Another Diner Story

I once heard Jay Leno describe his grandmother as a Sherman tank model, as opposed to the grandmothers in L.A., who were skinny, petite older women with skimpy outfits and names like Bambi.

Ma was of that Sherman tank build. She had a hardened appearance and a heart of gold. The weight of the world seemed to be pressing down hard on her hefty shoulders. She was the only person I remember, other than the owner, who worked the counter at the diner.

She would have to have a heart of gold to work there. As I mentioned in another story, the owner was blinded by greed. The pay couldn’t have been worth it. I couldn’t understand why she worked there. There had to be other waitress jobs. Maybe because she was older, or her slightly off-putting appearance, or her obvious depression.

But she worked there, and everyone liked her. I didn’t know her name. Everyone called her Ma. I really didn’t know anything about her. Was she a Ma? Was she someone’s Sherman tank model grandmother?

Once when I was sitting in one of the booths, facing the door, with a coke and a plate of french fries with gravy in front of me, a short, fragile woman toting several bags of precious belongings maneuvered her way in. She headed for the two stools at the end of the counter, closest to the door and dropped her burden with a heavy sigh. She pushed the bags up against the wall and lifted herself by the counter edge to sit on the second stool, leaving the one closest to the wall empty. Ma brought two menus and two glasses of water, one for her and one for her “guest”.

I’d seen this little woman before but never in the diner.  She was disheveled, wore layers of clothes, even in summer, and always wore a pair of plastic rain boots that were older than me. At one time they were clear, but they yellowed with age and were held together with many large safety pins. When they were new and quite the fashion, they were worn over shoes. She did manage to wear them over her shoes, but I don’t know how, unless over the years, the shoes and boots had somehow fused. Everyone referred to her as Bootsy.

Bootsy was all giggles and smiles, chatting to her companion, when Ma brought two cups of coffee and placed them by the waters. Ma spoke with her for a couple of minutes, diverted her glance to the empty place, smiled, and took the menus.

Five or ten minutes later, Ma came out from the back with two lunches of chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. She re-filled Bootsy’s cup of coffee and then looked to see if the other cup needed a refill.

Bootsy kept sharing laughs and conversation with her friend. When she finished her lunch and paid the check, she pulled together her bags of belongings and shlepped happily out the door. She didn’t seem to notice that the other plate of chicken, the coffee and the water weren’t touched.

I don’t know why, but maybe because Ma saw me watching the whole interaction, she turned to me and said, “She lost her husband years ago and never got over it. She comes in with him every month after she gets her check, and they have lunch together.”

Shortly after that, I noticed something different about Ma. Like that weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her countenance was different. She smiled more.

One afternoon, I was hanging around out in front of the diner with some friends when a huge Harley rumbled up. A stocky older man in a black leather jacket turned to wipe the seat from behind him when Ma came rushing out the door, apron in hand, hiked up her white uniform, grabbed him around the waist and hopped up on that seat. He kicked the peddle, the bike revved, and they sped off. And she no longer worked at the diner.

A Vineyard Trip

My first visit to Martha’s Vineyard was with Rob and his parents. His brother, Chris, was not long out of culinary school when he landed a job at The Black Dog Tavern in Vineyard Haven. Funny name because at the time Vineyard Haven was a dry county. But it was, and still is, a wonderful restaurant on the beach with a view of the boats in the harbor.

My father-in-law invited Rob and I to join him and my mother-in-law on a drive up to visit Chris. His address was our first stop after getting off the ferry. We found him in a home shared with several other chefs working at the restaurant. They were all in a slightly unkempt comfortable living room, reading cookbooks and discussing recipes.

Chris walked us up the street to the Bed sans Breakfast, where he’d reserved two rooms for us. It was a three-story fading grand dame of a house, whose owner managed to fill every inch. She wasn’t one to recycle, donate or trash anything. Our rooms were on the second floor. At the bottom of the steps stood an old kitchen wooden chair stacked with a leaning tower of National Geographic magazines. We were welcome to them during our stay. Things I suppose she thought her guests would enjoy took up space on the steps, leaving enough room to walk up and down.

After dropping off our luggage, we took a walk on Main Street. Rob’s mom and I browsed a Christmas ornament back room in one of the stores. There were souvenir lighthouses, shells, and Santas with red and white life preservers, stamped with the words Martha’s Vineyard on them. She bought me a plexiglass disk ornament with a drummer boy etched on it. It wasn’t stamped with any writing. Nevertheless, it is a souvenir that evokes memories of that first Vineyard trip.

