Category Archives: Childlike

Why was I surprised?

Posted on by under Childlike, Dementia, eye of beholder

“Let’s go see the ‘Art in the Garden’ exhibits…” I said to Peter, “…at the Hort Gardens.”  It was a surprise outing for him.

“Oh, OK!” His eyes sparkled. “We haven’t been there in a long time.”

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” I said, glad he was interested. Wherever we went on our travels, when we still traveled, we would always visit public gardens.

He didn’t mention, or didn’t realize, that I headed the wrong way out of our drive. Carol Lee doughnuts was an important first stop, part of my surprise. I bought six of their lighter-than-air glazed to have with the thermos of coffee I’d brought. From there I took a “scenic route” I knew he’d enjoy — through campus, past the power plant which intrigues him, around the drill field and duck pond, and finally to the Hahn Horticulture Garden.

Leslie and I had already seen this year’s  “Simply Elemental.”  I hoped Peter would enjoy it as much as we had. I pointed out Richard Hammer’s “Glorious Glass Flowers,” but he preferred the enormous hibiscus near the pavilion. I nudged him to examine the NRV Naturalists’ “In a stream near you,” but he wanted to watch the real fish in the real stream or see the spider that had spun the web attached to one of Lauren Collver’s “Bedrock Beetles.” I carried on about the beautiful handiwork of the Textile Artists of Virginia (TAVA) who created the butterflies for “Kaleidoscope Flutters by” in the trident maple allee. He spotted a real butterfly. Why was I surprised he liked nature better than art?

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Floyd Quilt Guild’s colorful ‘Leaf it to Quilters’ tossed in the breeze.

We had our coffee and doughnuts in the arbor. The sun was baking hot, but the air was lovely in the shade. “Isn’t this pleasant?” I sighed.

“Mmm.”

My indignant tsk tsk was loud. Why I was surprised he was noncommittal?

 “Sorry,” he said, “you know I don’t like this heat.”

“Mm-mmm,” I said.

Two women walked by just as I snapped the picture below. “He’s a masterpiece,” I joked.

They laughed. “He sure is,” one of them said.

My husband loves being the center of attention. I have lots of nice pictures from that day, but this is my favorite.

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My masterpiece, ‘The essence of Peter.’

Header: One beauty for the “kaleidoscope” of butterflies.
(Click on photos to enlarge.)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Perfect do-nothing day.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Childlike, Family

“Do you want tea or coffee for ‘second breakfast’?” I asked my husband. “I’m fixing waffles.”

“What? Tea or coffee? What are you having? What are we having?”

“I’m having tea, we’re having waffles…and fruit, lots of fruit,” I told him.

“OK, tea then. What’s the occasion?” Peter asked.

“It’s Father’s Day.”

“You’re making me waffles?”

“Mmm-m,” I said, “it’s Father’s Day.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. It’s Father’s Day, do nothing until I tell you it’s ready.”

“I’m good at doing nothing,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” I said.

This day is perfect — a Crayola box of colors, balmy air, bright sun. I set the table outside, made a pot of tea, washed raspberries, blueberries and a peach, got out real butter and real maple syrup, and popped a whole package of frozen waffles into the toaster.

Peter ate as if he hadn’t had a meal in days. “I would like to have two birthdays every year…” he said, smacking his lips.

“This isn’t your birthday, it’s Father’s Day.”

“Not February? What is it then?

“June. It’s never warm like this in February,” I said.

“Well, I’d like two birthdays like this. This is good.”

“It’s still Father’s Day.”

“Are we doing anything special later?” He made a silly, little boy face.

“Yes, Leslie is taking you…and me…to a movie and dinner.”

“Wow, I’d like another birthday like this.”

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UnknownA card arrived from Carolynn yesterday. On the front, the unmistakeable silhouette of Mickey Mouse, Peter’s hero, and a “Hooray for Dad” message. He looked at it again and again, then put it next to his chair. When I looked at it this morning, I realized why he’s confused about today. The message says:

As far as dads go,
there’s not a more classic
character than you.
Hope your birthday’s
as special as you are.

Beneath that she wrote, I know you can’t remember all the cool things you did with Leslie and me…but we do! Happy Father’s Day!

Birthday? Father’s Day? Doesn’t matter. He’s loved by “his girls” and he’s happy.

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Mickey Mouse webgrab/Pinterest

Header photo: Crayola box colors in the garden.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘Forget about your worries and your strife…’

Posted on by under Childlike, Favorites

“Any good movies on?” is one of my husband’s litany of questions. Usually I shake my head. He no longer wants to see the kinds of movies I never liked — “Silence of the lambs,” “Godfather,” “Psycho,” “Rocky” — so I look for lighter choices. We’ve watched a lot of children’s movies lately — “Nanny McPhee,” “Babe,” “Charlotte’s Web” — light, laugh-inducing films.

