About a week or so ago, we had some good rain here in the desert. What my Navajo friends would call a mostly “female rain,” a nurturing rain. Over the course of two days the rain fell rather gently most of the time, with the occasional sudden outburst from the wind and even some thunder and lightning tossed in for good measure. We had gone from winter to summer to winter, no spring or autumn gently easing us into the days of blistering them biting winds, so it was refreshing, to say the least, going outside that mild morning to find the desert washed clean to almost sparkling from its thick coating of dust left behind by an immeasurably long, hot summer. I walked with my coffee to the landscape island in the back yard and took an East/Northeast facing seat on the still damp bricks. Looking upward I saw a Harris’s hawk sailing high in the beginnings of sunrise, searching over the desert floor for his breakfast, swooping low through the brush and rising high once again. He was probably showing one of the youngsters in the family how it’s done.
Sitting on the wall, watching the desert, took me to the time when my parents came to visit me for the winter of 2012-2013.
They were not in the best condition when they arrived. Obviously, they had not been eating well, or much. But, one of the first things Dad told me was that he and his doctor had created a plan so Dad could live to be 100 years old. Another thing he told me was that he had planned his whole life around the fact that he was going to die first. Will, Estate, finances, long term care, everything was there for Mom to carry on and be comfortable after he was gone but, “By golly, this is the one thing your mother will not get her way on.”
In the meantime, he wanted to explore the local restaurants and search out who made the best burger here in Arizona. So, we avoided the burger shops they had and home and went instead to Francisco Grande Resort, BeDillon’s, and The Big House Café, all mom and pop places. We also went to Firebirds Grill, but Dad declared their burgers way too big - too big for even his big hands and so, not enjoyable. “One shouldn’t have to cut a burger in two in order to eat it, unless you’re sharing it with someone.” While BeDillon’s was Mom’s all around favorite place, Dad declared Francisco Grande Resort the hamburger blue ribbon winner.
We had some fun with that sort of thing and went to local events like the Parade of Lights Christmas parade in which their great granddaughter was marching for her Jr. High School. It meant to much to Dad that he stood up when her band went by so he could find her. We went to the Pinal County Agri-Fair and listened to The Sonoran Dogs bluegrass band followed by the Jam-Pak kids. Then, when it got too windy out, we headed inside the vendor barn to see what we could see. The usual foods and medicine shows abounded; we bought hot-dogs, fudge for our sweet tooths, and cure-all insoles for Dad’s shoes.
That winter, my friends, Jeanne and Jerome, were base camping in my front yard in their RV while they played music around the area, and when they were performing close by, we often went to see them. Jeanne and Mom would prepare some great meals together, and Dad always went back for second and thirds of Jeanne’s wonderful cooked-all-day stew and Mom’s cornbread. We did have to go clothes shopping twice during their stay because they both out grew the clothes they had brought with them.
Jerome and Dad really hit it off and whenever those two volunteered to do the dishes we could hear them in the kitchen, laughing like school boys on a lark. Jerome came in the house every day and asked to play my Washburn Santa Fe guitar Mom had gifted me so many years ago. A Merle Travis champion thumb-picker, the music put a stop on everything else. We all stopped what we were doing and gathered to listen, the music even reaching outside, calling Dad in from his yard work to sit and enjoy.
One of those evenings is when I learned the extent of Dad’s music experience. I knew my Grampa, Dad and his brothers had formed a horn band called “The Newsboys,” and repped for the Indianapolis Newspaper, as well as the railroad, and played the Masonic Lodges and Grange Halls and other dances in the tri-state area. On this particular evening, someone asked just the right question and Dad started talking about how he’d marched for the technical school he attended, was frequently on loan to the local high school marching band, and two university marching bands, and still managed to keep up with The Newsboys’ performances.
Dad got on a bit of roll that night, reminiscing about his decades of working for IBM. When he told us that he had worked for the NASA Space Program and the Nuclear program, Mom gasped. “Robert, after all these years (70 at the time ) I never knew that. You never told me that, never said one word!” She was more astonished than upset. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this?”
“I couldn’t tell you, wasn’t allowed to tell you. But,” he chuckled, “I’m ninety years old now. What are they going to do to me?”
Dad and I sometimes would sit on the landscape wall and have coffee together. One such late morning he asked me, “What type of tree is that straight out there? It looks dead, like it’s had a hard time getting along.”
“It’s a Mesquite, Daddy. There are several types out here, and they all look pretty bedraggled and gnarled when they’re dormant.” Back Ohio, where I grew up and they still lived, the Oaks, Walnuts and Maples always looked so stately after losing their leaves. The Oaks sometimes keeping a few red-brown leaves hanging on until the spring buds knocked them off.
He was quiet a minute. “Well, I like it. It reminds me of myself; kinda bent every which-a-way.”
It was a few days later that I drove them to a get acquainted visit with my Doctor, just so they would have a familiar face if any issues came up while they were in Arizona. They asked me to be in the room with them for the visit, and I watched while Dr. Bray, being his usually kind and attentive self, had won them both over. When he asked them if they had any questions or concerns, Dad said yes, that he was concerned he was getting Alzheimer disease.
Dr. Bray asked what kind of work Dad had done and for how long. When Dad answered, “IBM for more than 40 years.” The good doctor’s eyebrows went up.
“Are you doing any of that work now?”
“No, just genealogy on my laptop, other family history stuff.”
“How long has it been since you did that sort of work?”
“About eighteen years.”
“Well,” Dr. Bray said, “Literally, if you don’t use it, you lose it. Especially these days when technology is advancing at warp speed. Those computers you used to design, build and repair were once as big as buildings, right?”
Dad nodded.
“And now this,” Dr. Bray presented his work phone, “There’s one or two different computers in this gadget here.”
Dad nodded.
“And that’s confusing.”
Dad nodded and gave a half smile.
“Let me explain in a nutshell. When you regularly hide your car keys from your self, that is not Alzheimer’s. When you find your keys, and you don’t know what they are, or what they are for, that is when you get concerned.”
As we all stood and headed out the exam room door, Dad exiting after Mom and me,
Dr. Bray said, “Just a minute, Robert. I want to tell you that I don’t have any other ninety year old men who walk out of this room without assistance.”
Dad stood up a few inches taller in that moment. Something he was worried about had just floated away, off his shoulders.
He didn’t make it to 100 years old. Later in 2013, Mom was diagnosed with Pancreatic cancer and Dad gave up. He passed away that October, Mom followed him in March.
I never did think Dad was bent every which-a-way. He is still a giant to me. Fred Astaire graceful and elegant in his tuxedo; quick on his toes, perfectly guiding Mom around the dance floor so her ball-gown would makes it appear they are flying, still.
