Razor Thin

One issue stuffed in a crisis envelope. This stressed, mental note has been finding its destination in my voicemail recently. More than three times these past two weeks, my dad has been calling about this one recurring problem.

I am happy to hear his voice. It doesn’t matter to me what the issues are. Most times, one particular problem occupies his mind – and we address it together when I can. This time, however, a challenge has him on edge more than normal.

And we haven’t solved it as of this post.

His electric razor has walked away. Gone the way of bladed glory, as it were. Apparently, it couldn’t be shaved from imminent banishment.

Multiple messages. I feel his pain when he calls. What’s he supposed to do? Limited capacity all-around is his world now. These little inconveniences to us are big deals to him. His life is, quite literally, razor thin. One small detail out of place – for a man who lived his life in control of everything and was extremely organized – is so alarming and frustrating.

I get it. This is why I do everything I can do to meet him where he is in his world. He says, “I can pay for a new razor”, I say, “Sounds good to me. We can go get one when I’m free. It will be soon, dad.”.. “I don’t know what happened to my razor. It’s missing..”. “I know, dad. Thanks for letting me know. We’ll solve this together.”

These are the few times I’ve been able to answer my phone. Most times: rinse and repeat – just without a response.

Did get an hour to go out for lunch yesterday with him. I could tell he was a bit emotionally nicked up due to a blade razor shave earlier in the day. Simply not his comfort zone. A triple-head, electric razor, clean shave has no equal for him. With few pleasantries left in his early morning routine, dad should have an enjoyable four-score+ facade trim. He deserves at least that.

We will, probably, never know to where the elusive Braun ran off. It’s conceivable there was a charger conspiracy in the facility. Probably they needed an outlet for their frustrations and took the razors hostage. We’ll await their demands.

In the meantime, Dad’s on edge, for sure. He and I will fix this. One mental note will be answered with a few kind words, some dad and son time at Best Buy with another lunch to follow, and a less-stressed father returning to a happier state of mind.

For now.

This is dementia. A world most of us don’t understand. If we are in the throws of it ourselves, we won’t understand it then, either. What a freakin’ mess.

It’s a mess I don’t mind cleaning up every time dad needs me. In person, or through a phone call, we mop up the problems one at a time … together.

If this is what what it takes to navigate his razor thin lines, I’ll help him. Every, Single, Triple-Headed crisis at a time.

Bob

The Dream restaurant in Hollidaysburg, Pa. will be the same going forward, but not really. Their turkey dinner, meatloaf, and lemon pepper chicken – along with all the other fine meals offered daily – will continue to fulfill everyone’s hungry expectations. Breakfast on Mondays with “my crew”, most certainly, can continue – albeit with just a little less sparkle for some time. The shine has gone away in the kitchen. At least for these few weeks of mourning, there’s less humor around the grill.

Bob isn’t there.

Early this past Monday, Bob left us. It was sudden and unexpected. He was a steady mainstay in the kitchen at The Dream. A “forty-two years” mainstay covering a very long culinary career beginning after high school.

In addition to his job there, he was well known – and liked – around our community. To those who knew him, a friendly smile always greeted them along with a humorous quip, or two.

I never knew Bob to be down, sad, or really upset about any particular situation he faced. We often found ourselves on the wrong side of an occasional lottery ticket and commented to each other, “Well, that’s that … again, huh?” … realizing the odds were always against us.

The news of his death came only hours after his shift began early this past Monday morning. Shocking, of course.

Very surprising, yet I could look back and be glad I knew him.

Most of us can memorialize the life of a family member, or friend, who isn’t with us anymore. I can, undoubtedly, be glad my life’s path crossed over Bob’s multiple times. I didn’t consider him a close friend, but someone with whom I never passed up an opportunity to have a pleasant conversation.

I’m glad to have known Bob. Just as I was, of course, certainly glad to have known and loved my mom who passed away years ago. As well, very happy to have known so many who have gone ahead of me. Very sure you’ve been here & there before? Loved ones and friends here … and now gone.

Death isn’t the end of these relationships. It’s not a religious thing – unless one wants it to be, I suppose. More like compartments of memories staying alive and thriving throughout our lives now. Those who have been here, who have made impressions and, possibly, big impressions in our lives can’t go really go away. They are here for us … and with us.

I often say the morning mom died was the best day of my life. She and I were close. Musically, and personally, we had the same interests and personalities. I relied on her to tell me everything was going to be OK, regardless of the situation. The morning I left her bedside when she passed – the realization that crutch, the assurance of “not” having to face a problem, was gone.

