On the Ravine

So much has happened since the last “On the Ravine” post. Elder son Jade married Anjie in a surprise ceremony at their engagement dinner. Easter came and went, along with Holy Week. Our Santa Cruz friends visited for a week and we had our touristy picture snapped as we gathered around a microphone onstage at the Ryman. Sunday, some jewelry went missing and we buried one of my favorite aunts, two unconnected events.

I can’t tell stories about any of that until I figure out how I feel about this bin Laden thing.

I was up much later than my usual bedtime. An email alerted me to a Presidential statement of some sort. Then another email followed to say that Osama bin Laden was dead. It was time to turn on the TV.

My elder son Jade called to make sure we had the TV on.

“You weren’t asleep, were you?” he asked.

“No, I’m watching TV. Dave is in bed.”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew that Osama bin Laden is dead,” he said.

We made a few sentences of small talk. I wondered why Jade wouldn’t have thought I was in bed since 9:00 P.M. had long passed. I wondered if he would have called anyway.

I thought about waking Dave and imagined his response. Good. I’ll read about it tomorrow. I’m going back to sleep.

John King on CNN said people were gathering outside the White House. President Obama was to make a statement in just a few minutes to officially inform us that Osama bin Laden was dead. The crowd started with thirty or forty people and, before the President made it to TV, grew to several hundred or a thousand or more, a few waving flags, jumping up and down for the camera, singing The National Anthem off-key. Someone must have called for another song because they started “God Bless America.”

I was relieved when President Obama strode to the microphone. I was not offended by the first sentence starkly informing us that bin Laden was dead but I got irritated with the next several paragraphs telling us the story of what happened on 9/11…again. Is there anyone who doesn’t remember? Would there be anyone who didn’t know the name Osama bin Laden? Is this reminder some sort of  justification for our taking him out?

I made circles in front of my chest with my right hand.  Come on, come on!

My first reaction to this “targeted operation” carried out by “a small team of Americans” was “Wow.” It wasn’t a loud wow, but a quiet awe that generated by the thoughts of a few guys, maybe Navy Seals, sneaking into this protected compound, scaling walls, taking no prisoners. Wow.

I thought our military’s special forces could do that, this movie-quality action. In fact, I’d said several times—most frequently after two glasses of chardonnay—that “they ought to take him out” in the same way, as it turns out, that they actually did. I just couldn’t think of anything else but “Wow.” I was alone, but I said it aloud several times.

After the speech, I watched our celebration of death…the death of bin Laden. John King said we should take a look over at Ground Zero, where the mood was “more somber, and quiet.” I was in favor of somber.

I wasn’t what you’d really call “happy” that bin Laden was dead but I was okay with it, maybe relieved. The world is better off without bin Laden. I watched the gathering; it seemed that since we gathered after the Twin Towers fell and planes crashed and grief overtook us, so we ought to gather again to say “It’s over.” I just don’t know what that “it” is and I’m not sure whatever it is, that it is over.

I felt strange and some of the talk bothered me.

“Did you think we’d ever KILL him?” John King asks some man on the screen.

And then, “Are you surprised that President Obama praised President Asif Ali Zardari of Pakistan for aiding in the killing of bin Laden?”

So he was hiding out in a mansion a few miles north of Islamabad. A mansion. Same place you find some American criminals, except I didn’t think the mansion in Pakistan looked like a mansion.  Our mansions are much more elaborate, and bigger, too.

“Look at the crowds,” John King said. “They’re celebrating. This is pure joy.”

Wolf Blitzer says, “Let’s listen in to the crowds outside the White House so we can get a little flavor.”  Where did he come from?

There was great jubilation with lots of flags now waving, lighted cell phones held high in the night air, and young people climbing in the crape myrtles for some reason.

I needed to go to bed and I did, but the last time I remember looking at the clock it said “3:00.”

Yesterday afternoon, still tired from too little sleep, I visited with my dad, a wise old man if ever I knew one.

“It’s no cause for celebration,” he said. “We did what we had to do, and our boys did it very well, but we grieve that it took a killing to do it.”

Today, after a good night’s sleep and the passage of several hours, I know what I feel about bin Laden.  It is “not much.” I still find no joy in the death of this mad man.

I know some things that I feel about us. I wish we didn’t look so much like those who celebrated after they took down the Twin Towers. I hope we have crippled Al Qaeda. I am still in awe of the operation and those who carried it out.

And how do I feel about me? I am ever committed to non-violence and I hope that we will always try, and try, and try diplomacy-again. I pray that we will find a way to be peaceful not just with our enemies, but with ourselves.

My friend posted on Facebook, “He’s dead. What is there left to be said?”

***

     When a storm blows up in the daytime, our Shih-tzu, Murphy heads for Grandma and Grandpa next door. If neither one hears her coming, she barks at the apartment door until somebody lets her in.

     Grandpa greets her with, “Here comes Poodle Hound.”  She gets as close to Grandpa as she can, and then he usually picks her up and holds her to his chest until her heart calms down.

     If the thunder rolls at night, Murphy sleeps with Dave.

     We had a big one this week. Mom was to see Dr. Dibble on Monday at 1 p.m. for a nasty-looking arthritic finger. We knew a storm was on the way but we figured we could endure. She needed this appointment. She has been in big arthritis trouble for several weeks now and her right index finger seemed to be the settling spot, if there is such a thing as a settling spot.

     I called her at 11:00 o’clock, just after I cleaned up from some work outside. Spring is finally here.

     “Mom, I know we’re getting some weather but I think we better try to keep that appointment.”

      “Yeah. I just told your dad this morning that I’m actually looking forward to going to the doctor. This thing has hurt long enough.”

       I didn’t tell her that I didn’t know if Dr. Dibble could do anything to help that finger. Maybe he could give her something for pain. He could increase her anti-inflammatory. Or, I guessed, he could send her to a specialist of some sort. Geez, what if they wanted to do surgery on it?

      “Okay, we’ll leave at 12:30. That should be plenty of time. Your appointment is actually 1:10.”

      After I’d thrown Dolly, the red Rollator walker, into the back of the van, I said, “You’re holding that finger. Is it hurting right now?”

      “Yes, it’s throbbing.”

      “How’s Dad doing this morning?” I asked.

      “Not good. He’s having those spells again,” she said.

      “When did that start?” I asked.

      “Oh, last night,” she said.

      “Did he eat breakfast?” I asked.

      “I think he might have had a bowl of cereal.”

      “Well, I better call Dave,” I said as I pulled out of the drive.

      “Dave,” I said, “You’re going to have to look out for Dad. He’s having those spells.”

      “Okay, I will. I’ll take Murphy and go over there right now,” Dave said. “She’s all antsy about this weather.”

