Dear Dad...

 I wrote somewhere before that I used to talk to my Dad on Christmas Eve when my [ex] husband was on duty as a Firefighter/Paramedic.

One of us would call the other and I'd sit in front of the Christmas Tree and gaze at it while we talked. I'd tell him about our latest Charlie Brown Tree and he'd laugh. We usually got a tree we could stick in the corner and not decorate around the whole thing. It worked for us. One Christmas my ex sliced through his ring finger--> down to the bone while using a sharp knife to cut the tree from the top of the Isuzu Trooper.

That warranted a trip to the ER. Neighbors watched the kids, I watched them sew ex hubby up in layers. That was a memorable Christmas. We didn't have much money then and things were pretty tight.

But the thing was, we wanted to make Christmas magical for the kids. Always. 

Still, I'd have a glass of wine and talk to Dad. I described the tree and what we did for the gifts. We discussed his life, my life, and everything in between.

I sat and sipped with the phone cradled on my shoulder [it was attached to the wall! Remember that? That was before they even made cordless phones!] . 

The tree lights twinkled and I admired the colored paper chain that the boys had made in school. The boys' had decorations they'd made in grade school that graced the tree. At the time I don't think I appreciated them as much as I would now.

We talked of life. We talked of marriage. We talked of love. Dad had an undying love for Mom even if she didn't reciprocate. That's life. He told me about his mistakes and regrets he had in his life. I told him about how much my boys meant to me. I told him about my relationships with the horses, goats, and chickens we had.

We talked for a long time. 

It was our traditional Christmas Eve chat.

I even continued it in my second marriage and move to this little farm. 

Dad got a kick out of hearing the fact that I'd go out and talk with the mules and donkeys on Christmas Eve and celebrate their birthdays on New Year's Day.

It has been many years since I've talked to him. But in my mind I still call.

Dad.
I collect horse ornaments. They are beautiful. Not as beautiful as the paper chains.

Dad.
I still go out and talk to the mules on Christmas Eve. I only have a few of them now. They like their carrots.

Dad.
I think of you on each Christmas Eve even though it has been many years since we talked. I imagine what our conversations would be like now.

Dad.
I still miss you even if it is almost 20 years since you died.

Dad.
Since I still miss you. I will have conversations in my head every Christmas Eve and I will tell you what is on my tree.

Dad.
I am happy and content. Did we ever think that would happen? Well it did.

Dad.
I still miss you every day.

Merry Merry.

Conversation with a Low Rider

Charlie: Why do you call me Low Rider? 

Me: Because you have such short little legs.

Charlie: They seem fine to me. What about your long ones? Further to fall down I'd say.

Me: True, but I can walk long distances with fewer steps.

Charlie: But you can't see the little things on the ground!

Me: True. Like what?

Charlie: Like spiders. I like to watch spiders in the grass. I like to grab them. Moths too.

Me: So that is what you are doing when your nose is to the ground?

Charlie: Of course. Grasshoppers are interesting but taste prickly. Spiders, I don't like their taste either, but they are fun to watch. The ones with the very long legs.

Me: So if I am bug hunting...

Charlie: You should follow me...

Me: But I'd have to stop every few minutes...

Charlie: You need to chill out and learn from your dogs. Relax, don't sweat the Big Stuff.

Me: I guess. But..

Charlie: Like naps. And deer poop.

Me: Naps okay. Deer poo, no.

Charlie: You have NO taste! 

Me: What about you begging for steak when we have it?

Charlie: Oh that. Well. Let's get moving. Walkie...let's take a nap when we get back.

And we did.

It Tastes LIKE...

Well, you fill in the blanks!

I walked in to the nursing home cafeteria and MIL was pushing her plate around. The others were eating quietly but brightened up when I said 'Howdy my friends!'

I asked what they were having and everyone told me something different.
Lisa said, "Biscuits and Gravy."
Joan said, "Pork and Gravy." She gave Lisa a sideways glance and rolled her eyes.
John didn't say but just waved one hand that held the mystery meat and gravy and slid it to his mouth with a smile.
MIL said, "Chicken and Gravy!"
Larry remained silent. He is the new 'kid' at the table and I don't think he really feels comfortable with the others.

On the other side of the cafeteria/lunchroom, one of the aides asked the person she was helping, "Don't you like Thanksgiving? This is Turkey and Gravy!"

I announced that I thought it might be Turkey and Gravy along with peas, carrots, and potatoes and bread pudding. I got nods around the table and then Lisa asked out of the blue.
"So what does broccoli taste like?"
It was directed at me and I looked over at Joan who was rolling her eyes once more.