As a middle-aged man, this was a wake-up call. It was the best thing to happen to me. The best day of my life. The best gift mom ever could have given me. Yes, cancer sucks, but it didn’t win that early March morning. Mom finally got eternal relief and I received a life-long gift.

My relationship with her certainly hasn’t stopped. Every time I see a problem overcome, or a situation solved, I thank her.

When a small opportunity to laugh presents itself, a warm turkey dinner is set before me, or a (most likely) losing lottery ticket finds its way under a finger-clenched quarter, I’ll give a nod to Bob.

He won’t be forgotten. By me, other friends or family, his smile and laughter will continue. The Dream will continue forward.

He’d want it this way.

…We’ll Go With That

A few days since writing about dad. Not bad considering dad’s struggle with dementia. Life, for both of us, has been predictable. His life’s schedule pretty much the same: three squares a day, two daily activities, a nap here-and-there, etc … my hours filled with concession events, music obligations, planning and follow-ups.

This week has offered the two of us three opportunities to go to doctor’s appointments. Fortunately, these give a dad and son minutes to get caught up. Whether it be a PCP, dermatologist, or cardiologist, .. quality time is quality time.

“Quality” defined as simple conversation. It’s dad asking why we are at a particular place – seeing a certain person – for a specific reason … then forgetting why we’re there five minutes later. Additionally, he’s always concerned about my well-being. Am I doing well? Have I been busy? I’m happily conflicted wondering if he is connecting the dots in my life, or just asks because it’s in his fatherly DNA.

Such is the nature of dementia. As I’ve written before, none of us know what’s processing inside the mind of someone who lives with this disease.

I am merrily mindful, however, that he leaves voicemail messages when I can’t answer my phone.

I don’t have enough space to save all his voicemail messages, so keeping only the most recent one is my habit. Always having his “potential” last one will never leave my side. (I still have my mom’s last recorded message from over fourteen years ago). His available lexicon is still unique enough to vary the eleven seconds I hear nearly every day.

This morning was: “Hey, it’s Dad. Just seeing if there’s anything going on that concerns me. Guess we’ll go with that.” … and so began and ended the call.

With a little phone rustle on either end, this is standard. No extra fluff. To the point. I’ll gladly receive these calls every day … and, sometimes, two/three times in the span of twenty-four hours from this phone:

Always around eleven seconds. Always different words.

“That” means something on this specific phone call. Just what (?), I’m not sure. Could be the current waiting room situation we find ourselves in right now? This is the second of three this week with the last tomorrow morning. He’s had a situation needing addressed we’ve waited for an appointment. Finally, today, it is being followed-up on. Don’t believe he knew, or remembered, this morning when his message arrived during the early dew-laden hours.

At least I don’t believe so? Picking him up an hour ago, the usual smile with anticipation greeted me at his door. “Hey, what’s up?”, softly came across a warm, paternal portal. “You have another appointment, so how about we grab your favorite hat there and, probably, that warm jacket because it’s a fall day out”.

“Ok. Whatever you say”.

After missing the turn-off fifteen minutes later, we arrived here at his destination. “That” has been accomplished. ✔️ As far as I know, he’ll go with it so far.

… and continue to in the future because he trusts my judgement. My decisions with regard to his care are never questioned.

Trust is embedded in his “that”. He’ll, instinctively, go with it. Our relationship is built on trust. It’s a bridge built over (early on) tumultuous waters he and I were able to calm down together over the past decade.

This has been the small miracle embedded in his dementia diagnosis. The “gentile peace” both of us are experiencing continues to grow from the fertile demented ground. A trust blanket keeping our relationship warm month by month, year over year.

I trust – as long as he is able – a community room phone will continue to call out. He trusts enough to say the words, “We’ll go with… ” yes, ” … that”, to me regardless if it’s a scoop of his vanilla ice cream drizzled with hot fudge, or another medical appointment.

To him – at the end of his routine day – it’s quality time with me.

I’ll take “that” anytime, any day of the week.

A Lot of Room with a View

Out past Tyrone, Pa., a few miles from Port Matilda is where I find myself. Beside rt. 55ON if headed toward State College is the Way Fruit Farm.

It’s an overcast, semi-humid car show, food truck, music festival kind-of day. A lot of room for folks to meander about, sample some excellent food (in their café as well) and enjoy a few nice days before fall invites itself in.

There’s kettle corn, craft cold tea, and BBQ within walking distance from beef dawgs/hot sausage/and angus burgers here at my cart. A wonderful jazz duo is creating musical memories for everyone while a few dozen antique cars are re-living their heydays a few yards down to my left.

