“Just Me…”

Minutes disappear. Hours melt into days. Weeks and months become unrecognizable. Whatever the current year is – in a life previously filled with work, family, church, and hobbies – it isn’t relevant anymore. No time, or date, is vital to my dad’s day-to-day life now.

He has dementia. As you may know from previous posts, this condition is his reality.

What’s important to him are multiple calls, every day, to me from the activity room phone. “Just me. Calling to see if anything is going on today. Ok.”, he says then hangs up. Usually this is the message on voicemail. I can’t pick up a majority of the time due to my schedule. Thankfully, this message comes in on the other end of a redial button. I have my doubts dad would have recall to pull out a ten-digit cell number from his shrinking brain.

I am grateful for these messages. So thankful. Even though they overload my queue, when deleting messages, I always keep his last message. Always. One never knows what dozen, or so, words will be his last.

Returning a call is difficult. The facility number rings not only to that hand-held, but also to other phones as well. Besides, even if I call back immediately, his mind would have him take a u-turn back towards the dining hall, or back a hallway within seconds from hanging up. No matter, it’s good.

Always good to hear his voice. Only a matter of a day or so before I get in to see him. My minutes and hours are noticeable and very regulated by a tight schedule – one shared within a few seconds after dad sees me enter his room.

“OH, hey! Nice to see you…”, as his eyes light up , posture straightens, and arms immediately move toward lacing a worn pair of sneakers. “You want to go somewhere? What have you been up to?”

“Hey, dad”, .. as I scan the room for anything out of place … any irregularities from a man who is very, very meticulous about his pens, hats, chapstick, clothes, belt clip, and toiletries. “I’ve been getting your messages. Sorry I haven’t been available to answer.”

“I’m sure I’ve called you. Just don’t know how many times. Was it today at all? Where are we going?”,

By this time, those worn sneakers on his feet need a destination. So, a walk from his room down a long, ornate hallway begins as does a wonderful conversation between a father and son. Details about my work. The experiences in my daily wheres and whens have to be passed to him. He enjoys hearing of my successes and failures. My ups and downs. I know these don’t process in a normal way, however, he connects to me. To my experience, my life, as he needs to during the three minutes we walk in that hallway.

Finally ending in an entrance/exit, we depart. Final destination: somewhere. Could be a dollar store, hobby shop of my choosing, quick lunch, or simple walk through a grocery store for ginger ale and cookies. Wherever we go, my goal is his experience. His glance at new faces, new places. Fresh air and sunshine. Minutes, possibly an hour, or two, away from his norm to shake off a few old days and put new ideas into a brain stressed with anxiety, stress, and confusion.

“Stop sign sentences”, as I like to call them, are so enjoyable. Every jaunt around town, the same one is repeated each time. Meaning, when one is started as we leave his facility, it is often repeated at most of the stop signs. Usually in the form of a question answered once – yet asked again, … and again .. and again, I find myself challenged to answer differently. It’s a puzzle to be solved for me. For dad, just another intersection in his brain where logic and memory take a left turn.

These short trips always come to an end. Confusion usually follows our return, unfortunately. Life, for dad, is simple yet complicated. No responsibility. Everything is looked after.

Complicated in the worst way possible because nothing makes sense … and he kinda knows it still.

The phone messages are so nice for me to hear, yet I know he is struggling with what to say. He is trying to stay connected. I love this. Like before, I always want this and don’t want it to stop.

“It’s just me.” will be silent some day, however. This is the nature of dementia.

It’s my nature to keep up with what he needs as best I can. In as much as he needs connected to me, I need this from him. As to me … “Just me”?… I need him to add value to my life – to still be interested in what I am doing even if it’s only for a few fleeting seconds. That connection is so important.

… and I’m perfectly fine with both of us staying in touch with each other the best way we know how.

He can push redial as many times as he wants. Yes, it will go to voicemail most likely. At least it’ll be a few more seconds I can save in the archives for a later time…

… when the phone stops ringing and a very important voice in my life is silenced by a disease nobody should ever have to endure.

Pepper, or Not. Tea?

I’m not one to complain. Really. And, as life goes, this isn’t a big deal. A meal. A simple meal. Or, so I thought.