"Well," I said, "Chicken and Gravy!"
Lisa shook a finger at me and we all laughed.
"How about it tastes like...hmmm, cabbage?" I then said.

I asked my MIL what she thought it tasted like. MIL said it ..."Tastes like Broccoli."

Everyone piped up then and made wild taste comparisons. Lisa finally said, "Well now, I'm not going to eat it anyway so I don't care what it tastes like!"

And so the conversation went. Until it turned into what the activities of the day were.
I went to where the activities were posted and then came back to tell the gals.
Joan was excited about the sing-a-long and then she said goodbye to the rest of the table. John and Larry exited too moving along slowly with their wheelchairs.

The lunchroom excitement was over. Time to exit.

Conversations on the Porch

Yesterday was designated as "Quiet Rest Day". We'd had a busy Saturday visiting with our Farrier pals for graduation.
We ended up being the last guests to leave. The guys sat in one of the rooms and conversed, telling stories and laughing a lot.

My stepdaughter Stephanie called to let us know that they would not be able to visit and do fencing. Dennis may have gotten a flu bug so they were staying home.

There was somewhat of a chain reaction to that. Rich called his mom and I could hear her through the phone. She decided that she was going to go get "The Flowers and put them in the cemeteries herself, but she didn't know how."

I'd forgotten about that 'tradition' since in my family we don't know where most of us are buried and some of the family are just ashes spread hither and thither. In death I want to be a free spirit myself, spread to the whims of the winds.

I volunteered to help do that, but not until Tuesday. Rich seemed to be still bummed over the phone conversation so I checked the weather and said we'd go fishing on Wednesday.

Then I checked my paperwork. I wanted to smack my head again. I had VA and Gunderson Lutheran phone calls to make and arrange. I had to change GLHP appts and confirm that they are authorized by the VA. That meant phone messages and people getting back to me. If I made the calls and was absent from home I couldn't deal with them. [Later I smacked my head. Cell phone!]

I told Rich that we were having a rest day. He went back after breakfast to lay down. Speech and language comprehension was foggy for him. I told him the brain needed a rest.

But the fencing I'd put off still had to get done. I texted my neighbor and per our previous conversations,...Justin had volunteered to pound posts. He is young and strong and likes to pound the posts. He also volunteered to mow our yard at some point. I checked those worries off my list.  Fencing to commence today after the chores are done. Mowing ... I was off the hook!
Then Justin offered to help me figure out how to start our little tiller.

I sat down on the porch and felt slightly guilty about not working on something. So I got out my paints and grabbed an old skull that had been sitting out and was badly weathered.

I didn't intend to make it a piece of 'art'. I just kept messing around with it while my mind wandered and I listened for Rich to wake up.

When he did come out on the porch he sat down and stared out across the winter pasture.
"How am I...going to." He waved his arm at the donkeys and mules basking in the sun.
I leaned over to listen to him. I wanted him to be able to finish his conversation.
"How can I?" He made a motion with his hand and then dropped it.
"The animals? Selling them?" I prompted.
"Yes. I can't talk good. I can't...find...the words."
"I can make the phone calls or we can use speaker phone to do it." I offered.
He sighed and nodded. He looked out again and asked, "What happened to me? What did they do to me?"

The details of his stroke are confusing to him. We went through the process slowly. I went over what happened with him telling me some things. The stroke, the 911 call, the ambulance ride to Vernon Memorial. Slowly and quietly we went through that day again.
He shrugged and looked out. "It isn't all there." He searched for words. "I can't...find things?"
"You can't remember things?" I asked.
"No. I don't remember going to Vernmorial."
"Vernon Memorial?" I prompted.
"Yes." He makes a motion next to his ear. "Then they scrambled it in ... my head. They ruined my head. Broke it."
"The blod clot stopped your brain from getting what it needed and it broke some parts that help with your understanding things," I said carefully.
"No. They broke me." He answered and sighed.

He asks about the surgery and we go over how the surgeon went through his artery and to the brain to bust up the clot. I demonstrate it with a hose and a paint brush.

He seems to understand then asks why he has to go back.
"To see the guy who worked on your brain?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Well he wants to see how you are doing. And prepare to fix your aneurysm."
He doesn't recall the doctor or us talking about that.

He is a guy who wants the truth. I explain that he has an aneurysm in his brain also that should be fixed sometime late this year.
"Will it kill me? Am I dying? I feel like I am dying." He states. "I am no worthless."