      “Those spells” are unexplained fainting episodes and Dad has been having them for years. With most episodes, he weathers the inconvenience at home. But there have been times that he overlooked the signs of an impending spell and fell off a lawnmower, went down while weed-eating, or slid off a tall stool. Each of those occurrences precipitated either a trip to the emergency room, a brief hospitalization, or both.

      The emergency room doctors always think it’s his heart. The cardiologist never thinks so. The neurologist always thinks it could be some sort of seizure but they’re never sure so they prescribe one of the new anti-seizure medications. Dad takes three days of those and declares, “I can’t function taking this stuff.”  The ink—or laser print—is barely dry on the prescription before he quits it. 

     He took Dilantin for a few years before he developed Raynaud’s Syndrome. The diagnosing rheumatologist said, “You have to get off that stuff.”  Dad was thrilled. He said he never thought it prevented much of the fainting problem anyway.

     “You know,” Mom said, “I’m getting hungry. I’m going to be starving by the time this is over.”

     “Mom, I don’t think we can go to lunch today.” Mom is always prepared to go to Golden Thai or J. Alexander’s or Sonobana after a doctor’s appointment. Those times are some of our best together.

     We got to the fourth floor of the St. Thomas physicians’ building in time to witness some monstrous lightning through the plate glass windows just to the right of the check-in desks. The clerk beckoned us to approach from the rope-designated queue.

     “If I get up and run,” she said, “It’s because the lightening scares me.”

     “I’ll be right behind you,” Mom said.

     You couldn’t run right now if Satan was closing in, I thought.

     She must have read my mind.

     “Hey, I’m pretty fast with Dolly,” she said in my direction. She gripped the Rollator’s handles and rolled back and forth a few inches. Prepared, she was.

     Our visit with Dr. Dibble was uneventful. Change anti-inflammatory. Apply ice. Make an appointment two weeks out with the rheumatologist next door.

     By the time we drove out of the patient parking garage, Nashville was, quite obviously, in the center of the storm. The weather woman on the radio said as much, too.

      “Oooooo, I don’t like this,” Mom said.

      “Yeah, I think I’ll just pull into this other garage right here and we can wait it out,” I said. I turned in, looped around the first level of vehicles, and parked facing the street in a space marked “Maintenance.” 

      “We’ll just sit here until it blows over,” I said. I turned the radio up a little.

      “I’m really, really hungry,” Mom said. 

     “Well, I think I have a piece of string cheese in my purse,” I said. “You want that?”

     “Yes. Let me have it.” She never asked why I might have a piece of string cheese in my purse.

     I clicked on the map light and started the search through my crowded-but-well-organized purse.

     “You can’t find it,” she said.

     “Yes, I can,” I said. “See, here it is. It was hiding on the side.”

     I handed it over.

     “Do you want half?” she asked.

     “No, I had some this morning,” I said. Mom didn’t ask why I was eating string cheese for breakfast.

     She finished the little white stick in four bites and lifted my water bottle out of the cup holder to wash it down.

     Why won’t you bring your own water? I thought. Just then, I remembered that I had tucked a protein bar into one of my purse pockets the day before. I started foraging for food a second time.

     The radio said the storm was passing right over downtown Nashville, headed east. We were on the southwest fringe of downtown. I tried to get my directions straight in my mind.

     “What are you looking for now?” Mom asked.

     “I have a protein bar in here somewhere. I remember putting it in here yesterday.”

     “Oh, good. I’m still hungry,” she said.

     “Here it is! Okay,” I said, holding the four-inch bar in the air, “This is a peanut-caramel bar.”

     She took the bar from my hand and opened one end.

     The radio reported that a tornado had touched down in Cool Springs, about fifteen miles south. I guessed that had happened on its way to downtown.

     As Mom raised the last of our food supply to her mouth, I stopped her.

     “Mom, you have to give me half.”

     “Oh. Well, okay.” She sounded surprised but she broke off almost half and handed it to me.

     “This is good,” she said. “It’s like… it’s like a Baby Ruth.”

     “There’s no chocolate in it. It’s just peanuts and caramel. It reminds me of those pecan logs we used to get at Stuckey’s,” I said.

     The radio said that the storm was especially violent east of Nashville in Hermitage and Mt. Juliet. Son Jade and his new wife, Anjie, live in Mt. Juliet. But, I thought, he’s in Lebanon in his office and she’s in Smyrna in hers. I ran through the rest of the kids in my mind. John, Vicky, Jameson, Carly, Darrin, Dana… I said a silent prayer and then let go of them.

     “It’s not pecans,” Mom said.

     “Right. Okay, well, then maybe it’s more like a Payday,” I said.

     “That’s it! It’s like a Payday!” she said. “I’m going to get me a Payday next time I go to Wal-Mart.”

     She turned to face me. “Do they still make Paydays?” she asked.

     “I think so,” I said. “I think I’ve seen them, like, in the checkout aisle.”

     “I’m getting me a Payday,” she promised.

     I’m sure you will, I thought, but I said, “Looks like the storm has pretty much passed by.”

     “Are you sure? Because we can sit here however long it takes,” Mom said. “I wish you had another Payday.”

     “Hey, did you know that if you eat that corn candy and popcorn together, it tastes like a Payday?” I asked.

     “No, how did you happen upon that?” she asked.

     “I think Matt Williams told us that one weekend when he and Kristy were visiting at John and Vicky’s,” I answered. “Must have been Halloween. Vicky always buys corn candy at Halloween.”

     “I’ll have to try that. I always buy that corn candy,” she said.

     “Alrighty then!” I said as I wheeled the van out onto West End. “Let’s go home!”

     The radio reported 60,000 homes without electricity all around us. Does that mean Nashville, or does it mean Middle Tennessee? I wondered.

     The first downed tree we encountered was just a couple of blocks on Woodmont Boulevard after our first turn. By taking turns, the traffic was moving around it in one lane.

     The second was just another two blocks and it lay across the entire street. Cars were driving around the big root system onto one of the residential lawns.

     “I’m not going to do that,” I said. “Look at the ruts already in their yard. Now it would make me mad if somebody drove through my yard like that.”

     I turned right on the street adjacent to the corner lot, home to the fallen elm. And so began the navigation of a newly assembled maze. Trees were down all over the place. We dodged limbs, avoided dead-end cul-de-sacs, and backed into driveways to backtrack.

     “Well, this is such a pretty area of town,” Mom said.

     It is a pretty area of town, but it would have looked a lot better with all the trees rooted in the ground.

     “I best call Dave,” I said. “There’s no telling when we’re going to get home.”

     “So are you and Dad making it okay?” I asked when he picked up the phone.

     “Oh, yeah, we’re in The Cellar. We brought Murphy down here when all the tornado sirens started going off.”

     “I guess she’s okay?” I asked.

