Adventure 434: The Story of George, 11

January 30, 2018

Real time just keeps getting better for George. His appetite has returned, much of his strength and mobility, and some of his cognition. Last night we played dominoes. He was able to keep up with the game with minor occasional mistakes, and he managed to count his points after each round. He's smiling more, and seems content. We've got him into the home health nursing pipeline as well as twice a week visits from the physical therapist. So, if somehow he'd return to regular physical exercise such as walking, he'd manage much longer. But, compared to ten days ago, he's a "miracle".

George has always been handy with metal and wood. One of the last memories we have recorded in pictures is Christmas about 1957. Sandy and Judy were old enough to realize and play with the kitchen set George made them. It was a two piece plywood arrangement made up of a stove and a refrigerator. Both pieces were painted white with black knobs. The doors opened. Who knows what became of those two items? Much later, George and Margaret realized their dream home on their two acres in La Pine, Oregon. George had the vision, drew the plans, and every weekend, he and Margaret would travel from Portland trailing behind them materials for the build in a little black trailer they called "Bessie". Bessie carried everything from windows to drywall. George oversaw the entire project, and did every bit of the work himself except for the initial framing. My brother Tom and I helped a little. I remember wiring the house. As unskilled labor, my job was to drill holes in the studs for the electrical wire to run through. I remember drilling upwards to three hundred holes, some of which were completed upside down in the crawl space. Tom, the skilled labor, hooked everything up. It went like that with the other projects such as dry wall and roofing. I always qualified as unskilled labor, which means my hands were always firmly clasped around some tool of ignorance. Oh, how I grinned like a fool. But, in those instances, George was in his glory. His vision and plan for completion was excellent. He'd still have that home now if not for one error. They should have bought land in Redmond to be near medical care because when push came to shove, they were too far into the wilderness for practicality's sake. Still, building his own house from scratch stands as one of George's greatest life achievements.

Setting up the Mexican train.

Adventure 433: The Story of George, 10

January 29, 2018

Real time today found George awake, looking sharp in his new Swing Easy/Hit Hard pull over, and gobbling his breakfast like a street waif with a free food coupon. He took pills on his own, his color looked good, and this marks his steady improvement since lat week. I left to visit the Social Security  Office to see if we could get a new card to replace George's lost one. My time at the SS Office, filled as it was with scores of people who by their appearance, their hacks and coughs,  and their tepid postures, would seem to have tales of woe far more serious than any I could come up with. There was one bright spot. I sat, body to body, in the 75 seat waiting room. To my right, was a lady under forty whose story I'm sure would count as sad. But to my left, there was a young mother with her toddler, Amari Lynn. Amari, no more than three, was operating her mother's phone, watching Youtube videos that tested her knowledge of colors. A dancing figure would appear and then a printed word in it color "Yellow". Amir identified each one correctly. She was not only cute, but clearly bright. She clearly had limits as well. She asked, "May I pick this one?" I spent three hours at the Social Security office before I made my way to the window for my turn. It turns out it was a good visit that was well worth the time. I had gone to get anew card. I came out controlling George's monies, although this will be after several more paperwork shuffles. It's a good step that will simplify things when George becomes completely unable to manage his own affairs.

I remember one summer visit. Tom and I and Wendy, our step sister were there. We spent a hot summer day out on the Clearwater river swimming and enjoying the weather. At the time, I was about eleven. I was a good swimmer, and I wasn't intimidated by the strong current of the river. I also remember running up to Wendy, stopping suddenly which caused sand to lurch onto her book. She barked at me. Mostly, i remember it as a good time. Those times are really few and far between, but I even went up the Clearwater river in my young adult years to see if I could find the place we spent on the river. Sometimes it's nice just to focus on the good times.

Adventure 432: The Story of George, 9

January 27, 2018

In real time today, George was dressed in his Sunday best waiting for Vina to come down for breakfast when we arrived around 7:30 A.M. He looked good, and though he forgot to take his morning pills, his energy, color, and awareness were good. He even talked about quitting using the walker he's been using lately and going back to the cane. He said he doesn't like to wait for the walker when he goes places. With the cane he can just get up and go. On our walk today, Judy and I were agreeing that compared to last week at this time, he's made significant gains. We've got him on two days per week of physical therapy and two days a week of home health nurse. We're getting him in the urology pipeline, and I'm still trying to get the documents together for his VA application. We're also beginning to talk with skilled nursing programs around town for when that time comes. Fortunately for us, the weather has been mild since we returned. February can roar in around here, but just as often lately, things stay mild until spring, which always brings its bone chilling wind and wet. I've always tried to convince Judy that there's no reason to be in Spokane in winter. That's not quite true this year, so hear, hear for a mild year!