If a meal isn’t up to standards, so be it. My choices at local restaurants are always the same, anyway. I don’t order calamari or sushi. Avocado never graces my lips – can’t stand the texture. Steak, chicken, or haddock with a salad and/or pasta side. Maybe, just maybe grilled shrimp. Chinese szechuan sauce is cool, Korean chicken on a stick at any food truck festival 👍, and cold Thai yellow tea … all personal favorites.

Simple tastes.

Oh, and pizza on Sunday. Need to have 1/2 mushroom, 1/2 pepperoni, slightly over done, with a diet soda after 6pm on Sunday. This started decades ago and must continue. For the sake of all my dearly departed relatives, this tradition can never stop. Used to be after “Dallas” and our local Friday night football game – when my mom whipped together batches of Chef Boyardee paper thin pizza. You know, that yeast-by-the-can treat that was only edible after a loving mother added her special recipe ingredients.

I never complained. After a long halftime show with a very uncomfortable wool band uniform on – and general disinterest in the game itself – I was glad to be home. As well, any other time, the food placed in front of me was to be eaten, regardless. I learned to be thankful … even for meat pie, stewed tomatoes, and tapioca pudding. Ugh. No complaining.

That was as a child growing up. I’m positive you were taught the same life lesson.

As an adult, pretty much the same. Ninety-percent of the time. Save last Wednesday at a restaurant I frequent more than any other.

Did you ever know, just know, things weren’t going to go your way? Winning two rather cute stuffed animals in the claw machine while waiting for three friends to arrive felt normal. It happens frequently. Not to brag, but some day I’m going to get dragged into a back room and questioned under dim lights. The claw machine toughies are going to questions my tactics, prowess, perhaps a level of skill a bit beyond the norm? … without even considering just dumb luck: which it is. My odds are much higher than most because … wait for it … I play the darn thing coming and going each time. Two chances for one dollar. In my case, ten chances for five dollars 😆.

This is when normal stopped. “My normal”, that is.

Same meal, same drink ordered. Nothing new. Except the waitress.

This wasn’t (maybe) her fault? I blame the electronic, hand-held ordering thingy’s order takers have to tap on more and more. She fought with it, slowly. Distracted as she seemed to be, it was almost like a Tesla was being ordered online with a full interior package and every extended warranty available.

Please understand, at this point I am not upset … just relaxed and placing my normal order of an unsweetened tea, salad, lemon pepper fish, and a side of macaroni & cheese. No menu necessary.

My tea arrives. I sweeten it with two packs – one pink, one white. One sip and my over-sweetened alarm bells go off. After taste-testing from others, clearly the tea wasn’t unsweetened to start. Not the best start to a meal. Making the evening worse, our waitress came across as being slightly less-attentive to our table as we had been accustomed. Nice girl. Polite and respectful. Just didn’t come back soon enough to address my tea situation.

Yes, a first world problem. I get it. Sometimes, however, after the two weeks I’ve had prior … I looked forward to a nice dinner out with friends.

Didn’t take long for our dinners to arrive. Usually doesn’t at this restaurant. I addressed the tea problem with our waitress and she was glad to fix it immediately while I started my meal.

Ah, the meal. Lemon pepper has a way of going bad, apparently. “Maybe the claw machine guys finally got to the cook and made a deal to end my lucky streak?”, I silently mused to myself. A replacement tea came as I hadn’t the heart to tell our waitress my fish tasted like a brown, stale, ten-weeks old piece of veal – not that I would have ANY idea what the flavor of THAT would be?

I did have enough thirst to mention to her, once again, the second tea was as sweet as the first prior to my two-packet OCD addition. With an expected surprised look, she returned to the kitchen – second iced tea in hand.

Sweetened iced tea and horrible fish – 3, Doug – 0. Oh, btw, my salad and macaroni & cheese were both so-so at this point…

The manager I went to at the front desk – one who is familiar with my frequency – accepted my fish frustration with kindness after I explained the problem. He offered to personally go back and oversee my lemon pepper replacement. Good to go.

Yep. Good to go. Good. To. Go.

While sitting in baited anticipation for my fish, a third iced tea arrived! Woohoo! It’s unsweetened. Our waitress mistakenly switched pots/kettles in the back when cleaning. Problem identified. Problem fixed. I give her credit for, at least, recognizing the issue. My mood and expectations didn’t match up with it, however.