     “As long as I’m holding her,” he said.

     Then he added, “The power is out. We’re in the dark.”

     “We’ll be home as soon as we figure out the path,” I said. “We are dodging all these trees that are down. Surely we’ll make it home in less than half an hour.”

     “Do you have a battery operated radio down here anywhere?” he asked. “The power is out.”

     “I know. I heard you. I don’t think I do. At least, right now I can’t think of where it would be,” I said.

     It took an hour and a half to get from the hospital campus to home, a trip that usually takes twenty-five minutes. I dropped Mom off upstairs so that she could roll Dolly up the ramp into our den and walk across the sky bridge to the apartment. The lift would not be working if the power was off. I drove on down the hill to park the van outside—couldn’t open the garage door.

     Dave met me inside The Cellar.

     “Well, that sure took a while,” Dave said.

     “I’m worn out,” I said. “That was like a jigsaw puzzle.”

     “You hate puzzles,” he said. “Say, where is the flashlight that’s usually here on your desk?”

     “It’s in that canvas bag on the floor, right beside the desk,” I answered.

     “We needed that flashlight,” he said. “Could we just leave it on the desk?”

     “Yes, except for when I need it for a Sunday school lesson,” I said.

     “Huh?” he asked.

     “Never mind,” I said. “Where’s Dad?”

     “He went home with your mother,” he said. “Do you want to go over to visit?”

     “Dave, I have been with Mom since noon. It’s after four o’clock. I am worn out.  I just want to sit down.”

     “Well,” he said, “I think we better go over there. Now I don’t want you to get upset and I don’t think you should tell your mother, but your dad had one of those spells and he fell off the stool.”

     “What? Fell off the stool?” I asked. “Were you watching him?”

     “Yes, I was watching him. He got tired of sitting on the couch and he got up and sat down on one of those stools at your work table. I guess he got that dizzy thing because the next thing I knew he was on the floor.”

     “Did he hit his head or anything?”

     “No, but it took forever for him to get up. I couldn’t get him up. I tried.”

     “Then how did he get up?” I asked.

     “He finally got up by himself. Just sort of rolled around in the floor and pushed and then pulled himself up on one of the chairs and the table.”

     “Oh, good Lord,” I said. “Come on, let’s get over there. Where’s Murphy?”

      “Oh, she went home with Grandpa,” he said.

     We walked in the apartment sitting room to see Dad in his chair with a washcloth on his head, his preferred treatment of his spells. A lone candle burned in the middle of the coffee table. Murphy was curled up on the floor, close enough to Dad’s feet to rest her chin on his foot.

     “So you fell off the stool, huh?” I said. It didn’t bother me to spill some kind of beans. “Did you hurt anything?”

     “No, and your mom already knew,” he said. “I’m okay.”

     “He told me,” Mom said.

     “You’ll need to light some of these other candles,” Dave said. “You have a lighter?”

     “No, I don’t think we do,” Mom answered.

     “Matches?” I asked.

     “I don’t know where any matches are,” she said.

     “I’ll run next door and get you a lighter,” I said. “We have several.”

     “We could turn on the gas on the stove and carry a flame from that,” Dad said. “You can cook on that gas stove, but now, you have to light it by hand.”

     “So the starter is electric,” I said, and then I thought out loud, “so you still have to have either a lighter or some matches to light the stove.”

     “Well, yeah,” Dad said.

     I didn’t think to ask how they lit that one candle and it didn’t occur to me that we could have “carried a flame” from that candle to another. I trotted across the sky bridge, retrieved a Bic torch lighter from the kitchen and a book of matches from the bathroom, and returned to show Mom how to use the torch. She already knew, and she didn’t even have to use her sore index finger to start it up.

     “I wonder if we should ice down some of the stuff in the refrigerator,” Dave said. “I’m thinking the electricity could be down for a while.”

     “Yep. Good thinking. We need to check all three refrigerators,” I said. I forgot about the fourth one in Mom and Dad’s basement but then it rarely holds anything but big vats of pickles, dormant flower bulbs, and the occasional soft drink or beer.

     “Mom, aren’t you supposed to put some ice on your finger?” I asked.

     “I do, but I’m too tired to think about it right now. I’ll get up in a minute and get some ice,” she said.

     “Think Wal-Mart is open?” Dave asked me. “Because we need to make a run. We have one bag of ice in the freezer and that’s not going to be enough for three coolers.”

     “Anything you want from Wal-Mart, Ethel?” he asked Mom.

     “Nope,” she said, “We’re good. I just want to rest.”

     “You got your flashlights handy?” I asked her.

     “I have this one,” she said, pointing to a red plastic flashlight on the table between her chair and Dad’s. “And I have one beside my bed and Dad has one beside his bed.”

     “C’mon, Di. Let’s get out of their hair,” Dave said. “Let’s go to Wal-Mart.”

     I got up off the couch and turned to Mom. “I’m sure that sorry dog will stay with you,” I said.

     Dad took the washcloth off his head. “Don’t call Poodle Hound ‘sorry.’”

     He looked down at our dog by his feet. “You just stay right here by Grandpa, Honey. Grandpa won’t let anything hurt you.”

     She might have opened one eye.

***

Year before last, Mom and Dad took the train to Nevada to visit with Denny and Bev, my brother and sister-in-law. They stayed for a month. One day, after one “Huh?” too many—or maybe it was a “What?”—Bev told Dad (in a loud voice, I’m sure), “Would you please get a hearing aid?”

“Oh, my hearing’s not bothering me,” Dad answered.

“Well, it may not be bothering you, but it’s worrying the shit out of the rest of us,” Bev answered.

Dad told us this story on the long trip home from the train station in Kentucky. He laughed as much as the rest of us.

We’re not going to be able to say things about Grandpa now whenever we’re within normal earshot. He finally got a hearing aid. Actually, he got two but he only wants to wear one right now.

It’s possible we should have told him, “Whatever you do, don’t wear both of them at the same time. You’d hear too much.” Reverse psychology, you know.

I was afraid to ask how he liked it after the first day’s use, for fear he’d say, “Take it back.” And then he showed up on the porch above as I was cleaning up the rose bed down in the courtyard. He leaned over the railing.

“Hey, Sis,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m pulling weeds and uncovering these roses,” I said.

“It’s a good day for that. Did you hear it’s supposed to be in the 80’s tomorrow?”

“Yeah, and then it’s supposed to turn cold again, isn’t it?” I asked.

“I don’t know about the cold, but it is supposed to rain Monday,” he answered.

“What’s Mom doing?” I asked.

“She’s in her chair, watching TV and napping,” he said.

Mom had a rough week with arthritis. One day the pain was so severe that I wondered if she’d be able to walk from her chair to the kitchen, even with the aid of Dolly, her fancy rolling walker.