Recently, I surprised him. “‘Jungle Book’ is getting good ratings,” I said. “We’ll go at 4:00, then eat out after.” His eyes lit up like a child’s.

We enjoyed the movie, even though Kaa, the snake, made me cringe. Throughout, Peter asked over and over how “they got the animals to do that?”

“They aren’t real,” I said again and again, “that’s special computer animation combined with real animals’ movements…””How do…?”

“I dunno’ how…it’s magic,” I said.

Afterwards, as promised, we went to our favorite restaurant. Peter ordered his usual, and me, mine. “That looks good,” he said of my suguk wrap, as I knew he would. “I’ll order that the next time,” he added as he tucked into his kebab.

“You say that every time,” I laughed. “You ordered this once and liked it.”

He nodded. “I remember,” he said. “But, I’m not going to say, ‘any good movies on’, because we just saw one, didn’t we?” His eyes twinkled. “See, I remembered.” He was quite pleased with himself.

“Wow, I’m amazed. And what was the movie?”

“HA! ‘Jungle Book’,” he said proudly. That moment, a tiny glimmer of clarity, made us chuckle. “But, how did they get the animals to do that?” he asked. Again.

Well, the briefest flash of light through fog is better than no light at all.

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Header photo: Mowgli and Bagheera in a scene from “Jungle Book” (2016)
Animation example: Screen Slam on YouTube (2016)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Fresh fish get slapped.

Posted on by under Childlike

Friday’s outing included lunch at Montano’s, our favorite restaurant in Roanoke. We’ve eaten there every month or two for years. We recognize most of the waitstaff, and they us, and they always know Peter will order a Guinness.

The other day, our waitress was new to us. They no longer have Guinness on tap, so she brought him three choices of bottled Guinness — Draught, Black Lager, and Original. “What do I have?” he asked. I ordered  the Draught. Peter studied the menu as if he’d never seen it. I’d already decided to have the special — fresh cod tacos.

“Ready to order, Sir?” the waitress asked as she came by a third time.

He looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. I cringed. “I’ll have the ‘chis and fips,'” he said.

“I’m sorry?” She glanced at me and leaned closer to him.

Peter chuckled. “Fish and chips, I’ll have fish and chips,” he said. An apology was embedded in my weak smile. She winked.

“I’ve got to stop doing that,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, that’ll be a cold day in hell.”

“But it’s warm today, I left my jacket in the car.”

“Mm-m,” I said.

When our food was delivered, he looked at my plate. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Fresh cod tacos. They’re really good. Want a bite?”

“Do I like that?”

“You’ve never had a cod taco. Neither have I, but…yum,” I said, trying to tempt him.

“Is the fish fresh?”

“Any fresher and I’d slap it,” I said.

Took him a few seconds to get my little joke, but he finally laughed. I confess, I didn’t come up with the line. I saw it on a shop in London’s Borough Market years ago.

He never did try my taco, but I didn’t give him another chance either.

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Borough Market sushi shop, London, April 22, 2006

Header photo: Atlantic Cod, Saipal/Flickr (CCBY 2.0)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

A haircut doesn’t hurt.

Posted on by under Childlike

Lourie has been cutting my hair for years, and Virginia has been washing my hair as long. Now Lourie also cuts Peter’s hair and trims his beard, against his grumbling protests, I might add.  He argues, complains and pouts. He’s worse than a three-year-old getting his first haircut.

Virginia’s magic touch puts him in a good mood, and Lourie, who’s been in the biz for thirty-four years, puts up with his nonsense with her signature bubbly laugh.  She jollies him along and is a perfect audience for his jokes, the old routine I’ve heard a million times.

After I sneak a photo of the event around the corner, I sink into a chair, totally relaxed, knowing he’s in good hands. I doze.

Peter comes out looking like his old self — younger and smiling. Lourie and her flashing scissors did their usual excellent job. Win, win!

Header photo: Lourie keeps Peter laughing while she cuts his hair.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Sweet tooth, Sweetheart?

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Chores, Laughter, tears

Toothpaste-PeopleHe squeezes the bottom, I squeeze the middle…of the toothpaste, that is. Who squeezes where has never been a problem in our marriage.

What is a problem these days is Peter’s obsession about having toothpaste. In spite of the tube on the sink and a new one in the cupboard, he always writes “toothpaste” (actually, touthpaste) on his ever present shopping list. He used to walk the two blocks to the grocery, but he doesn’t go on his own anymore. Neither does he give me his list which always includes string as well. I don’t understand that either.

His toothpaste concerns befuddle me. I wonder, does he remember rationing as a child during World War II? Toothpaste wasn’t rationed in England or here, but in both countries a purchaser had to turn in the used metal tube in order to purchase another. I remember my mother carefully slitting the tube open to scrape out the last traces of toothpaste. I thought she was being too particular, but apparently that was the only way she could buy more. The metal was recycled for the war effort.