The manager hand delivers my lemon pepper fish. “Ah,..”, my mind sighs,”.. looks great!.. slightly darker than normal. Yellow-ish with good texture. I’m finally going to enjoy my meal”.

Slightly darker really meant extra pepper. When I type, “extra pepper”, I really should type what was going though the mind of whomever was over the grill. Phrases like, “He wants extra pepper …. I’LL give him extra pepper … grrrr..” and, “He thinks the LAST fish I grilled was bad … hmffph….” are most appropriate. I needed the whole third glass of tea after only two bites of fish. So much pepper … soooo muuuuch. I even took all the unused lemon wedges from our table to help suffocate the seasoning.

Hunger overtook the evening. I choked it down. Scraping after scraping, the fish went down with enough tears to fill any reservoir full of fish. As finally explained, the first plate of fish was seasoned with garlic .. that’s why. The seasonings got confused. Actually, they didn’t 😆, the cook grabbed the wrong one.

Again, with all that’s wrong in our beautiful world, this one meal – tea and fish – is so small and insignificant. I had food. I had friends to share time with. I had the money to pay for it. I had a few minutes to play a game and win prizes.

.. And a kind manager who didn’t charge me for the meal.

During the whole incident, no angry words were exchanged. Tears were shed because of a pepper error, not words. Things were a lot sweeter, albeit unnecessarily so, and stayed that way due to calmer heads prevailing. Throughout the meal, five adults had a wonderful time, yes, at the expense of one who had some difficulty getting ahead with his meal.

It was, truly, just tea and fish at the end of the day. Just like mom’s meat pie which I dislike to this day, if need be … I would eat it, be blessed, and fortunate to have it in front of me without complaint.

This evening, dad will be joining us for a dinner out if it works in the schedule. If you’ve been following lately, you know his struggle. It would be my honor to share an iced tea with him while I still can.

Sweetened, or not.

There are never any complaints when out with dad. Sharing a meal with someone who can’t process a menu anymore or understand the simple act of ordering, is never the time to complain. It’s a time to sit back and enjoy a meal regardless what season of life it is for someone who struggles every day, yet takes peace in the reality that’s his to cherish.

Pepper, or not.

And with that healthy serving of what is really valuable to all of us, the little inconveniences of too much pepper or sugar shouldn’t ever get in the way. Besides, there’s always a chance at more happy, cute animals just around the corner no matter what happens in life … unless I get there before you do.

A Statue’s Seamless Touch

A call came. Not unlike any other from the facility at seven o’clock as the morning sun snuck through my bedroom drapes. An aide from Dad’s place spoke of his distress as I listened with partial attentiveness – not from lack of compassion, however. The five days prior exhausted most of my gas tank. This Friday morning was to be rest. Simply, … sleep. Recuperation. Body repair.

I, truly, didn’t need this distinctive ring.

It was a responsibility call. The aide was asking for guidance. She, clearly, met dad at a medical crossroad – as often happens considering the road on which he travels. Dementia requires navigational assistance. Assistance defined as caring people who help guide the way and clear out as many obstacles as possible.

He had, what appeared to her, a medical issue. “We needed to ask you what you’d like us to do… ?, as she continued to explain his troubles. I realized his situation required my personal attention. Ten minutes later, I found myself – once again – making the very familiar trip on rt. 36 north toward Altoona.

No more than an hour later, we were in an emergency department bay. This time, not as critical as other days, but nonetheless, there. Dad and me … talking over, and over, the recent moments’ events. The hows and whys that suddenly escaped his memory, needing to be repeated to soothe an anxious mind, passing the minutes which turned into two hours. As he finally drifted into a calm sleep, I took the time to slip out. The mid-morning sunlight was a welcome relief on this tired set of bones.

Slowly turning a corner around the ER, I noticed a statue off to my right. On more than one occasion I’ve passed by this way as the ER department isn’t easily accessible from the main lobby. “That’s odd …,” I thought, “… I don’t remember seeing this before”. Sure as the sun was a relief on my weary shoulders and my body was exhausted, this statue didn’t just magically appear.

It’s “The Healer’s Touch”. Rather than try to write summarize what it represents, here is the plaque:

I am not a descendant of the Shona tribe. This, probably, goes without typing. Traveling to Zimbabwe isn’t in my plans and I don’t have any friends who are remotely connected to that area of our world. Up to that moment, my only tie-in to Zimbabwe was a world map hanging in the front of a seventh-grade geography classroom.