“Tell her to come on down and talk to me while I work on these roses. She needs this sunshine,” I said.

He said okay and disappeared into the apartment. Two minutes later, he reappeared to tell me that she was on her way.

“Hey,” he called again just after I resumed digging. “I have a big problem.”

I looked up, with a handful of weeds, and said, “What is it?”

“Well, I can hear birds singing all over the place!”

I laughed and listened for a moment. There were birds singing all up and down the ravine. They dashed and flitted from feeder to tree to feeder. A pair of doves scooted along the ground picking up leftovers.

“Noisy little buggers. So I guess your hearing aid is working?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m hearing you! I can’t believe that everything in this house makes noise. I’m hearing all sorts of things.”

Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. She must be feeling better, I thought. She’s not taking the lift.

“Can you make it, Mom?” I asked. “Need some help?”

“No, I’m just slow,” she answered.

The rose garden borders the patio dining table, chimnea, and teacart, surrounded by six long planters full of Dad’s favorite multi-colored pansies. This year he proclaimed that he chose “too much yellow.” The rest of us, including visitors through the back yard, think they’re the prettiest pansies we’ve ever seen.

I got up from the ground and stepped over the pansies to pull out a chair for her.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day? I thought this sunshine might feel good on your joints.”

“Oh, it does, and I’ll soak up some vitamin D, too,” she said. “We just don’t get enough vitamin D these days, and I even take a supplement.”

“What happened to Dad?” I asked. “I thought he was right behind you.”

“No, he said he went down on the lift to do something in his study. I bet he’ll come outside later.”

She said she was feeling better except for her index finger. She pointed up with an angry red and white swollen finger. I said we better get her an appointment with the doctor to look at it first of the week. We talked of the pretty pansies, bird feeders, transplanting nandinas, and roses. Mom is not as much of a gardener as I am, but she talked about what was on my mind.

“Well,” she said, “You’ve got that side of the bed finished. How pretty! I don’t think the inside stretch is going to be as hard. Or maybe I just can’t see the inside for all the pansies.”

“I was going to say that there are plenty of weeds on this inside, but you know, they’re actually a lot bigger and they’re pulling easier.”

By the time Dave and Dad joined Mom at the table, I was finishing up with spreading pine straw and uncovering the sundial on the ground between Blue Skies and Lemon Spice. Dave finished the installation of two new compost bins between the apartment and the ravine bank.

“Whoever said these things are ‘easy-assembly’ doesn’t know what they’re talking about,” he said. “I’d no sooner snap one side together than the other would come loose.”

“Dave,” Mom said, “You want that beer now? I’ll get it for you.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, “But I’ll get it.”

“Get me one, too,” I said. “Mom, I’m going to get a bottle of water. Want me to fix you one? Dad, you want some water?”

Dave explained that he was going to divide the top layer from the old compost bin between the two new ones to get them both started.

“Ernie, I think you’ll be able to spread what’s on the bottom of the old bin on the garden,” he told Dad.

“I’ve already treated that ground with a commercial fertilizer and manure. I’m not sure I want to add anything else,” Dad said.

So we discussed what we might do with “all that compost” in the three bins if Dad didn’t work it into the ground for the vegetables and berries.

Dad interrupted as I was admonishing him to use the compost. “Okay, now you can quit hollering at me. I can hear you.”

I laughed. “I’ve developed a habit,” I said.

Dad turned to Dave. “You know, it’s amazing. I can’t even feel this thing in my ear. I don’t even know it’s there.”

“Well, that’s good!” Dave said. “So you’re liking it okay?”

“I’m going to wear it to church tomorrow,” he said.

“You might even hear the sermon,” I said.

Dad laughed, but he was ready to talk gardening again. On to blueberries and cabbage, tomatoes—and the Al-Akashi’s new garden next door. Zienab, the wife and mother, turned the soil, tilled, raked and planted a good-sized plot in less than a week with the help of the four oldest children.  

 “I see her going to look at it a couple of times a day,” Dave said. “She just sort of stands there and stares at it.”

“That’s what I do when I’m trying to figure out where to put something,” I said.

“She already has it planted,” Dave said.

“I thought she planted it too early but then her family’s all farmers over there in Iraq,” Dad said. “She may know more than the rest of us.”

The talk turned to Grandma’s arthritis and which doctor we might try to see come the first of the week. Neither Dave nor I could remember the name of the hand specialist at Premier Orthopedics.

Dad interrupted us. “You know, that woman just spoke directly to me for the first time. In English.” He motioned toward the Al-Akashi house.

“One of the older girls?” I asked. We all accepted that it would be untraditional for Zienab to approach a man, even a neighbor, it seems. Dad always communicated with either Saleh or the children.

“No,” Dad said, “Mrs. Saleh!” (Dad has always ascribed  Mr. Al-Akashi’s first name to the wife.) “She was getting out of the van and she hollered over to me.”

“And when did this happen?” Dave asked. “Was this yesterday, after you got your hearing aid?”

“Yeah,” Dad said. “Yesterday afternoon. And she spoke in English. Asked me how I was doing.”

“She’s probably been speaking to him all along,” I said, trying not to move my mouth. “He just never heard her until now.”

“I heard that,” Dad said.

We all cracked up.

***

Dad had an “episode” a couple of weeks ago Friday and wound up in the ambulance on the way to St. Thomas at about five-thirty in the morning. He and Mom got some sort of stomach virus a few days earlier; Dad was ill first and we thought he was getting better, but sometime after midnight he started vomiting blood. Turns out he had a severely infected stomach and esophagus and the repeated vomiting had made a tear in the lower esophagus. The kind ER nurses started a Nexium drip the minute they got their hands on him and the tear was repaired medically on Saturday—no stitches.

I think it’s quite remarkable that he has not had even a moment’s indigestion since.

Now, what has become a problem—or maybe there are several—is that he’s having some rather severe balance issues along with being weak to the point that he could not get out of the hospital bed unaided until the following Wednesday. He also has a frozen shoulder that is giving him a fit. We were on our way to see an orthopedist when he and Mom came down with the virus.

We moved Dad to rehab at Woodcrest, a very nice skilled nursing facility at The Blakeford, a large progressive-care place about seven miles away, last Wednesday or Thursday—I’ve lost track of days here. He gets a lot of intense physical therapy on both his balance and his shoulder. These sessions are independent of each other; Dad’s favorite therapist advised me that “these are really two different disciplines.”

Dad honed his description of his rehab prescription and filled me in. “My main job is to work hard on my therapy so that I can plant my garden this spring.”