That night we ate at the restaurant. Rob’s dad liked shrimp. The manager treated us like VIP’s. Fried shrimp, popcorn shrimp, coconut shrimp, shrimp, shrimp and more shrimp in super-sized portions arrived at our table along with whatever we actually ordered. 

I ordered a brownie for dessert. It came with a scoop of vanilla ice cream of course. It was made from scratch with real cocoa, vanilla, and walnuts, which at the time, was not common. Convenient mixes were the rule then. It was cakelike, which is what I prefer over the fudge texture of most brownies, and it was the best brownie I ever ate. It lost some of its delectable wonder, though, when my brother-in-law bemoaned the “back to nature” laissez-faire style of the bakers. I think the way he put it was “letting their kids roll around naked in the flour”.

After dinner, we walked back to the house in darkness. There were very few old fashioned, low lit streetlights. Right before we got to the house, a staggering man crossed the street under one of the lights. At the same time a happy-go-lucky dog was prancing along the sidewalk in front of us. My mother-in-law called out to the dog, “Boozer!”  Rob and I turned to look at her when she yelled again, “I mean Bowser!”. We burst out laughing. Surprisingly, and to our relief, neither Boozer nor Bowser paid any attention.

The next day we took a walk through an area called Felix Neck. Well, three of us did. Chris was working and Rob’s dad stayed in the car in the parking lot snacking on a bag of popcorn. We were supposed to spot a variety of wildlife but saw no signs of life with one exception. We found a blind with a good view of a pond. While looking out, a large black bird swooped in so close to us that Rob’s mom ducked and yelled out, “Meeshkah!” We’re not sure what kind of bird it was, and not sure what meeshkah means, but we still say it when something amazing happens.

Disappointed, we trekked back to the car, dusty and tired, to find Rob’s dad sitting sideways on the passenger side of the car with the door open, feeding popcorn to the myriad of wildlife we were supposed to spot in the woods.

 The next morning, after having a fabulous breakfast at the Black Dog, and hugging Chris goodbye, we took our spot in line to board the ferry. It was pouring rain and we were a little early. Rob’s dad was always early, and a little nervous about driving his car on and off the ferry. He was distracting himself by bending almost upside down, fixing something under the dashboard.

I loudly said, “The line is moving.” and he popped up and hit his head on the steering wheel. It wasn’t funny, but it was, and Rob and I couldn’t help laughing. I don’t even know why I said it. The line wasn’t moving. My mother-in-law, turned to face us in the back seat. She didn’t say anything but shook her head and widened her eyes letting us know we should stop laughing. But we didn’t and then she started to laugh.  I apologized, but he wasn’t mad. I gave him plenty of opportunities over the years, but my father-in-law never got mad at me. I loved that man!

A few minutes later, the line did start to move and we headed home.

We’ve been back to the Vineyard many times since then, but that first time, as we used to say in the 70’s, was a trip.

A view from the Black Dog

People Change

Everyone hung out at Maureen’s. She was a sweet woman, petite, in her twenties, and a divorcee with two adorable kids. We’d sit in the kitchen sipping cups of tea. She always had tea.

Maureen did not allow any drinking or drugs, although if you had already imbibed, you were welcome in her home. She was kind and for a couple of weeks, until she put a stop to it, there’d be guys nodding out in her living room. She knew she couldn’t let them stay but it took a couple of weeks because she didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

I don’t really know how she did it. She stayed up until all hours of the night with us and then got up with her kids. I know sometimes she got up later than the kids because she would tell stories of the small tornados that hit her kitchen; spilled cereal, milk, peanut butter and jelly caught up in the whirlwinds of making their own breakfasts.

I never met Maureen’s ex, but I met her ex brother-in-law. He was a wig designer and once he left a wig he’d been working on with her. She warned him not to. “You know the kids”, she said. He put the wig on top of the refrigerator, out of harm’s way. The next morning, when Maureen walked into the kitchen, there was the wig on its styrofoam head, in the center of the table, doused in maple syrup with a hefty sprinkle of Cap’n Crunch.

Her ex brother-in-law, Joey, was there often and loved her and his niece and nephew. She had a picture of him in her living room, dressed in a sparkly neon blue mini dress. He’d won a trans beauty contest in New York.