Even though we have a drawerful of the toothbrushes the dental hygienist gives us, toothbrushes are always on his list too. About once a month he goes to the grocery with me. Grocery-getting is my least favorite of all household tasks because it is so labor intensive. Plus, keeping my husband in sight is like tracking a three-year-old in a toy store. He doesn’t think it’s a problem, so I try not to complain.

When we finally meet up, my large cart is overflowing. Peter’s small one has only beer and a Hershey bar inside. I ask about toothpaste.

“It’s OK,” he always says, “I’ll get it another time.”

Maybe he puts toothpaste on the list to justify the Hersey bar? He used to buy flowers occasionally, but now it’s chocolate for himself. And he doesn’t share.

Even this silly story makes me laugh, sad though it is.

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Header photo: Peter always enjoys lunch out.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Color me aqua.

Posted on by under Childlike, Family, Holidays

Christmas 2015 is history. I “bah-humbugged” through the season, but the day itself was memorable for lots of reasons. Not only did Peter not remember it was the 25th, he didn’t know it was December.

For the first time in years, he gave me a present he selected, or perhaps “selected by omission” is a better way of saying it. Leslie took him shopping. She took him to one likely shop, but when he looked in the window, he said no. He walked next door  and went in. He’d never been in either place before.

She pointed out several sweaters but, rejecting those, he chose another in aqua. (Strange, because it’s a color he really dislikes.) Carolynn thought maybe he picked it because I wore an aqua sweater the night we met — I like that theory. I love the sweater, the color, and the white shirt he (or Leslie) chose for under it.

Next, they went to buy a card. When I opened it Christmas morning, I heard a lively voice say, “HI THERE.” We both startled. Leslie, watching, hooted. “Peter jumped every time he opened the card in the shop,” she said. By moving the snowman’s hat onto the snowman, LEDs flash and an orchestra plays the first phrases of “Sleigh Ride.”  What fun it was!

Magic fills the air at the holidays.
‘Help me put the hat on the snowman for a magical surprise.’
Leroy Anderson’s ‘Sleigh Ride’ blares, LEDs flash.

On December 26, Boxing Day in England and, not coincidentally, our anniversary, I spied a slim package under the tree. A very sweet card topped it, but I’ll keep the message to myself.

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The gift was a calendar, desk blotter-sized, to color. I don’t know which of them found it, but Leslie knows I’ve fallen in love with coloring all over again. Peter remembered enough about the childhood pastime to ask, “Is this enough? Shouldn’t I buy the…equipment…the stuff…to go with it?” Leslie said no, and told him, “Mom really has enough colored pencils and crayons.” (By my count, 150 coloring  implements, one art gum eraser.)

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The jolly snowman card was a hit with everyone on Christmas Day and the days since. I keep it on the kitchen table. Every time I open it, Peter jumps and we laugh.

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Memories of Christmas just past. Color me happy.

Header photo: Close up of my aqua sweater.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

It’s the little things.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Control

It’s opening the silverware drawer this morning to get a knife and finding one that should be in the dishwasher. It’s crusty with toast crumbs and jam.

It’s finding the salt and pepper shakers in the fridge’s butter compartment.

It’s wondering what happened to the coffee mug I’d just been drinking from. Oh look, it’s in the cupboard with my coffee, still warm, inside.

It’s taking a pan out to cook broccoli and finding yesterday’s mashed potatoes remains.

It’s starting the Christmas baking and having my measuring cups and other utensils cleared away before I’ve used them, likewise the dishcloth I’ll need.

It’s him asking if the hiking boots he’s holding are mine. “Unh uh,” I say.

It’s yet another lost watch so that he’s started looking at the numbers on the cable box again as if it’s a digital clock.

It’s him standing outside the shower door yelling, “How do I stop that beeping?”

“What beeping?” I yell back.

“That…big thing.” I could see through the glass that he was drawing a box in the air.

“Smoke alarm?” He shook his head no. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The “big box” was the fridge, the beeping, the alarm that repeats annoyingly if the door has been open too long.

It’s him banging on the shower door again the next evening. “How do I turn off the squeaky thing in the basement?”

“Give me a minute,” I said. Invisible Fence control box, I figured. Peter spends most of his time downstairs, so the shrill squealing would pierce his ears. My hearing is so bad I can’t hear it unless I’m right beside it.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t reset it. Three days passed before someone could come. “When will it stop” he asked So. Many. Times.

It’s going out to eat, spur of the moment, and seeing his eyes light up when I steer him into our favorite hole-in-the-wall. “What do I have here?” he asks.

“Chicken kebabs,” I say, “but you decided you’d order my favorite next time.

“What do you have?”

“Suguk wrap.” I order for him.