A bond did happen at that moment, however. Not the words I read, but from the statue itself. That shiny object caught my eye after all. It was meant to. Not just me … but everyone who walked past. It’s meant for reflection and, of course, to honor the nurses who care for all in need.

For me, who is clearly not a nurse or Shona healer, I stood there – bonded to this statue: one body larger than the other … connected to each other by arms that are, by all indications, hard to see where they begin or end. The artists from this tribe know how to reach into the heart of compassion and caring. In its simplicity, there is no separation. As one suffers and hurts, so must the caregiver meet the patient in that space.

And so it is with Dementia. I needed this reminder. Self-care is important, of course. The old saying, “One can’t do another’s care if not taking care of oneself.”, is important to remember. When call comes in during the early morning hours however, my needs become secondary. When sitting by his ER bedside and the conversation circles back to the same five sentences every eight minutes, my needs become secondary. As he stares blankly at me wondering why the ambulance didn’t take him to his house, my needs become secondary.

Dad was still sleeping when I returned to the ER bay fifteen minutes later. It wasn’t soon after then, attendants took him for CT scans and other testing. Standard procedure for his distress, I assume.

Fortunately, nothing serious came of this visit. We’ll check it off as a fortunate medical mis-step with a mental ramp exit. He received excellent care for about five hours and arrived back in familiar surroundings just in time for a late lunch.

This was one of many he and I have experienced together. During the many visits though, I’ve missed seeing this particular statue. Odd, since my catering business has served the employees there multiple times as well.

This was the moment, the morning, to stop and be reminded of my role in his life I guess…

… and for all us in this role as caregivers to be part of the Shona tribe. Healer’s, possibly, a world away, but seamlessly connected together to each other and to our loved ones struggling with Dementia.

We have an important job to do. They need our affection, compassionate communication, and silence when appropriate. Let’s strive to be their statue. Have your never ending arms rest on their heavy burdened shoulders.

… and always take the call.

A Bridge Crossed

There’s not a vinyl bench back seat from a 1970’s era paneled station wagon anywhere, I figure, without the question, “Are we there, yet?, immortalized in its seams. Far rear-facing, or middle seats, those words ran upside the back of many father’s necks either every twenty minutes, upon seeing exit ramps, or a mother waking up from her passenger side nap.

I was just as guilty as my siblings on long trips to the beach. As our seven-plus hours stuffed wagon began its final leg, I, more than my siblings, uttered those four annoying words. More out of excitement, probably, than as an enticement for punishment. Boredom after hours in the brown stretch box could have been a reason as well.

Funny how it always worked for every child who did speak these words. It never seemed to happen coming back home. Silence ruled the hours. Human nature ruled the time. For us, school was fast approaching because our vacation – most times – was at the end of summer. If, some years, it happened to be near the start of June, coming back to summer work schedules (even as young kids) weren’t something in our bag of exciting things.

So, “Are we there yet?” .. was a thing. I’m going to presume it still may be? This I don’t have any personal experiences because I’ve had no opportunities to be a back of the neck listener. No chance to turn around and say, “Don’t pick on your sister, young man!”… Not being a dad has afforded me no opportunity to hear that four word phrase.

I do have a dad still – and was recalling that particular phrase when he and I were out and about the other day. Side by side, fifty years later, in a less rickety automobile, minus three humans, a dog, and polyester brown and orange shorts. Yes, just the two of us talking the day through when he asked, “Where are we going?”.

This question caught me off guard, but only a little. With his limited recall and short-term memory loss, I wasn’t surprised. It was only a few minutes prior when I did say we were headed out to shop at Sam’s Club. Leaving his facility shortly before that conversation, however, was a trigger to new stimulation, … new brain input. This is how dementia works. I find it fascinating.

I do enjoy watching how dad navigates his way around (and through) this remarkable time in his life. He adapts. He survives. He gets frustrated and calls me to connect, but disguises it as a need he wishes to be fulfilled.

“Where are we going?”, still hung out there.