Joey didn’t like me. I didn’t realize why until one afternoon when a bunch of us were sitting around. Out of the blue, he said in a snarky tone, “I can get as many boyfriends as you, Sharon.” I said, “Yeah, but I don’t have to wear a dress and make-up to get one. I can just wear jeans and a t-shirt.” He rarely spoke to me after that. Not that we ever had a cordial conversation before, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. I didn’t dislike him. And if he was a little jealous of me, it was unfounded. There’s no way I could’ve won a beauty contest. Let alone in New York!

Maureen and I lost track of each other. I got married and moved away. She got re-married. A dozen years later I found out that she was living in the town right next to the one I was living in.  We got back in touch. I was so happy to see her and found it comforting that we shared cups of tea.

We caught up on each other’s lives. I told her about my boys. I shared my new-found faith. She told me how good her kids were doing in high school, the older one about to graduate. And told me of her impending divorce. She didn’t go into detail but mentioned with cynical sadness that he should be in therapy, or jail.

“How’s Joey?” I asked. “The last time I saw Joey he wasn’t Joey.” she said with disdain. “He’s now Sheila”, she continued, “I told him to never come back. I didn’t want my kids to be confused. Their uncle is now their aunt!”

I was stunned. Not because he had a sex change, but that she rejected him. It seemed so out of character. One of the things I knew about Joey was he loved her and the kids. They grew up with that picture of him in a mini dress. He was ultra-feminine. When I knew him, he often wore short shorts. He shaved his legs, wore make-up and always had his nails done. I hesitantly said, “I don’t think they’d be confused. They’ve known him all their lives.” She shot me a look. She was visibly angry and didn’t respond. The subject was dropped.

Except for the comfortable familiarity of sharing tea, we’d both changed. Maureen had been so upbeat and happy in the small apartment where we hung out. She seemed worn out and bitter during our brief reunion. I got the feeling the kids might not be the reason she didn’t want Sheila around. She didn’t want me around either. I attributed it to her impending divorce. Or maybe she didn’t want to hear about how my life was different since I found Jesus. Or maybe she wanted no reminders of her old life. Whatever it was, I didn’t see Maureen after that visit. She moved shortly after to parts unknown. I found out that she passed away a couple years later. I wondered whether she was sick when we met and if that was the reason for her change in demeanor. I always had the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling me that day.

Skin Deep

Once upon a time, we were gifted a weekend in the Poconos – meals included. To our surprise and the surprise of four other couples, we shared an assigned table.

I only remember two of the couples. A tall, slender, well-groomed, newly married, quiet couple. Their hands were often entwined, as I’m sure were their hearts.

The other couple, sitting across from us, may have also been newly married, but they didn’t seem to be a good match at first glance. He was classically handsome. She was not physically attractive. As they sat down, her face showed the same surprised look I believe the rest of us had as we filled the chairs around the table. But with a sweet countenance I believe the rest of us didn’t display. He was visibly angry at the arrangement.  He mumbled something about how it was a mistake to have booked there as he plopped into his seat.

We only saw our table mates during the meals. As a group we weren’t very social. I’d label us polite. But that weekend, with each meal, the handsome man became less handsome. His wife, more beautiful. 

Treasured Memories

One of my mother’s “hate to miss” shows is The Antiques Road Show. My mother has been interested in antiques for as long as I can remember. I’ve been to innumerable antique stores, estate or garage sales, flea markets and thrift stores with her over the years.

I inherited the gene. I find meandering through an antique store as therapeutic as some people find meditation.  I’m not drawn to garage sales or thrift stores, though.

Things aren’t what they used to be. Years ago, a garage sale might have an antique or two. We still have a hatrack we bought at one. And some depression glass we bought at another.

But many garage sale offerings now consist of things people would’ve been embarrassed to put out when I was younger – things they would have trashed, like stained clothes and broken appliances.

Quite a few antique stores showcase a mix of crafts, repurposed items, “vintage” or shabby chic, along with their antiques. 

We have an ongoing flea market not too far from us. It is nothing but tchotchkes. People like tchotchkes as evidenced by the stocked shelf displays at places like Target, Walmart, and all the drug store chains. Selling at a flea market, I suppose, saves the vendors the cost of a brick and mortar shop. But it’s not the flea markets of my youth.

