response to the inconceivable, the incomprehensible, the astonishing.

I emailed my sister to tell her I had found the WOW and I would scan and email it to my niece in a minute – Wow. I twittered to my niece to look for it in her email and add it to her Facebook – WOW. I Googled EAR and found a web page dedicated to the Ohio State Big Ear Radio Telescope – Wow. I emailed the link to several relatives and friends and I accomplished all of that within the time it took to drink my morning coffee –WOW!

WOW was somehow replaced by Awesome. I prefer the simplicity of the WOW to the mouth jarring Awesome. Frankly, the only time I have used the word Awesome was when I first looked down into the Grand Canyon. I use the WOW daily, I don’t know why. Perhaps I just grew up with the WOW. WOW yelled out from advertising in the 1960’s. WOW fell from everyone’s lips then, it was often said under the breath or shouted with arms flying wildly or laughed or chuckled. It was the appropriate response for any surprising revelation, simple, easy to say and succinct.

I think Awesome will soon die a natural death. It has hemorrhaged its meaning. It is a borrowed word from the distant past originating from the word “awe” used to describe fear which will be returned to the dictionary, to its appropriate definition on a yellowed page. It is too cumbersome to survive on our tired lips much longer. WOW will survive, certainly for my generation and maybe a few more. WOW is still valid, still fresh, still alive. WOW still carries all its original surprise echoed from that first day we received it from space. WOW was first blared not by human lips but by a radio telescope, a thing, an instrument of advanced technology, a machine of space exploration. WOW.

I filed the WOW back under W after scanning it. I shut down Google and the computer, checked my cell phone for text messages and poured another cup of coffee from the coffeemaker that may be smarter than I am. In a while I’ll climb into a car that has more computers than I want to get to know, through traffic-sensitive traffic lights past China Lake Naval Weapons Center where who-knows-what is talking to who-knows-where. I’ll sit at a desk with expanded monitor, laser printer and several other electronic devices that manage me and I’ll drink another cup of coffee from yet another very smart coffeemaker. WOW and WOW.

The Big Ear Radio Telescope was destroyed in 1998 to make way for a golf course. 

Wow.

The Home Office Chronicles 2

Dad gets a cell phone

The delivery came in a trail of dust right after my first cup of coffee. The dust cloud stopped at my gate and honked once. I was still wearing my pre-shower face but the delivery guy doesn’t scare easily. He was feeding the dogs their We’ll Never Bite the Delivery Guy biscuits as I stumbled up in my all-terrain-bunny-slippers. After a brief discussion about the weather over a cacophony of dog opinions I was back at my desk unwrapping the gem.

It was a cell phone designed exclusively for senior citizens. Advertised in AARP to be easy to use, and, as I quickly discovered, doesn’t break when dropped, but best of all the lighted face of it answered the questions Dad asked me several times a day: “what day is it?”, “what time is it?”, and “what month is it?” He had recently given up asking the year. I could see this little phone would be a snap for my somewhat deaf, somewhat blind and somewhat Alzheimer impaired 87-year-old Dad to use. Another cup of coffee and I was ready to give him his first lesson.

I intercepted him putting on his jacket for his early morning walk. It took some convincing. Having only just gotten used to seeing the rooftops of his childhood Hungarian village on Google Earth and adapting to an electric typewriter to replace his old Royal, the little flip phone intimidated him. He was resistant, he could “never figure it out”, he complained in German. He didn’t need it, he argued in Hungarian. It was too expensive and he would “drop it in the toilet”, he worried in Russian. I fielded the multilingual excuses like the caregiver pro I’d become and flipped the little phone open.

That was it. He was sold. Blinking lights and buttons fascinate him. Pushing electronic buttons is something he does several times a day at the microwave, cooking everything twice just so he can push more buttons. The phone was cunningly programmed to call my cell phone if he pressed “Yes”. We practiced from across the room. We practiced from across the house. We practiced from across the yard. To his amazement it worked every time. He decided to take his new cell phone on his walk and give it the Distance Test. I retreated to my office and the morning Internet news.

He called from the mailbox. “I’m at the mailbox!” he reported. “That’s wonderful Dad”, I replied. He called from the neighbor’s mailbox. “I’m at the neighbor’s mail box!”. “That’s great Dad”, I said. I was feeling good about this. I wouldn’t have to worry when he went for his walks. He called from down the road to say he was walking back. “That’s good Dad”, I said. He called from the mailbox again. “Great, Dad”. From my desk I could see the dogs lined up waiting for grandpa and the inevitable biscuits to come home. Dad stopped at the gate, flipped open his phone and punched the “yes” button. My phone jingled. Dad waved. I waved back and praised his accomplishment once again, remembering how often he had praised me when I first learned to ride a bicycle.

Dad was on a roll now. He called within ten minutes to say he was out of dog biscuits. An entire five minutes went by before I got another urgent dog biscuit call. He called to say he was taking out the trash. He called at noon to say he was having lunch. He called again to say he was going to take a nap. He called to tell me he was in bed taking a nap. He called to tell me he woke up from his nap and he called again to say he was putting on his jacket to walk the dogs around the yard. I told him to just leave a message and I’d get back to him. He left a message. “Don’t forget the dog biscuits!”