The question was asked and required a quick response as we sat at three cars back in a construction zone. I could sense his eyes looking over at me with excitement. After all, he was happy to be out with me – in the sunshine – somewhere other than staring at the same tan walls he’s been accustomed to for a while. My reply came swift with little forethought:

“Well, I guess when we get where we’re going, you’ll know where we are, Dad.”

“That kinda makes sense, in a way, Doug. I don’t know what you just said, but I believe you.”

There’s a lot there … in a few words. We laughed the whole way to Sam’s Club – and, I don’t know why. Both of us found this exchange to be hilarious. Honestly, I was on the same mental track as dad. We connected and every second escalated into more simple moments of fun.

As is my dad’s personality, once arriving at Sam’s – in the public square (as it were), his demeanor change … back to business, “helping his son” by pushing the cart for some exercise. I got that and was more than willing to meet him where he landed, mentally. All good.

I write this to give hope to anyone helping a loved one with dementia. They are still driving their car. Yes, it’s quite different. You can still be in the back seat wondering, “Are you there yet?” with them? Are they safe and healthy while on their individual destination?

Just now, as the adult with them, patience, humor, love, and compassion rule the day. Also, the trip isn’t only hours, it’s years.

Along the drive, though, are rest stops when you can laugh with them – unexpectedly – while heading somewhere.

It’s a wonderful experience for me. Mainly because I never know what tomorrow invites in with my father/son relationship. All I know is …. if I could ask him, “Are we there yet?”, one more time … and have him answer, “Almost, the beach is just over the bridge …”

… I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Two Paths, Two Falls

Hidden among hills in Western Pa is this waterfall. Not far off Rt 22, heading west from Altoona – about halfway to Pittsburgh – is Buttermilk Falls. Down a bumpy cement road and through only a few rural, tree-shaded intersections, one arrives at this quaint park. It is serene. Mere minutes from the Rt 22 metal melee, a small parking lot invites all to park life away from all its problems.

This is Fred Rogers’ place by extension. Several remains of his grandfather’s (Fred McFeely) estate are visible at the park while Mr. Rogers life and times are memorialized in small wooden plaques along a simple walkway toward the waterfall. The falls themselves are in the Hires Run Valley which is a tributary to the Conemaugh River.

A recent visit here was necessary. Weeks of unexplained delays of plans, expected overlaps of multiple schedules, and usual busyness required something – anything – to free myself from all of it. A 4-day planned vacation fell through. Family matters prevented one day from happening. A personal medical issue, another day. Home repairs and maintenance another. Just did not end.

I know this isn’t only me. Life happens. One drop at a time of little issues then all of a sudden the bucket is full. We’ve all had it happen.

These mind-heavy issues didn’t immediately disappear once my car door closed over a small, shale parking space under a small grove of trees; however, a few deep breaths of forest air during the first ten minutes’ paces sure did help. Allowing the time – between each Mr. Rogers plaque – to empty my bucket by a few drops. Reaching the waterfall forty-five minutes from the start, I can say my bucket was a little lighter. Not much, but a little.

One can walk under the waterfall to meditate, take pictures/videos, or stand there and get relief from a hot, sunny day. Visitor’s choice, as could be said,

The four hour round-trip visit ended with a return back to my normal: Preparation for a busy event week coming up and four church organ services (including a funeral Saturday) this weekend. Life as I’ve known for so many years

Life as I’ve known it ..

… without mentioning, to this point, caregiving for a family member with dementia. “Caregiving” as an umbrella term to cover five years of in-home care and then then, most recently, sixteen months in an assisted living facility.

Yes, I wanted four days away. The emotional struggle dealing with a day-to-day overflowing bucket of emotional ups and downs had reached its crest. I’ve done the best I can meeting his needs. His health and safety are always on my mind. Beginning with a simple wrong turn in his car leading to a dementia diagnosis five years ago, this slow river of mental decline has eroded his solid rocks of reason.

It, really, isn’t any different from thousands of other experiences caregivers have when walking side by side, day by day, hand-in-hand with one walking down dementia’s path. Over the years, we’ve shared all the steps -together. The initial diagnosis and subsequent frustration, loss of driver’s license with understandable disappointment, confusion over simple tasks, and momentary blank stares.

..also wonderful, complimentary words that were rare during those rough teenage years. Frequent phone calls from the assisted living facility stand as a testament to our solid relationship. He has my number firmly implanted in a small brain cell … not to be forgotten at present. We have a connection.