There are still some antique stores that sell only antiques. There are of course the upscale ones, where the proprietors ignore you, the furniture, vases (pronounced vahzes), and candelabras have exorbitant price tags – if they’re tagged at all. I like those stores too. But they’re like looking around in museums. They’re very interesting and occasionally I find a little something.

I once found a bowl with kind of high sides, decorated with a string of pink elephants at one such shop. A couple of years later I bought the same shape bowl with a Christmas design. The tag on that one said, Cocktail Ice Bowl, circa 1950’s? So, now the shape and pink elephant design made sense. And speaking of the 50’s, it hasn’t been lost on me that I am the same age as many of the antiques I like to peruse.

Browsing the upscale stores is nice but they’re not the ones my mom and I enjoy searching through. We’re not into Italian Renaissance, French Provincial, Louis XIV, or any Asian dynasty.  We just like what we like – nostalgic, quirky, or interesting.

Over the years we both managed some fine furniture. Sadly, for my mom, many of her pieces were acquired when we were all still living at home. Five kids can be rough on furnishings. Some things couldn’t withstand the abuse. On one occasion, my stepfather put a couple of her beautiful carved oak washstands out on the curb when he was getting rid of old “junk”.  They were snapped up before she could rescue them.

Shortly after Rob and I married, we bought a Victorian hallrack. The woman who sold it to us was cheerful, middle-aged, plump, and chatty. She first observed that we were one of those brother/sister couples. “You know, that look so much alike. That’s good luck!” she said with an air of self-adapted authority. She seemed so happy that her magnificent hallrack was going to a good home with Ying and Yang, as she referred to us when writing out a receipt. I know it’s yin and yang but maybe she was from Brooklyn?

It was a beauty, but it didn’t survive one of our moves.

We had a large Victorian sofa too. When Rob brought it home, I couldn’t picture what it was supposed to be. Pieces of dried, dust encrusted wood. Rob refinished it and upholstered it in non-traditional red fabric. I loved it but it was too big to bring with us on another of our moves.

Nice memories and we still have some of the pieces we picked up over the years. Other memories are of the ones that got away. There was an overstuffed chair that needed some tlc in one of the plethora of antique stores on Queen Street in Toronto. Some mission furniture at an estate sale on Long Island at an unbelievably affordable price, passed up because we were moving the next day. And an exquisitely detailed marcasite bracelet/watch with a peacock, tail down, wrapped around the watch face at a giant flea market in Pennsylvania.  My mother volunteered to buy it for me because I didn’t have the fifty dollars to spend. But that was just too much money at the time. Actually, I prefer the memory, rather than being the owner of the timepiece.

I have lots of good memories of those markets in Pennsylvania. We lived in New Jersey at the time and the prices in PA were half or more of what you’d pay in NJ. Sometimes we’d stop at some places in the Poconos and occasionally we’d detour to a town called Brodheadsville and visit an old farm with a big barn full of bargains.

One of my favorite antique hunting places was in a chicken coop. A knowledgeable elderly woman owned the property. I imagined her huge white Colonial house on the hill must have been a gold mine of lovely old things. The coop was at the bottom of the hill, and I imagined it was stocked with overflow from that house.

There were no operating hours. She was only there when she felt like being there. She wore thick sweaters and funny hats. An old victrola was wound to play past melodies, as she busied herself behind an overladen desk or table. It was hard to tell. A response to any inquiry was often a history lesson.  It was always a delightful experience when I made that trek down a winding country road and found there was a light on in the chicken coop.

I suspect my mom likes Antiques Road Show for those rare stories of finding a valuable work of art or collectible in an attic or at a yard sale. It’s like hitting the lottery, but it gives you hope that there are treasures buried out there, waiting to be found.

Whenever I go to a thrift store with her, I look at the artwork just in case. I don’t know if I could recognize a valuable painting or genuine piece of Native American pottery, but I have been able to recognize a fair amount of junk on those visits.

My mother and I will probably never find that Antiques Road Show bonanza, but we’ve each found some good treasures over the years. Many are memories.

Just Visiting This Planet

The t-shirt read “Just Visiting This Planet.” David was three or four years old when someone bought him that shirt. It was a perfect fit, the sentiment I mean.

David had his own language. Some words sounded like English. Many didn’t. But if you didn’t understand him, he didn’t get discouraged. He worked with the words you did understand. He described things by color, texture, or comparison with unrelated objects until you got it.

His eventually learned to communicate. In fact he’s quite good at it. But adjusting to earth has been a lifelong struggle. This planet is overladen with customs and rules he’s always found restrictive.