His eyes are troubled and I reach out for his hand over my paints.

I want to say we are all dying and hand him cliches, but I don't. We hold hands and I quietly say, "You are not worthless. You are not scrambled. You are my husband that I love very much."

I move my chair next to his and we hug and hold onto each other for a long time. Silence. His hand squeezes mine.  I think, "Yes dear, if the aneurysm goes, you will die instantly and without any pain. It troubled the surgeon, but it is like a sword hanging above your head. However let's take things as they come, day by day." But I stay quiet. He doesn't need to be troubled by something like that when he is struggling each day to comprehend things.

I am reminded of the morning I sat with him in the hospital when we struggled to communicate and he kept asking about being "Alone."
He had been frightened by his brain turning on him and was afraid of being 'Alone'.

No my dear, I will not leave you alone. I will be here for you.

If you want it done...do it yourself.

I showed him my Buckmaster .22 pistol in April. I had been target shooting and poof, something didn't sound right. The screw on the back of the pistol had loosened and flown away.
Right. This screw was probably the size of a large bug and there was a lock washer that disappeared into the dirt and pasture...never to been seen again.

I was crestfallen. I love my .22 pistol. My husband bought it for me in 2004 as a Christmas gift.
Now isn't that sweet? 
He said, "Love is giving your wife a pistol." And the salesman replied, "And...You sleep with one eye open right?"

So my dearest husband said, "Well remind me on Monday to call..." and he said a name of somebody who knew somebody who could maybe get the part.

April. May, June, July, August, September...
Me: It is Monday!
Him: Yup!

Me: Going to call?
Him: Well I got to get hay today.

I carefully cleaned my gun and put it in its padded case. I left it on his seat where he has coffee.
The next morning he moved it to the table. I moved it so that it would be in his way when he ate supper.
He moved it to the little phone table and stacked stuff on it.

Me: It is Monday again.
Him: I've got a doctor's appointment.

Me: Okay.
November.

Sigh...It ... is ... Monday.

Him [his hearing must have gotten really bad]. What about Monday?

I'm not one to complain. One more sigh. He brought some ammo and brought it home. 
Him: Look what I got for you!
Me: How nice, .22 ammo... for my broken pistol...

So off to town I go. I stop at a Gun Pawn Shop. I've never been in one and this one is pretty new in our small town. I look around and a lady asks if she can help me.
I am not selling but have a question. She informs me: "We don't do repairs any more."
"Okay, I just need to find out how to order a screw for my pistol."

Soon enough the gunsmith/salesman comes to me. He takes a look at my pistol and comes back in a bit. 
"I ordered the part and I'll have it in 3 days. I'll call, you come in and I'll put it in for you."

As I walk out to my car in the lot I hear choruses of Hallelujah in the sunshine.

Giving Directions in the car: Married Life

I'd convinced my husband to take a short side trip out to a State Natural Area the other day when he had to go to the VA Clinic in Baraboo.
He was reluctant and almost petulant. I offered to drive and got a curt "NO!"

So he asked me how to get to Baxter's Hollow.
I directed him rather easily for a 10 mile detour on back roads.
However.
When we left Baxter's Hollow, he insisted on not backtracking but that I guide him through the backroads to home.
There is no straight good route from Baxter's Hollow towards home. It does not exist.

I like paper maps, but didn't have one in the car. However I did have the Garmin so I turned it on and examined the roads shown. My last trip home from Baxter's Hollow was by Miss Garmin, and I didn't like 'her' directions one bit.

Me: Turn right off from this road onto County C.
Him: County C? We came in on County C. 
Me: Yes. We can go west on C. Or if you'd like, backtrack.
Him: NO! I thought you knew how to get out of here!
Me: Yes. Drive!

County C is a twisty up and down around type of road. It is rural and surrounded by woods and cropland. It sometimes twists back on itself.

Him: We keep turning around and making loops.
Me: County C is twisted, yes, I agree.
Him: Got a shorter route?
Me: Nope.

I grip the door handle as he bullets through a long curve. 
Me: Want me to drive?

Him: NO, you drive too slow.
Me [thinking...I drive so we can survive the trip]: Okay, we watch for County PF.
Him: P S?
Me: No, P as in Pony and F as in... [the only word I can think of that starts with F is a cuss word so I pause.]

Him: Well what is it P what?
Me: P as in Pony, F as in Fred, Frank, Fruitless, Fudge...
Him: Oh, PF.
Me: Yes.
Him: Where does that go?
A cornfield whizzes by. I look out the window and at the Garmin. I move my fingers on the map and try to expand and contract the map. It is frustrating.