George has a small tattoo on each arm. On one side are his own initials. G.E.W. On the other, the initials are B.M.K. The B stands for Bonnie, the M for Marie, and the K for Knopp. Apparently, she and George had enough of a relationship that he had her initials burned into his body for a lifetime. Anyway, she didn't wait for him while he was at sea. She took up with another guy. George was so broke up, he found another cutie by the name of Christine Ruden. I'm part of the rest of the history after that. I've been asking George questions about his youth in order to mine some stories, but my story of George is really the story of me. Once, I remember George and Chris arguing. Judy, my youngest sister, was a baby of that age between crawling and just learning to walk. Mostly, she crawled and then rocked back into a sitting position. The scene I witnessed was George came in the house. There was a short hallway that led into the kitchen. Judy was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. Chris was standing at the sink when George walked in. I followed George, but kept a little back. Arguing ensued. Suddenly, Chris took a step forward, picked up a salt shaker off the table, and flung it hard in George's direction. It was a poor throw. Really, it bounced once and skittered to a rest. Judy screamed, George ducked. I stood dumbfounded, but obviously marked for life. It was another blow my parents gave me without ever touching me. 

Adventure 431: The Story of George, 8

January 27, 2018

Today, in real time, George had a small mishap. His watched fell off of his night stand. He couldn't find it, which caused him some consternation. He looked for an hour before Judy went back in to see what was the matter. He finally made it to breakfast, ate quite a good bit and drank plenty of water. Judy then walked home. I came back fro Tai Chi about ten-thirty. We went back over both to change his night table to a bigger one and to meet Annette, the home health nurse. We changed the table, but missed Annette. When we asked George what she said,he replied, "Not much of anything; she just pushed a few buttons on her machine." I guess if she found anything unusual, she'd contact us. We're going to try and stay away for the whole night and check on him in the morning. We've been there every day, twice, three times a day, so now when he sees us, he laughs a little and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "You guys, again?" Hopefully, these home health nurses can provide a buffer for us, and hopefully, he continues to improve.

George had a fifth grade teacher named, Mrs. Maxwell. She had a cattle ranch in Grangeville, Idaho. For two straight summers, George worked up there caring for the horses, the cattle, the chickens, the cats, and whatever other critters she had running around the place. George was one of four ranch hands. Two were older boys, and one boy the same age as George. George was high spirited as a kid. He had lots of energy and was none too mischievous. He was a good worker, and he was fun to have around. Rosa and George. Sr. were only too glad to have him out from under foot in the summer, especially since he was working outside and working with his hands. It wasn't all work, and one of the fun things to do was ride the horses. George was eager, but green. The first time he got up on a horse, he must have kicked it the wrong way because it reared, tossing him off like cheap compliment. He landed right on his noggin. He still carries a white scar from landing on the saddle horn. Undeterred, George got back on the horse, and over time because quite a good rider. He has fond memories of his time at Mrs. Maxwell's ranch.

Hey George, "What did the nurse say?" "Not much of anything." (His short term memory at the moment is non-existent. The doctors say the infection messes with the brain. We're hoping he regains some of his operating memory.

Adventure 430: The Story of George, 7

January 26, 2018

Real time continues to be a roller coaster. We had our grand daughters over for an overnighter last night, so we didn't check on George until mid morning. He was still asleep at ten-thirty when we arrived. He got up easily, but he wasn't hungry. He did take his pills and drank a bit of protein water. We continued on to Tai Chi with the old folks. Dad sat and watched. He ate lunch, and we'll make our final check for the day after dinner.

The following excerpt is from the memory banks of my sister, Judy, who is following The Story of George from her home in Uji City, Japan. Maybe my brother, Tom, has some input as to summer visits.