And then the next problem developed: Bowels. He finally got them going again (after seven days) and then couldn’t get them stopped, that sort of thing. The nurses told me that the whole experience is quite common. One day I left Mom with Dad to visit and went on a Wal-Mart run to lay in a supply of the fleece pants he’s wearing over there. Three changes of clothing weren’t enough, so I increased the stack to six.

I’ve spent a little time “doing battle,” too.

When he was at St. Thomas, I took Dad three bold-stroke, ball roller pens to stand in for the fine old pen he writes with at home; the man cannot live without a notebook and some pens. When he got to Woodcrest, I put two of the pens in the top drawer of his nightstand and left the third on top of his notebook on the bedside table.

Saturday morning, almost as soon as I walked into his room, Dad furnished several pieces of information, in answer to my probing, that toyed with my happiness. He was supposed to have a shower on Friday and didn’t, even after he had a soiling incident. His breakfast, every day, was a big plate of sausage, bacon, and eggs, in spite of his request for “a bowl of Cheerios or cream of wheat or oatmeal.” Then they brought him cereal but he got no milk, even after a second request, so he didn’t eat his Rice Krispies. Another time he couldn’t get anyone to go look for Splenda even though they said they would, and they wouldn’t bring him coffee, even decaf, except for breakfast.

And every damn pen was GONE!!!

It was the pens that sent me over the edge. Just after Dad asked me to look for his pens, the physical therapist came to take him downstairs for his afternoon session.

“Mom,” I said, “Let’s go down to the activity room until Dad gets back.”

The spacious activity room is a warm, cheerful gathering spot with honey-colored leather couches, gliding rockers in front of a fireplace, and flat-screen TV’s. In another area, heavy tables with rolling chairs flank bookcases with inviting titles and large print. Three staff members were moving couches against the wall, said they were getting ready for “the sing-along,” and invited Mom to join them.

“You’ll love it,” one promised.

“Oh, I’m sure I will. We love music,” Mom said.

I strolled down the hall to the nurses’ station and asked for a talk with the wing nurse, the nurse in charge of Dad’s wing of the floor.

I started by saying, “Britney, there’s this one little thing that is just bugging the snot out of me and I want to get that out of the way first.” (Britney is not her real name, but it is something jazzy like that.) Then I unloaded about the pens. Britney said that the nurses might mistake his pens for their pens.

“I don’t think so. Britney, Dad’s are better pens than those Bic stick pens, not that I blame the nurses for wanting better pens.” (Dad and I like our “school supplies.”)

“Let me get him some pens,” Britney said. “We have lots of pens.”

“Okay,” I said. “But they have to be like the ones he just lost. He can’t write with a Bic stick pen.”

Actually, Britney was pretty good. She declared that she was as disgusted by the rest of my complaints as I was and that she was happy to note that he will drink a glass of skim milk any old time and that he will eat ice cream at the drop of a hat, hood, or scarf. She thanked me for bringing my dad’s needs to her attention.

After I had covered the topics of pens, eating, pooping, laundry, and personal cleanliness to my satisfaction, I found Mom sitting at a table in the activity room—alone—grinning, and singing—along. Forty or so residents, mostly in wheelchairs, some with tambourines and some with shakers, made a large semi-circle audience.

The pretty young woman with the guitar finished singing “Hey, Good Lookin’” just as Dad eased in the door with his walker. He rolled over to our table. She called out to him, “What’s your name?”

Dad stopped and proclaimed, loud and clear, “Ernest. Blair.”

“Well,” she said, “I hear you’re a hillbilly and a guitar picker and banjo plucker!” (Mom must have been sharing before I got there.)

“Oh, yeah?” Dad paused and grinned. “Yes to all the above.”

“Will you come up here and sing with me?” she asked.

“Let me sit here and rest a while,” he said.

After a couple more songs, she turned to Dad. “Do you know On Top of Old Smoky? Come up here and sing it with me.”

“Okay, I guess I can do that.” Dad eased to the front of the group of forty or so residents, let go of his walker, stood straight as an arrow and waited for her intro.

She just didn’t know what she was in for. He started traditionally enough but then he began to sing verses that he had made up. The residents howled and clapped. So now he’s a stand-up comedian? He was clearly in his glory.

“Old top of Old Smoky, underneath the blue sky, If you don’t say you love me, I’ll just sit down and cry.” And then there was “On top of Old Smoky, all covered with frost, I found my dear sweetheart, a-flirtin’ with her boss.”

Through the glass doors, I saw some blue scrubs whizzing into Dad’s room. I excused myself. No, she was with Dad’s roommate. But somebody had placed a Bic stick pen on the bedside table…

When I got back to the activity room, Dad and Mom were leaving (Mom whispered that Dad was tired) but I heard the guitar lady say, “Is this who you’re talking about?”

Dad said, “Yes. She’ll play for you.”

And that’s how I wound up at the piano. I told her I would just play along with whatever she played while they sang. It was great fun. We did all sorts of stuff; she quit playing the guitar and just led them in the singing. A few brave residents got out of their chairs to dance to “Five Foot Two.” I wanted to sop up the joy.

When it was time to end, she said, “Usually, when our time is up, I put on a CD while they make their way to the dining room. Would you just play something while they leave?”

I played “That’s All I Ask of You” and they sang. I played “The Sound of Music”—and they sang again. I played “Red River Valley” and “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” They sang. The three staff members sang, too, as they pulled sweaters tight, tucked wraps over laps, and reminded each resident, “I’ll see you later” or “Don’t forget we’ll be here Tuesday afternoon.”

I started “Claire de Lune.” A song with no words, that’s what I need. I motioned to the leader with my left hand to come closer to the piano.

“They’re not leaving,” I said. “I think I may have to quit, and then they’ll go.”

“Probably so,” she said. “They love to listen to music. They don’t get the piano very often. Will you come back?”

“I will.”

I zig-zagged around the wheelchairs while the women extended their hands. I took each one; sometimes I held two at a time.

I understood when the first lady said, “That was just beautiful. I hope you’ll come again.” I didn’t understand what the second lady said to me, but her hand was cold and I cupped it in both palms.

The third lady said, “Your hands are so warm.”

Four frail hugs and some more handshakes later, I found the door and held it open for the expected migration until one of the staff members relieved me. I was hanging on to my emotions by a thin thread; I felt tears coming on. I’ve played so many times for retirement places, assisted living, and nursing homes, and every time, it feels like the first time. This first time was really a first time; it was the first time I’d played for my dad’s nursing home.

I walked into Dad’s room, hoping he wouldn’t notice my shaky demeanor. He laughed out loud when he saw me.

“See what I got you into?” he said and slapped his hands together.

Dad loves to go to the dining room, even if he doesn’t like to eat because he meets such interesting characters. His favorite so far is a ninety-year-old retired Vanderbilt professor who requires an assistant to wheel him in and feed him. Dad says he would love to feed him himself if he could hold the spoon.