School, for instance, interfered with social networking. Teachers were a constant bother. The lockers weren’t big enough to cram in all the books, papers and other assorted junk given to him throughout the years. Why haul that stuff around?

One night at camp when everyone else was sleeping, David built a booby trap that would entangle the first one through the door in the morning. In the middle of the night, the cabin leader needed to use the facilities. When I went to pick David up at the end of his stay, I briefly spoke to his leader. His eyes were glazed, and he laughed with a hint of insanity as he told me how “creative” my son was, and how he probably couldn’t volunteer for that camp in the future.

His aunt and uncle watched him once. They were walking through the park when they realized that everyone was staring at them. His uncle turned to see David limping behind them with a fake arrow through his head and fake blood dripping down his face. They never watched him again.

Once when we were moving, and the landlord was showing the house, David drew one of those homicide chalk outlines of a body in the driveway and put some caution tape around it. I never asked where he got the tape.

I never asked a lot of things. Like why his bed had more graffiti on it than a wall of an abandoned building in the Bronx. Or why his dresser, inside and out, had more graffiti than his bed. I like his art. I like his free spirit.

But I didn’t ask about the caution tape because I didn’t want to know the answer. Shortly before that incident, David asked his brother to cut his hair. He looked like an extra in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. And it was around that time I had my last meeting (ambush) with his teachers. Rob went to all teacher confrontations from then on.

It was also around that time that Rob and I were driving somewhere. David was in the back seat reading a book, a very rare occurrence, when he piped up, “Hey, this Einstein guy was just like me – always getting in trouble.” 

Well, he’s not another Einstein. He is, however, a creative genius (yes, I’m biased). But he did graduate with honors from The Art Center, won some awards, had a Super Bowl commercial, and is well liked and well respected by his peers, some of which I suspect are just visiting this planet as well.

Too Bald or Not Too Bald

THAT IS THE QUESTION

Watching old movies or old tv shows and spotting a toupee used to amuse me. I wondered why men preferred that look, or the combover, to their perfectly charming receding hairlines.

I did get it. If I was a man, I’d want to hold on to a full head of stunning, youthful locks too. Even as a woman, I wish I had the hair of my younger self. Some toupees are hard to spot. Others, quite obvious, but I’m no longer amused by their incidental occurrences.

My mother and father each had one brother. My mother has, and my father had thick beautiful hair. But their brothers had that garland of hair above their ears; the tops of their heads completely exposed to the elements. I liked that look. Because I loved them. I guess that’s why I found toupees amusing.

But now, I prefer them, even the bad ones, to the ubiquitous shaved heads that have been the style for lo, these many years.

It’s a matter of taste, but to me, total baldness is attractive on very few people. I didn’t think I was alone in that opinion, but the shaved heads are more than a passing fad, so maybe I am.

Maybe not. Perhaps just alone in my opinion of toupees.

Stranger In The House

How crazy is it that I am starting to get emotional over inanimate objects? I blame it on the Pandemic. A new refrigerator arrived today.  I never actually gave the fridge a thought, with the exception of wishing it didn’t have that “convenient” water dispenser on the front. An eyesore and waste in my opinion. But even that was rarely noticed or thought about. Odd that I was sadder to see the old one go, rather than joyful about a spanking new, gleaming replacement. But then I always feel bad for the losing team.

Now I think of it as losing a faithful old friend and who knows what this new stranger will be? It doesn’t seem to wear magnets with the stylish grace of the old one. Before I could affix them, I had to pry off a warning that the sides would be warm because of the cooling system. A manufacturer’s warm turns out to be a consumer’s red hot. Sticking magnets on the sides, as I intended, could be a fire hazard. Is placing them all on the front too cluttered? I was reminded of an old comic where the refrigerator door fell off due to the weight of too many magnets.

Nothing looks at home inside – everything residing on, or in, strange shelves and drawers. There’s a little computer panel on the front. I’ll have to read the booklet to understand this new language. My old friend only had to be plugged in and adjusted via a little dial.

On the other hand, there’s no water dispenser. And so far, I haven’t even heard a whisper out of it. I need to give it some time to settle in, but right now I’m not sure how I feel about this new stranger in the house.

Awaiting Our Elephant

Over the years, Rob has surprised me with pets I never asked for and couldn’t imagine keeping. A pair of lovebirds that squawked continually and threw seed shells as far as possible from their perches, and a nocturnal hedgehog who was afraid of his own shadow come to mind. Lately he keeps talking about getting a pig.