So, this dementia path, for us – for me – is rough. It isn’t ever intended to be an easy one, I believe. It is taken on as an unpredictable, day-by-day, who knows, let’s see what tomorrow brings … and hold each other’s hand path to somewhere. (Ironically, as I type, he just called needing white medical tape – an obsession of his. No worries. We will go out in a few hours and find some).

Four days and an almost full bucket. I did lose a few drops with the help of my good neighbor, Fred Rogers. By all accounts, Mr. Rogers was a great dad. Plaques leading to the falls testify to this fact. He was a wonderful man – as everyone knows.

I wouldn’t trade my dad in for him, however. As things are, I always say we are losing him a little at a time every day, but the other side of reality is getting a great guy. I wouldn’t have said this years ago. We had a tough time.

Being his caregiver and sharing this path with him has been a joy. We’re not at “his” falls yet and I am finding my bucket to be, maybe, a bit bigger than anticipated with him as we walk together.

When alone, however, I have to be mindful of a full bucket. All of us who take care of .. and love those who suffer from dementia, need to provide self-care.

Our path is different from the one shared with our loved one. The old saying, “you can’t take care of someone else if you don’t take care of yourself first”, is so true. Spiritual, physical, and mental health are so important first-and-foremost.

There us a sign at the beginning of the Buttermilk path: “Be the kind of person Mr. Rogers always knew you could be”. I take this to heart.

There are two paths .. two falls. Two destinations. Being at Buttermilk Falls reminded me of this.

Fresh air and Mr. Rogers. Not a bad combination.

A Coffee Intermission

Mug contents unknown. Known, however, is the holder of this hot beverage vessel. She is a friend who allowed my use of her picture. I saw it on FB and asked permission … as is protocol when I come across one I’d like to share that is undeniably unique.

I don’t believe Katie expected a blog post when snapping this photo during a relaxing time recently – and, I didn’t anticipate writing about a mug filled with (possibly) a hot beverage I won’t drink … coffee. I write “possibly” because the contents of her mug have not been confirmed at this time. That aside, I’m a huge fan of black vs. blue pictures, … thus the photo.

Ah, the photo. Reflective, relaxing. All the adjectives one would use to chronicle a blanketed porch time overlooking a field stretched out to that wooded horizon. I especially like that innocent little intermission centered in the middle of the two larger acts stage left and right. Clouds above give us a perfectly hanging, never closing, curtain over this theater of tranquility.

Alas, however, I must address the “aside” issue. I don’t drink coffee. Assuming this was in her mug, I can’t connect with the liquidy, beany delight millions enjoy multiple times each day. Just. Can’t. Of all the wonderful, musical, game-loving, life-affirming, joking around, silly mannerisms I inherited from my dear mother … her deep-brewing love of the roasted java didn’t make it into MY particular mug.

I sat around a breakfast table the other morning as friends recounted their first experience drinking coffee. The place. The time. Possibly the company with whom they kept? I had nothing to contribute except a few iced tea laden exhales of nothingness.

Coffee culture does captivate me.

Daily, the drivethru lines outside our local Starbucks are fascinating. Squigling around the building, they are seemingly endless … anxious automatic caffeine caravans – awaiting their luscious Lattes and frothing Frappes.

We entertain multiple little specialty coffee shops around these parts and one large traveling Concession trailer (who also has multiple brick and mortar locations as well). One cafe I frequent a lot offers a buck-a-cup option for all eatery patrons on the honor system. You pump alternative brews from carafes into your favorite mug while enjoying limited menu items. Notice the “you” pronoun there … definitely not, “me”.

Coffee seems to be the great uniter. I see this happen in a small way as I sweeten my tea surrounded by coffee consumers. They become unconcious, competent conversationalists as liquid (de)caffeine rhythmically crosses their lips. It’s a ballet of words in between sips and warm-ups (otherwise known as top-me-offs) … swallowing can be timed and self-affirming as well. Even the finest of wine connoisseurs may not even sniff their way around stemware with such elegance … let alone partake of the Bordeaux.