I asked Dad, “Does he talk?”

“A little,” Dad said. “His voice is real weak, but if I strain, sometimes I can make it out.”

Britney told me that Dad regales the staff and the other residents with stories. She said, “He’s the kind of man that would rather tell a story than ask for what he wants or needs.”

Later, I wished I’d stood there longer to take in Britney’s compassion and to appreciate her insight.

“Dad,” I said at the end of that problem-solving day, “If you don’t get your Splenda, or they don’t bring you milk, just press your call light. They’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, I’m not going to hound them,” he said. “My main job is to be a sparkle. Their jobs are difficult enough.”

They arrived ready to party, the GrandYardigans. We nicknamed them after that cheery, busy toddler show we watch “On Demand,” The BackYardigans. Carly was wearing a gauzy hot pink ruffled dress over black footless tights and boots, a hot pink silk chrysanthemum holding her loose side-braid, an equally pink sequined heart barrette anchoring the other side of her head. She said she was wearing makeup, and if she was, it had the intended adult effect, very natural. Jameson sported a #21 Duke basketball jersey with matching shorts, an outfit he got on a December special trip to a Duke basketball game with his dad.

“We looked all over Raleigh-Durham for a #20 jersey. That’s Andre Dawkins, you know. He’s my favorite Duke player. Dad took me to every Duke store he could think of. I finally got #21; it’s the closest to #20.”

“So who’s #21?” Dave asked.

“Miles Plumlee,” Jameson said.

“I have a Tamwun Twazy at home,” Carly said, “A Tamwun Twazy tee shirt.”

“Oh, I thought you were talking about your puppy dog,” I said. John bought Vicky a Shih-tzu long before either Carly or Jameson was born and they named him Cameron Crazy, the nickname for a lone Duke Blue Devil student basketball fan. When they went back to the breeder for seconds, they got Sophie Mai, named for Miss Sophie Hall, Vicky’s residence hall at the University of Tennessee.

“Well, we do have a weal Tamwun Twazy,” Carly said. “That’s Tamwun, our dog. That’s where he got his name.”

We started the New Year’s event with a gift opening. We saved the rule-breaking presents we bought for today when at least most of the family wouldn’t know that we could not keep our commitment not to buy for anyone other than the ones whose names we drew. (It was the first year we drew names—We’ll work our way into it.) Jameson got a Hot Wheels Speedway track and a charcoal Star Wars Legos shirt with matching knit cap. Carly loved her pink tee with the nail polish bottles all over the front (and the word “Twinkletoes” for explanation) and ruffled purple skirt and the porcelain tea set. We left Grampy Dave to his work of heeling in roses and proceeded to our favorite place, The Cellar.

Carly and I started a lovely tea party with Diet Fanta Orange subbing for real tea; she selected the pink cup and saucer and placed the red set in front of me. Jameson said he’d rather just drink a Diet A&W Root Beer without all that tea party stuff. After he had raced a few laps on the new Speedway, he said he thought it would be a good idea for him to join Carly and me so that we could share snacks. He still had most of his root beer and said we could put that in the teapot when the orange ran out.

Carly asked me to re-fill the tiny teapot with the Fanta, but she wanted root beer in the cream pitcher. Jameson and I took our “tea” plain—no cream, no sugar. Carly insisted that she was the pourer. Jameson said he was capable of pouring his own and that she should allow the servants to help.

“Besides,” he said, “you spill every time you pour.”  (She did.)

“So are you the servant?” I asked Jameson.

“No, not really, but I thought she’d let me pour,” he answered.

“I have to pour the tea,” Carly said. “I’m the owner.”

“You mean you’re the mistress of the house,” I said.

“Well, it’s my tea set,” she said.

Jameson drank ten of the tiny cups, each in one gulp. I noticed that we were out of Fanta Orange—It was my job to re-fill the teapot from the soda cans. We were starting on the root beer, the Sprite reserved for the cream pitcher.

Carly leveled her gaze at her brother, turned her head toward me, and blew. I thought I was looking at myself there for a minute.

Jameson understood her body language and said, “Just let me pour my own.”

“No,” she said to him and turned to me. “He is just drinking too fast and that’s mean.”

Jameson shrugged in my direction. “She knew I was a heavy drinker. She should just let me pour my own.”

“Jameson, this is the last cup you’re getting. You should just drink out of the can,” she said.

Jameson finally said he was full and that he needed to race those cars again. So far, out of the four chosen vehicles, the red car had won in every lane.

Carly tore off to the bathroom and when she came back, said, “I had to go tinkle really bad.”  I supposed as how she probably did; she had consumed a lot of tiny cups of liquid.

“Are you finished with your tea?” I asked her.

“No. I need more tea—and more crackers,” she answered.

Then she crushed up some crackers and sprinkled them into her teacup.

“What’s that supposed to be?” I asked.

“Just makes it all taste better,” she said. She pulled out a small cracker, a pretzel, and a tiny melba toast.

“Which do you think I should put in here first?” she asked.

“Oh, are you creating a mix in your tea?” I asked.

“Yes. How about the pretzel first?”

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

“And then this one.” She lifted the toast. “Do you want some of this in yours?”

“No,” I said, “I think I’ll just drink mine plain.”

“Grammy,”  (only she really said “Dwammy”), “you’re going to have to use the Sprite.”  She crunched the crumbs she had just siphoned from her cup.

“Okay,” I said, as I filled the tiny pink teapot from the Sprite can.

The plastic tray, next to the table on the plastic kitchen set, was overflowing with soaked paper towels, bags from the snacks, and soda cans. It was 5 P.M. and the three of us had consumed a bag of Spicy Doritos, three packs of Cheezits “Extra Cheddar” cracker mix, one single serving of Cheddar Jack Cheezits,  two pots of cheese dip with their accompanying bread sticks,  a Diet Fanta Orange, an A&W Diet Root Beer, and a Sprite Zero.

Jameson announced the latest race results. “I’ve raced eleven times and the red car has won all but two. I wonder what percentage that is.”

I let him wonder. I couldn’t divide eleven into nine without electronic help.

“I think I’m done,” Carly said after she had drained the Sprite from the teapot, the sugar bowl, and the cream pitcher. “Or we could have some more crackers.”

“Well,” I said, “I think tea time is past. We’re going to need to get ready for dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” Jameson asked.

“Steak, baked potato, green beans,” I answered just as my cell phone rang. It was Dave. When I’m in The Cellar, he calls me from the home phone.

“How many potatoes should I put in the oven?” he asked.

“Four,” I said. “They’re small. Four.”

Carly pulled at my sleeve. “Tell him I don’t want a potato. I don’t want a potato. No potato for me, okay, Dwammy?”

“Four,” I said. “If we have some leftover, we can always use them for breakfast.”

