“It’s the little things,” was another of my husband’s “old granny” sayings. Peter repeated the phrase often as a way to dissect any quarrels we had. We’ve never argued over the big stuff, but his whiskers in the just-cleaned bathroom sink sets me off, and he hates the way I coil up the garden hose.
Nowadays it’s the little things we do that he enjoys, although he doesn’t want to do anything that will mess up his routine. Our horizons have become limited.
Yesterday I forced myself to do errands, really boring stuff — buy dog food, find special batteries, get wood to replace clothesline poles. I figured Peter would want to go with me and, yes, he was ready within minutes. He misses being able to run the errands himself, and I miss that he can’t do them anymore. Even though I would’ve liked to come home after the last stop, I took us to lunch at a restaurant where he’d never been. That threw him for a loop because the menu was unfamiliar, as were the beer choices. I encouraged him to order a burger. Good thing it was excellent, because the beer I suggested was only so-so.
After lunch, I realized we were just around the corner from a car wash, so I whipped in there. Peter’s eyes were like a kid’s at Christmas. I had to laugh. I pulled the moon roof back so we could watch the giant mops swish over us. After his initial, childish delight, his engineering persona took over and he marveled how the washing system was set up. “How’d they do that?” he asked, as he always does of anything that smacks of good engineering.
There are two types of people in this world, those who would take an Alzheimer’s patient on a joy ride and those who would say it was
a waste of gas.”