It’s watching him eat something he’s never tried before. He loves it. “I could eat another,” he says, “but I won’t. Are we having dessert?”

“Two baklavas, please,” I say to the waitress. He remembers baklava as soon as he sees it.

“Balaclava,” he jokes, as I knew he would. “Yours is bigger than mine!”

I swap our plates.

It’s the little things that make him happy.

Header photo: Baclava, two please.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Friday the thirteenth wasn’t bad at all.

Posted on by under Childlike, Favorites, Laughter

A spur o’moment lunch out was just what we needed yesterday after a tumultuous week. The day was bright, excitingly windy, and there was an invigorating nip in the air.

“Want to go out for lunch?” I called to Peter. He was holed up in the basement as usual.

“Yes!” He was ready in spirit instantly, but another half hour passed before he was ready physically. Oh, it’s not that he can’t do it, no, it’s that he changes his clothes more often than a high school girl getting ready for her first date.

Finally, I corralled him into the car. We headed to Salem, a short trip down the mountain. The scenic route, I’d decided — less trucks, fewer wind gusts, less taxing drive — but I entered the Interstate automatically. “Ah-h, forgot where I was going,” I grumbled.

“Now you know why I don’t drive anymore,” Peter said. I whipped off at the first exit and got back onto the quieter, prettier road.

Screen Shot 2015-11-14 at 1.44.29 PMPeter was as excited as a kid at Christmas when he realized we were headed to The Blue Apron. We were no sooner seated than he said, “Well, I see they still haven’t fixed the wall.” I turned to see what he meant, then noticed his twinkling eyes. I groaned at his worn joke. The walls are original old brick and they are lovely.

When the server came to take our drinks order, Peter said, “What beer do you have?” He listened carefully as she recited a long list of beers with inventive and mostly unrecognizable names. “I’ll have an IPA…I just wanted to hear you say all of them.” My apologetic glance said I-can’t-do-anything-with-him. She laughed.

Peter ordered the swordfish entree, not the luncheon serving, as she suggested, rather the dinner one. “Good,” I said, “I won’t have to fix dinner.” It was nearly 2:00 by then.

When she returned to ask how everything was, Peter said, “Oh, terrible…” He always does that, then waits to see if the server has heard what he’s said. She heard, but she already had his number and laughed. Some time later she returned, noted Peter’s near-empty beer and asked if he’d like another. “Yes, but not today, thank you,” he said.

I sat back, shocked, not that he’d said no, but because I’d never heard that one before. “I can’t believe you came up with a new line,” I said.

“I always say that when I’m out on me own. You’re never there when I’m out with me mates,” he insisted.

“Well, no-o, but you haven’t been out with them in years. Anyway, it’s new to me.”

We ordered desserts, lavender pistachio chiffon for Peter, espresso panna cotta for me. Peter was taken aback at how purple his was, but ate every bite. I could’ve eaten two more panna cottas. “Two more,” Peter said, nodding toward my empty cup when the server came back.

“Really?” she asked. I shook my head and rolled my eyes towards my husband. “You really have your hands full, don’t you? she asked.

She got a big tip.

Header photo: The Blue Apron’s brick wall.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Is it Wednesday?

Posted on by under Childlike, Remember

There have been several movies showing locally in recent weeks that answered my husband’s repetitive, “Any good movies on?”

Last night we saw “A walk in the woods.” Loved the book — one of my favorites by Bill Bryson — and we liked the movie. Lots of laughs and, of course, the scenery was outstanding. The opening scene was filmed at McAfee Knob not too far from here, and the rest of the Appalachian Trail views were reminiscent of its path through southwest Virginia, though it was shot near Atlanta.

We ate at a favorite restaurant, Gillies, before the 7:00 p.m. showing. A stutter in Peter’s brain kept him glancing at a table card that reminded patrons Wednesdays were “Dinner and movie at The Lyric” nights.

“What day is it?” he asked over and over. “Wednesday? Is it Wednesday?”

Each time I nodded, his eyes sparkled because we’d chosen the right evening to go out. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he knocked his water over. It flooded across the table towards me, rained down into my chair, then onto the floor. The waitress tossed me a towel and I grabbed extra napkins to mop up.

Peter was bewildered. “Did I do that?”

“It was an accident. How many times have I done the same thing?” I asked to remind him that I’m the real klutz.

He shook his head and looked down. I would’ve been embarrassed, but he wasn’t because he didn’t remember he’d caused the mishap. He was very upset. I continued to sop, trying to stem the puddle spreading under the table and toward the feet of the woman sitting behind Peter.

DSC00709_2Suddenly, his eyes brightened again, “At least I didn’t spill this,” he said, holding his beer up. “That would have been awful, wouldn’t it, eh?” He watched carefully to make sure I got his joke.

I did.

Header photo: November walk in Leslie and Martin’s woods.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.