At 4pm, my time ends, van and cart head out as I must be seated behind Zion’s organ at 6pm for the Saturday evening service. It’s a tight schedule with a nearly hour drive back plus unloading, clean-up, and change of clothes.

Every time I do an event up here, the field across rt. 550 – unbeknownst to it – provides me a respite. I glance across and realize how un-busy it is. Sits there, it does. An hour at southwest “hometown”, there’s not a lot I see, on the regular, providing me moments like this. I am sure one does exist. I am probably too busy to notice.

Do you ever feel a need to take time? Time to just take a moment? Or, does this come naturally? Tell ya what, not with me.

These five hours at the Way Fruit Farm, during breaks in sales, give me time to walk around the back of my van/cart. If only for a couple seconds, I am compelled to make room in my life for a few deep breaths.

Why not do this other times?… other places? Why here? Asked, answered earlier. It doesn’t come naturally. And, it’s not a learned habit.

Here, however, the field has a hypnotic effect. Simply looking across gives me a peace. Maybe because I have no control over it? I can’t work it … or change it. My marginal OCD or control issues cannot do a darn thing to alter it? I have to accept it as it is….

… and, not in any negative way, turn my back to all the busy-ness going on behind.

All this after dad called again this morning with his same issues and September life is as busy as it has ever been.

So, find your field if you don’t have one … as I make efforts to look for more in my life closer to home.

There should be more room in my life to take deep breaths. Being more open to find those opportunities – and a Way forward – will be fruitful in the long run.

For you as well, I hope.

Buckets and Pails

“With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.” — [Oscar Wilde]

I hope this never comes to pass with dad. Meaning, he should never, ever, feel left alone – abandoned by his family. Notably, this son.

Dementia has a pail-full of confusing problems. I don’t have a ladle big enough to scoop out enough ounces to have it all make sense to me – let alone empty the humongous bucket dad must carry around 24/7. This is what occupies my time – my thoughts – a few minutes every once in a while. He and I are at an emotional well together.

He can be sitting with me holding a spoonful of dripping hot fudge over a serving of vanilla ice cream, or miles away tucked into a routine at his facility. Regardless, dementia is constantly filling up pails and buckets with confusing signals, information, and “whys”.

His pail ripples with same-old-same-old to him. What goes in is, possibly, new information, yet old to me and the very kind assistants who are patient with him. What hat should I wear? (That is the same every day if we go somewhere) Is my razor charging / where is it? (Same every day) … Will I be back for my meal? These question, I hope, are not stressful, but I know dad. I know he worries. These are his ripples.

My bucket is a bit different. I don’t worry about him. Not about the care he’s receiving. The guidelines I use are health and safety. Are they being met? Yes, absolutely! Where he is couldn’t be better.

My emotional ripples are bigger than that. Like I mentioned, I need a bigger ladle.

It had been a few days since I was able to get in. Yesterday, finally, in the midst of a few ridiculous rainstorms and high humidity, a nice walk down toward his room was a welcome relief. Usually a knock, or two, is all that’s needed to get a nice welcome smile to greet me. Not this time. Another attempt. Nope. Third time. Silence.

Off to the activity room to check on a possible group event. Maybe he was otherwise engaged? Nope.

I knew not to fear the worst. Dad is in pretty good health, so any idea of an emergency wasn’t warranted. Fortunately, a nice aide was able to help with a spare key.

As I figured, dad was sleeping as soundly as I’ve ever known him to be. This was an odd time for him to rest. No illness or other reason for this came immediately to my mind. We rustled him up, slightly, and I said my usual, “Hey, Dad..”, to see if he wanted to get out a little bit.

“…how about just going back to sleep and I’ll see you later?”, noticing his very different demeanor.

“Huh? … hmmph, ok”. And with that, a creased pillow found his head, once again, nestled into a very warm, comfy spot. I carefully refolded a blanket over his shoulder, said a soft “goodbye”, and gently closed the door behind me less than a minute later.

Walking back down that hallway felt different. Dad was alone, but not really. We were at that stupid well. My bucket was, again, filling up with confusing information. Is his age catching up to him? Is this advancing dementia? Was he simply bored on this particular day? Did he not recognize me, thus, not want to go? Am I looking too much into this?

Was this selfish of me to want his company, yet be unfulfilled? What’s the answer here?