Me: It goes to County Road D, which goes to County Road W, which takes us to Highway 23 south of Loganville.
Him: [big sigh and grunt, he is not a happy camper]

I look up and we are barreling towards an intersection.
Me: Stop sign.
Him: Oh [applies brakes] Yeah, I see it.

I press my foot through the floor on my side and sigh. Note to self, don't take side trips with husband unless he is more willing next time. And get a paper map for the car.

Him: Now where is this PF road, how far is it?
Me: Um, up ahead, just keep going.
Him: How far?
Me: I don't know.

Him: Why not you have that Garmin thing, doesn't it tell you?
Me: No, I'm not routing through the Garmin, just using the map. Miss Garmin took me on the craziest roads last time through here.

I sigh and hang on for another sweeping curve. The scenery is beautiful and very scenic. The sky is amazing.
We come up on PF.

Him: Which way? 
Me: North
Him: You sure? [he must doubt my navigation skills]
Me: Yes.
Him: North Freedom should be north of here.
Me: It is, north and east of here.
Him: North?
Me [big internal sigh]: Yes.

Him: How far is North Freedom?
Me: Far enough to be out of our way.

He takes off like we are trying to get the pole position at the Indy 500.
Me: What is the big yank?

Him: I want to get home before dark.
Me: It won't get dark for hours.
Him: Grunt.
Me: Enjoy the drive, the scenery is beautiful.
Him: Grunt, sigh.

Me: Here is D, follow D, it takes us to W then it is only 1.5 miles to Highway 23.
Him [Points to a sign]: Why not that road, it says 6 miles to Loganville.
Me: Because I think the better route is this way and it is still 6 miles to Loganville.
Him: Huge Sigh.

Mario Andretti takes off again. I look around looking for some formula cars. I check our hood to see if we have a sponsor. Nope.
We pass an Amish buggy. They don't have a sponsor or a formula buggy. Just one horse power.

We get onto W and as we ride the roller coaster road, I can see the end in sight. I won't have to navigate for him anymore.

Me: See! [I say proudly], there is Highway 23!
Him: Took long enough.
He signals to go north to Loganville. He knows all the backroads from there.

I am exhausted, but keep one foot on my pretend brake and one hand on the door handle.
Maybe our sidetrip wasn't worth it.

Me: Next time I want to go to Baxter Hollow or Pine Hollow, I'm going alone.
Him: Fine. Get a paper map.

I am convinced. Lesson learned. Husband doesn't like getting directions nor does he like last minute changes to anything he has going on.

Dinner Conversation: Married Life

Note, since our last crazy conversation was so popular,... I included our dinner conversation today for your reading pleasure.

I was chopping vegetables from the garden in the kitchen and sauteing them in a pan.
The smells of fresh garlic, kale, kolrabi, onion, and green beans filled the air.

Him: Wow, smells great! What are you making?
Me: Stuff. I don't know, just putting a bunch of stuff together.
Him: What do you call it?
Me: Stuff Cooked and Put Over Noodles.
Him: Spaghetti?
Me: Close enough!

I don't really know what I am making except that I had a bunch of fresh vegetables and thought it would be fun to toss them together in a pan with some olive oil and spices to see what happened.

I continue to cook and saute the items together.

Him: Yum! I can't wait for supper, I am getting hungry!
Me [adding some canned tomatoes because I don't have any fresh yet]: Soon!

Pretty soon the noodles are cooked and I call him in from the porch.
Me: It's ready!
Him: Great!
He comes in and stares at the plates.

Him: What IS that?? 
He is pointing to the Kale that I didn't bother chopping into microscopic pieces. I've done that before with soups and other dishes.

Me: Kale.
Him: ...And what is that? What do you call this?
He is pointing at the pan, and making a face.

Me: I told you, it is called Stuff. Or Veggie Mix Up. Or Stuff Over Noodles.
Him: Oh. Don't give me much of that Stuff.

We sit down to eat and he is tentative about eating the 'Stuff', but samples it along with the noodles.

Me: So?
Him: So? Um, you can keep the Stuff, although it isn't bad. It would have been better with meat though and more sauce."
Me: Duly noted. Next time I'll add more sauce and put some spicy sausage in it.
Him: Lots and lots of sausage. 
He thinks for a moment. Then goes for another plate of noodles without The Stuff.

Him: You aren't trying to make me a vegetarian are you?
Me: Nope.

Him: What are you making tomorrow night?
Me: Meat and 'Tators.

Him [Big Smile]: Good!