Found: missing ho, ho, ho’s.

As the days get shorter, so does my husband’s ability to remember anything — anything — for longer than a few seconds. My ability to laugh through tears has faded with the waning year. Peter’s downward skid is out-of-control, a luge slider run amok.

Even though my journalistic conscience has prodded me to write a post, I’ve been too tired, exhausted really, to come up with anything that would fit my charter: to search out laughs to ease the dementia-clouded days.

Last week, finally, some blog-worthy chuckles presented themselves. I’d combined a trip to Roanoke for our annual  Christmas lunch with having my car serviced at the dealership. Turned out to be a very long day. We did a little shopping, had a lovely lunch at Montano’s and even shared a slice of carrot cake for dessert. Afterwards, we headed to the dealer for a recommended oil change and a quick tweak to my car’s “Eyesight” feature.

“Quick” it was not. What I thought would be an hour’s wait turned into more than three. It was a comfortable enough, pleasant room with free snacks and a TV. I’d taken a book. Peter huffed and wiggled and made endless cups of coffee.  After some time, he asked, “What are you here for?”

“Just service,” I said.

“When will they call you in?”

“What do you mean?”

“When will you see the doctor?” he asked, waving his arms at the other people waiting.

“I’m not waiting for a doctor,” I laughed, “my car is getting checked!”

“Well I didn’t know,” he mumbled, adding, “then why are we waiting?”

“Because we need the car to get home,” I said. “Long walk from here.”

He went back to the old magazine he’d looked at several times. Before long, he asked, “What are you here for?”

I laughed again, explained again, and then again.

Shave and a haircut.

The next day I ginned up a “therapeutic fib” to get my reluctant husband to a barber for a much needed beard trim and shave, plus attention to anything else that needed doing from his neck up. (The day before, I’d tried to lure him into a barber near Montano’s, but he dug in his heels at the door like a five-year-old going for his first haircut. He would not budge.)

This day I made an appointment.

I faked a note from Leslie to encourage Peter to cooperate and asked his Thursday helper, Mark, to give the card to Peter and say Leslie wanted him to get spruced up — he’ll do whatever she tells him to do. Mark endured the barber shop trip in my stead and took photos for me.

Pete spiffed

Afterwards Peter looked quite spiffy with his beard trimmed neatly, neck shaved, eyebrows tamed. I praised him lavishly, but he was confused. “What are you on about?” he asked, irritated.

“Your hair! Your beard! You look terrific,” I said.

He had no clue why I was gushing — he hates gushing. For all his grumbling, he’d dozed right off in the chair and awakened well groomed, without even knowing anything had happened.

 

 

Header: Peter sleeps in barber’s chair.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘What do I want?’

Peter and I spent the morning of June 6 at the Commemoration of the Normandy Invasion at the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Virginia. We’ve visited many times in the sixteen years since it opened. We go because we remember D-Day. Well, I do. Peter doesn’t remember much anymore, but I’d hoped the grandeur of the place would spark a memory.

A soft breeze wafted around us as we walked up the alleé and through the immense granite Overlord Arch. Above us, Allied flags flapped in the wind. As we gazed out at the awe-inspiring depiction of a Normandy beach, a soldier fighting to gain the cliff, another sprawled in the sea, Peter said, “We’ve never been here before, have we?”

* * *

After the ceremony we went to Roanoke for lunch. When I drove into Montano’s parking lot, his eyes lit up. “I know where I am now,” he said. We were seated quickly at one of Theresa’s tables. After so many Montano’s lunches, she knows us.

She patted Peter on the shoulder. “You remember, we don’t have Guinness on tap anymore,” she said, apologizing.

He shook his head, and finally settled on another choice. When she returned with his beer, she said, “Ready to order? Too many decisions, I know.”

He looked at me. “What do I want?”

“Fish and chips.”

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

When Theresa brought our food, he asked me about the contents of the three little cups on his plate.

“Tartar sauce. Horseradish sauce. Malt vinegar,” I said, pointing to each. “You use malt vinegar. It goes on the fish and chips.”

He dipped his spoon into the tartar sauce. “Oh, that’s good,” he said. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t even have tasted tartar sauce. “Too sweet,” he would’ve said. He dipped his spoon in again. “I could eat it all.”

He wrinkled his nose at the horseradish sauce, but then, he picked up the container of vinegar, put it to his lips…and…

NO-O! Don’t drink the vinegar!” I yelped. Too late.

He shuddered. His eyes watered. “Bl-l-l-ech! Wasn’t supposed to drink it, was I?”  He laughed and choked at the same time.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face. “You’re supposed to sprinkle it on the fish and chips.”

He did “sprinkle” the remaining vinegar, but then, to add to my shock, he plastered the fish with tartar sauce. By that point, I guess I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d licked the container clean.

We’re reflected in the granite Overlord Arch in Bedford.

Header: Monument at front of National D-Day Memorial, Bedford, Virginia

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

Fresh fish get slapped.

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.

DSC00668 (2)

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.