I just don’t think there is one. And this is the problem with dementia. So much information, yet each case / each diagnosis is so different. Not only this, each connection with individual family members is unique. Everyone brings flawed buckets and pails if they care to have real, meaningful, beautiful bonds with a dementia striken loved one.

No matter the age-related situation, no elderly person EVER should be alone. They are the lifeblood of wisdom, unique energy, laughter, generational compassion, and historical preservation.

My dad has his set of problems now. Yesterday, I felt he was alone for just a minute or so. That’s on me. That’s my moment at the well. It’s my bucket to bear. Unfortunately, his pail is dementia – whatever it has to be one any given day, any presented moment.

Like I always say, “The other side of reality is getting a great guy little by little, so for now, I’ll take whatever dementia let’s me have on this side at the moment.”+

This way, he’s never alone. Nor will he ever be.

Enjoying the Fine Line

This is a wonderful arrangement of, “How Great Thou Art”. Mark Hayes has to be one of my favorite writers / composers of piano music. His ability to transfer musical ideas into playable, albeit moderate to advanced, finger-fun keyboard merriment is nearly unmatched. I search out his works. My library is stuffed full of well-creased, loosely stapled, worn arrangements accredited to his exceptional musicianship.

These books are of a religious persuasion, of course. I guess I need to say this. From every season of faith, he extracts melodies, harmonies, and rhythms appropriate for services from traditional to contemporary. Pentecostal to Brethren to Lutheran to Catholic… and beyond. Really, any gathering focused on a sensibility beyond our daily go-get ’em grind, … our yo-yo self schedule of daily ups and downs … is a good suit to fit on his body of music.

Specifically for me as an organist/pianist … any weekend collection of human worshipers inside a sanctuary wears well. I thoroughly enjoy the space I occupy behind any keyboard requiring my presence. Mark Hayes isn’t the only partner with me, of course, but on a most recent occasion … he was.

Thus the “Fine Line” of which I write.

The arrangement above is, well, so much fun to play. I’ve had it “under my fingers” a long time. As solo piano hymn music goes, it probably qualifies as “advanced” with some tricky octave passages, “showy” broken chord cadenza-type measures, and nice flowery arpeggios. To the non-music people, let’s just say, “a lot of fluff”. If a hymnal was opened to, “How Great Thou Art”, singing along with Mr. Hayes’ version wouldn’t be possible without a little imagination …

I played this as a Prelude. Here’s the “Fine Line”. It was an emotional dance played mentally in my head – even as notes began their arc into the sanctuary space. (By the way, not just with this piece, but with others as well). “Is this appropriate? Should a wonderful piece like this be played as a vessel to help congregants focus? Or, are they really listening, anyway? Is this about me, or their needs? Am I doing this just for my enjoyment as an artist? Why am I even concerned … Just play it and move on to the rest of the service”.

These, and other similar second-guessing, time consuming, energy draining, brain drain thoughts circle around and around … before, during, and after.

Problem is … I simply enjoy playing. Period.

All the arrangements I have … and there’s a generational ton going back through my grandmother and mother … are literally at my fingertips. Classical, romantic, baroque, modern, Christian. Over the decades, I’ve used them all. Funerals, weddings, solo recitals, special music events, a lot of specific services, accompanying soloists, and on… it’s almost always a question, for me, of appropriateness. What music fits the occasion, … the audience.

And the congregation as well.

They are not an audience; however, when I play a piece like “How Great”, an unimagical, unfantastical transformation happens before my very imagination. This wonderful “fluff” becomes a show piece I never intended it to be … converting a congregation of worshipers into an audience.

I know. I know. It’s what happens in my gray matter. Nobody, I repeat, nobody has ever mentioned a thing. I, alone, have created this hurricane of hazy hymnody.

It’s the fine line of what is, and is not, appropriate.

Even after decades of doing the dance, enjoying this line is a challenge. Play what’s not exciting or an arrangement I don’t find particulary engaging – to appease a prelude space? Or, fill that time with something intriguing to hear, play, and engage everyone’s aural senses, but risk tilting that imaginary spotlight in my direction?

There’s no real answer here. I suppose if I wore my black speckled rhinestone jacket, then someone “may” say a word, or two, to our Pastor. An 1970’s electronic color wheel on the organ could work, probably? For a minute – at least, or until an usher unplugged it. Small, dancing scarfs? A tall piano hat? Elton John glasses? These would be, clearly, an issue. Cause for a ministerial meeting, a personal pastoral interventional inquest.