It’s a conundrum to me. This whole coffee thing. To those who love it, I say, “fantastic” .. and truly mean the compliment. I had one small taste many ages ago. Many decades, to be accurate. Friends suggest this wasn’t enough to develop a taste. Well, I had one small chocolate chip cookie, a pizza, and pretzels for the first time a long time ago and fell in love with all of them soooooo, THAT theory is kinda bunk…

The picture is really quite beautiful. I love the mystery of NOT knowing what is in her mug. Hot, green tea? Yeah, that’s it. Indeed, if it IS coffee, I don’t need to know. Let’s assume whatever filled the mug, filled her spirit at the time.

I am entirely satisfied looking at – and beyond – the horizon. Blue and black framing the intermission where all of us can just take a big breath. Our curtain will not end the show, nor will what is going on now – good or bad – last forever.

Let’s all sit where we are, hold on to whatever is in our life’s mug, and enjoy the scenery.

Even if it does include a cup delicious, uhm, coffee …

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.

A Little Sweetness

Some call me sweetly sentimental. Some may agree with sweet – perhaps some only sentimental. Those close enough to be great friends drop all the niceties and stick with a simply sarcastic, “You’re kinda weird”. I concur as I am aware it is only meant as the nicest gesture possible … and with that I reply, “Thank you” and go on with my day.

It’s a group of morning guys as diverse as the jokes I tell. They’re not always the best (the humerous pleasantries, that is). I get it; however, I can’t simply sit there morning over morning, month over month, with such fertile conversational fabric being tossed around and not make a beautiful tapestry of merriment.

Golf, politics, food, relationships, various work related issues, … all of it bantered about from guy to guy. And yet, I’m expected to sit there and NOT throw in a silly pun, related joke, or twisted tale? Me thinks not.

Merciful and kind criticism comes from the likes of business owners, retired financiers, educators, county workers, city employees, and occassional contractors. All of whom I consider good friends. I time my wittisisms carefully, although not always timely – if that makes any sense at all. One must accept the occassional failure in my line of a.m. amateur whimsical folly.

During a rare few moments one morning – when the subjects at hand provided no juicy bait on the humerous hook – I glanced down at the simple sugar packet holder … to fill the apparent void in my brain. These funny little pink, white, blue, and yellow guys suddenly became exceptionally interesting. How different they look, maybe? Do they? Same shape, same basic function: sweetness? Just different color outside and kinda different chemistry inside, … but looks the same inside.

The differentness and sameness. Quirky. One could open one of each color, pour out the contents into separate mixed piles, and be challenged to match each white pile with its original packaging. With no pasty-finger testing allowed, I doubt it could be done. Four simple little piles of white “sugar” … looking the same. Four very different colored packets. Simple in the packets. Complicated when removed. Yet, when I’ve put a pink and white over ice before my tea hundreds of times in the past, this never earned my consideration.

This could be doctoral candidate thesis stuff here! I’m thinking a possible Nobel prize nod… and I have a slow news day at the breakfast table to thank.

Well, if I was to make that trip to Sweden one day for my medal, my sugar packet theory would have developed into a lesson in friendship. For my friends who tolerate me come in different colors, shapes, and sizes; however, they’re pretty much the same inside.

Quirky, different, and same. They hang together with me for a purpose: to support and nurture a friendship – regardless of how bad or good things are going. All of us, in a sense, add a certain sweetness to each other’s lives in a different colored way. Our packets – experiences and personalities – support and frame the care and concern we bring “to the table” for everyone else.

So, that’s it in a sugar packet nutshell. I didn’t HAVE to be quiet, but it was forced upon me by the gods of inadequate interlocutors. Nobody, but nobody, had a tidbit – a morsel – of compelling comedic conversation going on. Thus, a reflection on the deeper meaning of sugar packets (like they had a superficial meaning to begin with?)…

Oh, well. I’ll await my invite from the Nobel committee. Until then, all of you continue YOUR sweetness, ok?

Calling Earth to Saturn

Two hours and forty-nine minutes. I was still for nearly three hours last night. Sleep is one activity requiring this length of time. Very few other life push-throughs keep my attention for that span. Maybe getting records together for taxes every year? Let’s carve out all the ugly stuff like that and focus on merriment.

As long as that was, consider a fictitious two-year space vessel stretch in deep space: from earth to a black hole near Saturn. In reality, over three years. Ah, a big “no” here. A curvy, claustrophobic, gravity thrown trip around Mars and Jupiter … incuding only marginal, periodic screen contact with loved ones. To “possibly” save earthlings by finding another habitable planet on the other side of a worm hole would not be worth having a panic attack every 5 minutes.