So I suppose it’s not too much of a stretch that about a month ago I dreamt he brought home an elephant puppy. It was adorable, the size of a tubby german shepherd pup. It hopped around and played with a ball and conked out as puppies do when they’ve exhausted themselves.

Elephants can’t hop, but in my dream I understood that he was different, a miniature elephant, and would probably only grow to the size of an actual elephant baby.

But that’s huge! I kept thinking what are we going to do with him when he grows up? And isn’t it against the law to own an elephant? My anxiety woke me up, but then in a delightfully good mood, having seen a rambunctious puppy elephant in a dream.

A couple of weeks ago, Rob and I went looking for a sofa. We had an idea of what we were looking for but bought something not even remotely like what we had in mind. A couch and an ottoman in gray leather. On the way out of the store, I mentioned to him that they are the color of an elephant. And he said, “Yeah, if your mother was here, she’d say that’s what your dream was about.” 

I’d forgotten about the dream, but now the couch and ottoman will be constant reminders. They’re supposed to arrive today.

The Alzheimer’s Red

Less than a week after my brother got back from Viet Nam my stepfather threw him out of the house. A year before he had thrown out my oldest brother. He was recovering from an almost fatal accident that left him crippled and in need of therapy. My other brother, my sister and I left shortly after. Red was nasty.

They called him Red because at one point he had red hair. When I met him he had red eyes and what little hair he had was hidden under a hat. His red eyes, sensitive to light, were also hidden, behind dark glasses.

He died of Alzheimer’s.

In the beginning stages, he bought a new car and gave his old car to my brother, who said, “He forgot he doesn’t like me.”  It was true. 

Before he got sick he hated us but loved Ginger, Tim, Peppy, Shelly and Cleo. He shopped every day and cooked special meals for them, chicken usually. The two dogs and three cats liked chicken.

His vocabulary narrowed. His pets were “the boys.” People were you, he, she, or they.  Any inanimate object was a thing. The “place” was the store, the gas station, the post office – anywhere he wanted to go.

He loved feeding the boys and cooked plenty of chicken for them. He started to put it outside on the patio. Word got out and some new “boys” started showing up for dinner.  He was delighted, but my mom had to put an end to the all you can eat buffets. The new boys were black with white stripes running down their backs.

Pre-illness he always kept to himself. He spent most of his time hiding out in the house.  My sister lived next door. She always had company. Her friends, my niece’s friends, and my nephew’s friends all knew about him, but hardly anyone outside of the family knew what he looked like. Occasionally someone would catch a glimpse. They were called “rare Red sightings.”

But when he got sick he became very social. He went over to my sister’s all the time.  Then he’d forget why he was there and forget how to get home. Often, he just walked around the yard “fixing” things.

On one of his fix-it missions he choked my nephew’s windsock. It flew from the top of the garage. The wind was perfect there – the happy face in perpetual rolling motion, tails flittering out gracefully. He tightened a rope around it like a noose. “The thing! The thing! It was blowing!  I fixed it.”

He did some decorating at Christmastime – on my sister’s house. Even when he was well, this was something he enjoyed. My sister never objected even though none of it was her taste and each year the display grew. One of her friends remarked one year that from a distance the house looked like a cruise ship.  

But that last year, as words were lost to him, he announced “I bought a new thing, um, you know – that you shoot in the woods.” My sister enjoys photography. As she pondered what she would shoot – a flower?  a tree? – he walked her outside and proudly pointed to the giant reindeer affixed to the roof.

Red’s personality changed. He was delightful most of the time. He laughed at himself, and his lapses of memory didn’t seem to bother him.

Toward the end he was too difficult to take care of. He hardly slept. He used dish detergent instead of vegetable oil to cook for the boys. He became paranoid and distrustful of the neighbors. He started wandering. He went missing one day and everyone frantically searched for him. After about an hour my mom spotted him climbing up the steep hill bordering their back yard. He had fallen and rolled down. My sister and mother took him to a nursing home the next day. About a month later he passed away.

I find it odd that when I think of Red, it’s the Alzheimer’s man that comes to mind. Except for that last year, he was rude and mean. He hurt people. He had no friends and cut off any contact with his siblings long before we knew him.

The Alzheimer’s Red didn’t know me, but he liked me. And I liked him.