The beauty in all of this? Music speaks so many languages to so many people. I’ve learned these tiny dots on a manuscript, regardless of what I play, do mean something to someone. On balance, my selections are varied. It’s my own personality creeping in when arrangements of this level present themselves on my music rack.

Heck, I’m just one piano player who worries more than I should. Ten fingers, eighty-eight keys and endless combinations of melodious merriment should be enough for me.

If only my fingers weren’t connected to a brain over-thinking too much instead of just enjoying the “Fine Line” I’ve created for myself.

It’s being human. It’s being a musician, maybe. It’s being alive at the same time as Mark Hayes and being massaged with his genius every time I open one of his books. He’d probably tell me to let the music speak for itself and don’t worry about anything else.

I’ll try to do better with all of it, Mark. My words … and my personal prelude piano problem.

Promise.

Why Such a Tiny Signum

Latin is not loaded on my language baked potato. Smooth, melancholy melty music, yes. A dash of algebraic indulgence? Absolutely! Perhaps some salty, humerous sarcasm at times. All of these enhance a fluffy tuber of spoken word experiences during my daily go-abouts. I can hear music, figure out simple quadratic equations, or consider an edgy joke, or two, … all the while speaking words. To be clear, I do not give thought of this as a gift. Most could do the same, to be sure. Rub belly, pat head.

Just that Latin never was – nor shall be – on the plate. Given a choice between any difficult language, I’d pick Mandarin Chinese before divitis-diviti-divitem into Latin. My research has provided me some solace, however. “A dead language”, is how Latin is currently chronicled by popular search engines. With that information in hand, I feel somewhat Latinally requievit.

For the purpose at hand, er on finger … I have to only know one word: signum. It’s a “sign”. Specifically, used to denote a family crest imprinted in hot wax to seal important documents. Worn by emperors, popes, and various other hi-dee-hoy-dedees, signet rings were high society thingys, apparently. I did not know this.

Imagine learning of this majesty soon after finding a small ring back in a drawer earlier today. Now, I seriously doubt there was a pope in my lineage. If papal blood is coursing through my inner springs, I gots lots of splainin’ to do. Emperors? Hmm. There’s a notion. Possibly an inch closer to reality than pope, but still unlikely. Had a dog named Queeny when I was just a lad. Does that count?

The ring is tiny. Like, really small. Ten-K gold scribbled on the envelope enclosing the memories all these years. A name identifying my long-remembered relative is also penned. I knew of him, but never set eyes on him. What makes no sense is the sizing. I fear it would be easier for a camel in a needle than this ring to slip-slide down a man’s finger. The thing’s diameter barely exceeds my tolerance of the self-check-out voice lady nagging me over and over with bagging instructions THAT I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO DO AFTER DOING IT ONE-THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE!!!!!

But I digress.

I’m in possession of a family hot-press waxing signet ring. It has value, I guess. Never met my relative, although I do know him some-what. He was my grandfather. A remarkable man in his own right. Hard worker in the mills over in Pittsburgh when those hot chambers actually meant something to the world. Steel, iron, coal … backbone industries at the time. This ring was, truly, a symbol – form over function; although his life was markedly function over form. I see the signet as a weight to counter-balance his life.

He died before his time. A shorter than expected lifetime. A disease-ravaged body from what I understand. The story is he died close to the year – if not THE year – I was born … after surviving a birth late in the previous century. Efforts to pull up his obituary to confirm details have been tough, though.

I wish he was across the table now – albeit in his third century – to answer my nagging query: “Why such a tiny signum?”…

(Granted, pre-defining terms must be done with exigentia due to the apparent nature of the question. A slap in the face may be immediately forthcoming if this is not done. Nobody wants their undefined signum challenged – especially if appearing tiny).

My grandfather isn’t here, I don’t appreciate Latin, and this ring, quite possibly, is smaller than my appreciation of the Oompa Loompas playing water polo.

With that, it’ll go back into the really worn, pencil sketched envelope I found it in and heretofore will remain. Until someone with pencil-diameter sized fingers shows up – who, quite frankly claims to be part of our family AND has some emperor dude/dude-ess blood in ’em, this ring is staying put.

It’s Christmas Eve, After All

It’s Christmas Eve. 5:24, to be exact. I am sitting on my little red chair beside the organ at Zion Lutheran Church. A break in the service as a sermon is about to begin.

No worries. I have two more services tonight to catch up with the Pastor’s message. Already, I have almost missed the third verse of our Hymn of the Day. This is my first service back after a week of miserable covid isolation and stress. To have been nearly absent-minded over a few lyrics is, I feel, a passable offense … considering.