On the way upstairs, Carly asked, “Did you hear me say I didn’t want any potato?”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “We’ll just put a little on your plate and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.”

“I already know I don’t want it. I want mac and cheese.”

“Mac and cheese?  You want mac and cheese?” 

She grinned and nodded. She always wants mac and cheese and she usually gets it.

“Grammy, can I have mac and cheese, too?” Jameson asked from three steps below us.

“Sure,” I said. “You want potato and mac and cheese?”

“No,” he said, “just the mac and cheese. No potato.”

“Okay, yeah,” I answered. The prix-fixe menu was slip-sliding away.

I figured they’d eat half a tub each of Kraft Original Microwave and the foxes on the ravine would get the rest on Saturday. Dave handed Jameson the remote controls so that they could watch a new Scooby-Doo video while I microwaved mac and cheese and steamed green beans and Dave grilled rib-eyes and small lobster tails for the two of us.

The Scooby-Doo was done before dinner.

“I know,” I said. “Let’s watch The Backyardigans!”

“Oh, yeah, we haven’t done that in a long time,” Jameson said. “Grammy, it’s on Nickelodean.”

“Oh, yeah,” Carly chimed in, “let’s do the one about the library.”

Jameson ate his four-ounce, hand-patted, seasoned ground chuck steak and asked if he could eat Carly’s since she wasn’t eating hers. She was happy to share; she had already eaten her whole tub of the sticky yellow stuff and a large serving of steamed green beans. I burned the rolls so there was no bread.

“Can I eat Jameson’s green beans?”

“Jameson, aren’t you going to eat your green beans?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so, but do we have any more steak?” he asked.

“Yep,” I answered, “I cooked three. Geez, did you finish Carly’s already?”

“Dwammy, I need some more green beans,” Carly called into the dining room, just as I sat back down.

“Okay, I have more. Dave, are you finished with green beans?”

“I’ve had plenty,” he said. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you put that steak in a plastic bag and you can make a sandwich for lunch?”  I gathered the last of the green beans from the top of the stove.

“Carly,” I said, “this is it. These are the last of the green beans.”   

Nobody mentioned dessert. Dave said he’d clear the dishes; Jameson said we should pick something good to watch.

Carly said, “How about SpongeBob?”

There was a time when watching SpongeBob would have been low on our list of choices for New Year’s Eve festivities. I would not have been amused by a tea party with a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old. Dave would have been happier at a party where we saw the New Year in. There was that time.

Today, John and Vicky said they went to a four o’clock movie, The King’s Speech, after which they ate a late dinner at a new restaurant where the food was “really, really good.”   John said he asked Jameson what was for dinner at Grammy’s New Year’s Eve party.

Jameson said, “We had this salty steak that was made out of some kind of, you know, ground up meat. Dad, it was really good. You would have loved it!”

Carly said, “We had a really special tea party.”

Jameson, I’m so glad you liked it. Yes, Carly, it really was special.

Happy New Year, everybody!

***

We used to do that rather regular thing of going around the table on Thanksgiving so that each person could answer The Question. “What are you grateful for?” we’d ask the next person after the one before had remarked on health, family, love. But then that whole holiday routine got blown up the first year John and Vicky were married when her answer was an impish “I’m thankful for that puppy John is going to buy me.”

I still ask myself the question—I think it has become a coping strategy.

Last week, Mom, Dad, Dave, and I went to the Nashville Zoo. I was thankful for wheelchairs that day. Oh, we didn’t have any wheelchairs, but I was thankful that there were such things because we will need them someday soon. We could have used a couple at the zoo.

Dad got four complimentary tickets to the zoo from one of the college-age daughters next door. Saleh and Zienab Al-Akashi have six children including Jinan and Noura, both pre-med students at Lipscomb University and part-time employees of the Nashville Zoo. The four children that follow the future physicians are Naba, Abbas, Mohammad, and Zahra and they range from twelve years down to four. Saleh works two jobs and is finishing classes for a technical degree; Zienab transports children, runs a household, and mows the yard.

Dad made friends with Saleh last year when we all first moved in here on the ravine. He knows when Saleh arrives home between jobs—that’s when they meet in the driveway. Dad asked Saleh if he could weed-eat for him. It wasn’t long before Dad got permission to mow for Zienab. I hear that Dad will plant a flower garden for Zienab this spring, too, with Saleh’s agreement.

“You are so nice to us, Mr. Blair. What can we do for you?” Saleh asked.

“Saleh,” Dad told him, “You and your wife are working so hard raising this family, it’s just a privilege for you to let me help.”

One day Saleh brought the four tickets to the zoo. “You said you wanted to go to the zoo?”

That evening, Dad said, “Saleh gave me four tickets to the zoo. Well, actually, he didn’t give them to me, his daughters did. They work at the zoo, you know. When the weather gets nice again, we can go to the zoo. That’s the only thing I wanted to do in Nashville.”

The dark blue macaws are just to the right past the entrance.

“Look, Honey,” Mom said. “Blue macaws. Can you see them?”

“No, not very well. I’m cold. It’s cold out here.”

“You should have worn a heavier coat,” Mom said.

“Well, I know that now,” he answered.

“Dad, put Dave’s jacket on,” I said. “We put it in Mom’s basket.”

Mom rolled up beside me with Dolly, her Rollator walker. “Well, this is going to be fun. He can’t hear and he can’t see.”

“Well, aren’t you glad you have Dolly?” I asked. “This is the whole reason we needed that Rollator.”

“It does nothing for the pain,” she answered.

Uh-oh… her legs… pain…this IS going to be fun.

We passed the red-crowned crane (he couldn’t see that, either) and inched our way up the hill toward the carousel and “Lorikeet Landing,” where the colorful ‘keets light on shoulders and heads and hands in a mesh enclosure. No strollers. I guess that means Rollators, too. Mom and Dad sat on a bench. Mom sighed and blew.

“How much further to the giraffes?” she asked. “They’re my favorites.”

“Well—me, too. There’s a lot of walking here,” I answered. “Dave, did you happen to pick up a map?”

No, he didn’t.

“It’s around this loop here,” I said. The sign said “African Savannah.”

There were no Red River Hogs in the hog pen, and we cut off the loop at the first viewing station for the elephants huddled in the far corner of their field.

“Dad, look way out there. They’re in that far right corner of the field,” I said.

“I can’t see them. They’re too far away. Oh, wait, are they moving? I think I can see them moving.”

“Let’s stop here for a minute,” I said, pointing toward fifty wooden tables in a big field. Festival Area. I thought about the time we brought grandchildren to the Halloween celebration; games and activity tents had covered the field.

“I knew there would be a lot of walking,” Dad said as he propped himself on a big rock in the curve of the path, “but I didn’t know there’d be this much.”