Yes, for nearly three hours, I watched. “Interstellar’s” main character, Cooper, do what I never, ever would have done. (Not that any piano-playing, hot dawg salesman’s invite would come from NASA anytime soon)… Along with Dr. Brand, Romilly and Doyle, he boarded “Endurance” – taking on the Atlasonian task of finding that elusive alternative earth.

The four explorers back stories are launched minimaly except for Cooper, as Matthew McConaughey’s role as a single father to daugher Murph is strained a bit. Anne Hathaway, Dr. Brand, is Professor Brand’s (Michael Caine) daughter. She’s got some kind of planetary love connection with a particle physicist who shot off into space ten years prior. Romilly is an anxious physicist and, to round out the quirky quartet, Doyle takes his geography expertise with them just in case … for what? I’m not sure. Alright? Alright … Aaalll-right.

The seemingly long trip from earth to Saturn lasts one minute in the movie. Hyperbolic, water filled chambers keep the humans happily hydrated …

They make choices after moving through the worm hole. Some good, some bad. Gravity – especially Einstein’s way of poking his mop head into conversation every ten minutes – warps ages and time. Romilly ages 23 years while Dr. Brand and Cooper waste precious minutes wading through a tsunami. It’s all relative, I suppose.

Through a series of events, Matt Damon dies. Yes, he’s not a nice man in the flick.

Cooper finds himself reconnecting with his daugher Murph who has aged on earth, but he’s a quasi-ghost in the 5th dimension. Floating behind the very bookcase Murph saw weird things happen in dust earlier, he breaks a binary code and, in turn, helps save humanity … I think?

Kinda lost it when a kid hits a baseball through a curved-earth window two minutes before a scene where Cooper watches his very old daughter die.

The movie ends with Cooper leather-slipping into a ship … headed to a planet where Dr. Brand is, apparently, awaiting his landing. She is anticipating his arrival at Edmund’s planet … a strange, but expected, love twist.

Yes, two hours and forty-nine minutes. The way I figure it, entertainment has a cost. This was worth the time invested. Fiction, to be sure.

In as much as I didn’t understand some of the scientific ding-dong dialog, the tense moments and suspense kept my interest and feet firmly planted on the ground – where I’d rather be.

Let’s hope the truth of our situation here on earth never gets to the crisis situation presented in “Interstellar”. I h’aint getting in no damn spaceship.

Calling It a Nice Day

Today was a really nice day. Compared to most days recently, the outdoor human experience sunned itself favorably. A mere 55+ degrees fell happily upon most of us who delighted in a walking a few steps around town.

During my walk time this afternoon, a mid-day thought dawned on me. I haven’t written any kind considerations lately.

Lately? Heck, it’s been well over 5 months.

I miss this. Pointing out the obvious busy darts landing on my life’s dart board calendar doesn’t make for a good excuse here. I’ve been busier in the past and managed to land a few textual missiles. Idleness? Nope. Laziness is a noun I do not understand.

So, somewhere lurking around being too busy and never sitting still, I neglected doing something enjoyable – writing entries in a small blog.

It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write. Time is early in the Lenten season for local Christian churches. To go completely 180-degrees, binging the Jack Reacher t.v. series, both seasons 1 & 2, was explosively exceptional. Personal triumph and another close friendship lost to cancer- interwoven among daily ups and downs – all of us could attach words to. There’s always words.

Making, i.e. finding, time to share these marvelous expressions more frequently than once a year should be a priority.

The sun today bleached out a small confession today. I had a moment to think. Sometimes we need to admit to ourselves we have neglected something enjoyable. Whatever the reason(s), that one hobby/activity dart headed for the diversion bullseye on our secondary “entertainment” dartboard never got picked up … let alone thrown. This happens a little at a time – and then months pass by. Ugh.

I’m calling this a nice day. Busy darts be damned. The sun shone while I walked. Maybe it’s Lent, the fear of a very large wandering ex-military behemoth, or a simple self-confession that got me back to this space?

My guess would be the latter. Mainly because Jack Reacher would be way out of place in downtown Hollidaysburg and I’ve got plenty of Lent to go yet behind the organ.

Do your happy place now. Don’t neglect it.