Clearly, You See?

It was strange.

When one sees something not right – out of the ordinary, for example – it’s only right to ask, “Why?”. Whether this is silently questioned in an inquisitive mind, or asked out loud, it must be answered. Such was an encounter the other day when I casually walked into a room for a mid-day munchie. In context, a mid-morning breakroom where there happened to be a lamination machine being officially occupied by a co-worker. Just the two of us. One casually snacking on mini whoppers and another seemingly working on a whopper of a job by said machine.

“Seemingly”, may I add. Granted, knowing this person, anything is possible. Generally, one should have available something to laminate? I spied by my very eyes … nothing. Clearly, nothing. Time being of the essence, I did understand the hesitancy in her reply when I asked, “Why .. ? What are you doing? ..There’s nothing here?”.

This was question #1.

Seeing through my “possible” sarcastic nature (but, avoiding a natural, satirical response), she spoke an unadorned comeback, “Hey, I’m waiting for this machine to warm-up. Do you know what temperature it has to reach?”. I was impressed with this reply. Logical. To the point; however, it was very transparent .. she was avoiding my, “Why?”

Again. “I know the machine is warming up. What project are you laminating? I don’t see anything on the table? Why?”

This was question #2

Once the machine reached it’s desired goal five minutes later, I got my answer. Five minutes of nothing. No laminated bird pictures, artist summaries, color wheels, how-to’s of this-and that’s, forest critter drawings, or kiddo crayon doodles – nada.

A pail-full of pellucid pandering for a period of five minutes. Intriguing? Yes.

…And I lamented the lamination – which ended up being my answer. You, distinctly, read this right. Q: To repeat #2 “Why?”. A: “To Laminate a Lamination”.

Ah, but there was a follow-up. Yayoi Kusama.

If you are familiar with a bright red bob wig, then my good friend’s answer makes perfect sense. Yayoi Kusama died mid-August and she was known for her signature wig as well as a distinctive art style. Mainly, her immersion into a clear, reflective, and boundless art style. This is what I can gather from my minimal search. So, from an educational perspective, to give students clear laminate in which to explore Yayoi’s world clears things up for me.

I guess I can see-through the genius of Yayoi to walk on my good friend’s motivational (and educational) path. Looking back, if I wasn’t hungry for the whoppers, none of this would have happened.

Lesson learned. Still ALWAYS good to ask, “Why?”. Even if the first answer doesn’t make sense, remember, the second mouse always gets the cheese … and learns a lesson in the process.

As long as it doesn’t get too close to the lamination machine. That wouldn’t be good.

Little Boy, Big Boy

From where I stand, this is one view of our local Norfolk Southern rail yard. Off in the distance is the Rose Yard. It’s where hundreds, if not over one-thousand men worked at one time. Building, painting, repairing cars for transport all over the USA. I haven’t come across any employee – retired or current – who isn’t proud of earned sweat from a day’s wage.

A few weeks ago, the Big Boy steam engine came rolling through on its nationwide tour. Definitely a treat for those employees and all train enthusiasts locally. My vantage point to see it at the Rose Yard – not as an enthusiast, but as a fortunate food vendor – was spectacular. (Much different than it would have been as if I was standing where I am currently).

Yes, a Big Boy. Thousands upon thousands across America waited for hours to see it rumble through their two-stop sign towns. If only for a few seconds, it became a story they can pass on to their grandkids. Videos swarmed Facebook and other social media sites. “Where to see it..” maps and guides were posted on dedicated websites. In its own way, the Big Boy months-long event was a bring-America together spectacle for all to see and experience.

I live in a railroad city. Altoona, Pa. was known as one of the major manufacturing hubs for rail car building. This is why Norfolk Southern chose us to host one of their two-day events for the Big Boy. Huge daily turnouts to meet and greet the steel-wheeled celebrity, political photo-ops, employee appreciation rallies, and merchandise give-aways … all to enhance the engine’s allure and historical stamp on our country’s railroad heritage.

I mention all this simply because had I not been invited to be a caterer for one of the events, this engine would have steam-rolled through me with little consideration. None. I had no interest in seeing it. With this said, shame on me.

Yes, shame on me for not wanting to – at the very least – TRY to get a ticket for viewing. A once in a lifetime thing like this … and I treated it like an order at McDonald’s. What’s the big deal, right?

Noticing all the pre-press and hubaloo sirening down from afar, I could have suffered from social media fatigue, I guess? Too many “same perspective” videos of this engine being welcomed into multiple towns of various sizes, colors, and shapes? Locals here complaining of pre-ticket mis-management, maybe? Whatever the reason, I couldn’t get off the platform and board the excitement train.

All this changed. That moment Big Boy came barreling down into the Rose Yard, I was my nine-year old Christmas morning, pajama wearing, pumped boy once again. There was something happening inside. Just pure joy. All the lethargy disappeared. Yes, my camera phone video saved is almost exactly the same as all the others, however, for me it frame a different perspective on my life.

… On how not to be so quick to judge.

Something unique about seeing this special train that evening. As someone who knows nothing about these metal mechanical machines, I flipped from steam stupor to Big Boy bliss within seconds. All the locomotion finally made sense surrounding its arrival. The engine enthusiasts weren’t that crazy after all.

I pre-judged the event and the folks who were excited about its arrival. Not in a bad way, of course. A better word would be, “dispassionate”, I suppose. But, this is on the same track. Every time a conversation, article, newscast, or social media pop-up feed came, warning light arms dropped down and my caring car came to a halt.

That car in which I traveled did make its way to the Rose Yard. Yes, It was a concession van, but nonetheless a vehicle. Norfolk Southern corporate staff couldn’t have been nicer, as an aside here, and the employee event went off without a hitch. As I remained behind to clean and organize for a multi-day event coming up, all the tah-dah had dispatched, few people remained, and Big Boy sat almost alone on a track only two minutes walk from where I stood. The timing was perfect. Just me and a huge machine. History along with a guy who plays the piano and sells food. Quite the contrast, I suppose. This was the moment I regretted ever questioning those who spent weeks anticipating its arrival.

They weren’t wrong.

Look, I’m in my last third of life … if things work out. It’s highly likely I will continue to make judgements about people, places, and things. We don’t make life changes and stop our own huge personal engine (at least at this point) on the spot. We can only try to learn as we barrel down our life’s track.

One small detail I did find out. This engine was getting assistance from two other diesels connected behind. Kinda makes sense. It was built in the early 1940’s, so for a machine running eighty-six years, …. quite understandable.

For us as well. We don’t make any changes in life without support from good friends and family behind us – encouraging us to be the best we can be. It’s not easy, … especially as age and habits set in.

There won’t be another Big Boy event in Altoona – at least in my lifetime for sure. I am so glad my business afforded me the opportunity to learn a little life lesson. Without that chance six weeks ago, I would have missed being a little boy again … if only for a few minutes.

We need moments like those. Win-wins. Small life lessons coupled with happy experiences.

Here’s hoping the next “Big” thing to come down the social track is met with a little less skeptical short-sightedness on my part. Can’t guarantee it, however I can at least try to be more accepting and give myself a chance to be surprised.

Big Boy wanted this to be an awesome experience for all of us. After all, this is what its whole national tour was designed to do.

Just so happens I got an extra life lesson bonus.

“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.

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.