“Let’s head back this way.” I pointed back toward the entrance. We had rested plenty but Dad was staggering a bit, even with his cane, and Mom was moving slower and leaning hard on Dolly.

“We almost need wheelchairs to get around this place,” Dave said. “I brought Mom out here the last time she came to Nashville and I pushed her in a wheelchair.”

“Remember when you pushed me all around the Memphis Zoo in a wheelchair?” Mom asked.

“Yes, I do.” Mom and I both started to laugh. We pushed and pulled that wheelchair over cobblestone, onto little trains, up dirt hills. That was over seven years ago, before she walked with a cane, before Dolly was a fleeting thought, before Mom lost fifty pounds. At the end of that day, Mom was doing fine. I needed a heat pad and ibuprofen at the hotel. But, we did see the visiting Giant Pandas!

“Your daddy would never ride in a wheelchair—he wouldn’t even use this walker,” she said.

“Well, we have two wheelchairs at home,” Dave said, “and when we need them, we’re going to use them.”

“We’ve got that motorized chair, too,” Dad said, “and we ought to get that thing running.”

We all sat down at the picnic tables near the gibbons. Dad finally saw one of the white ones.

“Hey, Boy, come on over here,” he hollered, waving his cane in the air.

“Dad, stop hollering,” I said.

“Well, I want to see him up closer. Where are the monkeys?”

“Dad, there are no monkeys here.”

“No monkeys? What kind of a zoo doesn’t have monkeys? No apes?”

“No, the closest thing to a monkey you’re going to see are these gibbons.”

“What are they?” he asked.

“Gibbons. You heard her, they’re gibbons,” Mom said. She shot him a look.

“Well, nothing is close enough for me to look at,” Dad said.

We tried to explain about natural habitats and current trends in keeping wild animals.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s go look at the meerkats.”

Mom counted the meerkats. Dad leaned on the clear enclosure and dropped his cane over the side to circle the head of one of the colony’s sentries.

“Ernie, quit that,” Dave said. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not bothering him,” Dad said. But he withdrew his cane.

“Now I like those,” he said.

We passed the big stork.

“So that’s what a stork looks like,” Mom said. (Dad couldn’t see it.)

I saw the tables in front of the snack bar near Unseen New World where the snakes and amphibians live, and knew this would be our ending point for the day. We would not make the Jungle Loop with the lemurs and cougars and leopards and ostrich. Even if we did have wheelchairs, we wouldn’t make it. We were all tired.

“Dad, let’s rest here,” I said.

“I think I have to quit here,” he answered. I was glad he said it.

“Well,” Dave said, “I am going around this loop here to see the tigers. It’s what I came for and I’m going to see the tigers.”

“Okay, we’ll just wait for you here,” I said.

“Now, why would she come to the zoo with that little kid?” Dad pointed to a young mother pushing a stroller.

“Why wouldn’t she?” I asked. “It’s a great place.”

“Yeah, but what does she get out of it and what does that little kid get?”

“Well, it’s a safe place to be, quiet, no cars to dodge, and you know, here are these animals that she’s shown the baby in his picture books.”

“I can see where it’s safe. Nobody would threaten her and her child here,” he answered.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of ‘safe,’” I said. “I was just thinking that you can be on the walking trails and no cars…”

“Oh.”

“Look,” Mom said, “Flamingoes.” She pointed to the sign for the Flamingo Lagoon.

“You want to go down there?” I asked. “I think it’s just right there around the corner past the petting zoo.”

“Yes. I want to see the flamingoes.”

“Dad, you stay right here. Don’t you go anywhere. You stay right here,” I said.

“Where are you going?” he asked Mom.

“We’re going to see the flamingoes,” she called over her shoulder.

“Ohhhhhhhhh, they’re beautiful,” she said, “and so many of them.”

We stopped by the petting zoo on the way back to Dad.

“Llamas, goats, donkeys…oh look, there’s a camel!” Mom said.

We turned on the path to see that Dad had found a friend. A young man and two children, a girl maybe eight and a boy about ten, were saying their goodbyes.

“Mr. Blair, it was very nice visiting with you.”

“Who was that?” the girl asked as they walked away.

“He’s my new friend, Mr. Blair,” the dad answered.

“We were having a philosophical discussion,” Dad explained as we neared the tables. “We were talking about why people come to the zoo. He’s a writer. He’s from Los Angeles. He came to the zoo to get ideas for his stories.”

“Hm,” Mom answered. (We’ve come to recognize “Hm” as the signal that Mom is bored.)

“And he left his cell phone at home,” Dad said. “He doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s getting ideas.”

“Hm,” Mom answered. “He’d talk to a fencepost,” she said in my direction.

Dad was oblivious; he probably didn’t hear her. “And he thinks it’s a big intrusion to use your cell phone in a nature place like this,” he added.

“So did you see the tigers?” I asked as Dave walked up.

“Yep. Two of them. And the lynx, too.”

“Then I think we’re ready to go,” I said.

“How far is it back to the entrance?” Mom asked.

“It’s not as far as we’ve come,” I answered.

“Next time we come, we need some wheelchairs,” Dave said.

“Well, we’ve got wheelchairs,” I answered, “but I’m not sure I could push one around this whole zoo.”

“We need to get that motorized chair working,” Dad said.

“Well, I’m not sure that motorized chair would be good around here,” Dave said.

“Too many hills?” Dad asked.

“Yeah. We need wheelchairs or maybe a golf cart. I don’t think they allow golf carts, though.”

“Where did we get the wheelchairs?” Mom asked.

“Fannie Tietze,” I answered. “Remember her? Sweet, sweet, elegant woman. She died last month and wanted people at church to have her things. No one wanted a wheelchair so I said I’d take one and then the son told me that I should take both of them.”

“They’re in perfect condition,” Dave said. “I haven’t figured out how to fold that smaller one. You need to help me with that.”

What am I thankful for?  I am thankful for family, health, and love, those very “regular” things that everyone answers in response to that “regular” question.

I am thankful for family, especially the family of four that we’ve put together here on the ravine, and that we are all happy. I am thankful that there are children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren close by. I am thankful for that puppy that John bought Vicky, the little Shih Tzu who is now ten years old, as well as the other dogs, cats, and foxes that have come into our family lives.

I am thankful for health—Mom and Dad’s health at eighty years old. I am happy that their health allows them to make trips to the zoo, to the grocery store, to church. I am grateful that Mom’s health allows her to care for their apartment and that Dad’s allows him to garden for himself, us, and the Al-Akashis.

I am thankful for love—the love of a good man, the love of parents, children, and grandchildren, the love of neighbors, and the love of friends—old and new, living here or watching over us from the other world.

I am grateful for wheelchairs.

***