As for our summer visits to see Dad and Margaret. I believe I was in second or third grade at the time. The only group visitations I can remember ended in disaster.  We were staying with them at their place in the orchards.  Across the street was the man with the horses Ely ????  (a lawyer, if I remember right).  That summer the four of us were left to our own devices during the day while Dad and Margaret were at work.  I remember the incident where the wind was up and someone (brothers I think) decided to put up the table umbrella, only to be caught in the wind and blown over.  The neighbour lady was on the watch and reported all to Margaret that evening and we were all in trouble.  

During that same visit, the plug in the bathroom went missing and was found in the basement under the stairs near the empty beer bottles.  I remember us four lined up in the basement looking at the place where "the lost plug" was found and Dad yelling at us, with Margaret in the background arms folded over her chest scowling.  Dad was demanding to know who threw the plug there.  

In the end, I was the one who was blamed and in honesty to this day, have no knowledge of doing this misdeed.  After that time, I believe we visited separately.  Sandy and I and then you and Tom.  Sandy and I stayed with Gramma most of the time, and on the weekend when Dad was off, we would spend time with him, but not much time with Margaret.  I feel that Gramma stepped in and was a wall of protection between us and Margaret when we were young.

Adventure 429: The Story of George, 6

 In real time George is getting so consistently up and at 'em that this recording may become suspended for the time being. He's been up, alert, and active in the last three days. Our measures are: he's dressed, his bed is made, and he's taken his pills. In addition, it appears as if his energy and sense of humor have returned a little bit.

January 25, 2018

As an absent Dad, George didn't do some of the "take me out to the ball game" kinds of things that many dads did, but he did watch me play basketball a few times while I was playing for the University of Portland. After graduating from high school, I was accepted to University of Portland. The plan I was going to live with Dad and Margaret. At the time, they were in a house in North Portland just a few blocks from campus. I had been a varsity basketball player in high school, but even as a frequent starter, no college coach was looking to recruit me. I loved the game, so I decided to walk on, and since it was a risk anyway, I decided to be aggressive. I was always a tough, smart defender who didn't mind getting his cheeks bruised, but in high school my job was to bring the ball up, initiate the offense, and set up our scorers. My senior year, the first and third leading scorers in the league played on our team. Once I passed it, I didn't see it much after that. I shot the ball 52 times my senior year. I made 46 of the attempts. Mostly, the only time I got to shoot was a lay up after I stole the ball from my opponent. Anyway, when I walked on, I decided to become a scorer as well as a passer. I not only made the team, but by the third game I was starting. I averaged 10.5 pts.; 3 assists and 3 three steals per game. I was also third on the team in offensive rebounds. I played just the one year; at game ten, our coach died of a heart attack one morning. The new coach brought in six really good players the next year. The plain truth is that I wasn't quite good enough to play with those guys. But one game during my glory year George came to see me play. I was a self-made shooter. I practiced often, and when I shot it I expected the ball to go through the rim. This game that Gorge watch, I shot the best I've ever shot in a game. It must have been the extra emotion. It was strange to see dad sitting there behind our bench. I made 14-15 baskets for 28 pts. Most of my shots came  from beyond the three point line, which didn't exist at the time. If the rule had been in place, I would have scored 42. Either way, it was a lifetime best, and one of the few times George was there to see me play. I played just that one year of college basketball. Of all the games and practices, that one night stands out, not just because we upset Santa Clara (61-60) who was nationally ranked at the time, but mostly because I took the chance to impress my dad.

Adventure 428: The Story of George, 5

January 24, 2018

I thought if I said, "In real time..." I should actually be in it, so here I am today. George was up, dressed, bright, shiny, and joking a little. His bed was made; pills were taken. He played dominoes last night, but the report is he's forgetting how to play. He napped in the afternoon yesterday, but his energy is increasing.

After George married Margaret, I saw Dad once a year in the summer. I'll have to ask my sister and brother what they remember about visitation, because I don't have any collective memories of us all being there. Regardless, that routine lasted throughout my entire life-a short visit once a year. But I digress. More about George. When they were kids, they ice skated on the irrigation ponds. Every local kid would come over, some adults, too, and they'd have a bonfire to keep warm. Well, with teenagers, it's always more fun at night, especially with boys and girls mixing as they do, and the adults didn't come at night. Needless to say, there were some "night moves" happening. There were also hijinks and quite a bit of hooting , hollering  and carrying on! One of the neighbors took a dislike to the commotion, so he let water out of the holding tank, which caused a dangerous gap between the ice and the water, which caused a fissure, which caused a failure. A loud "Crack!" A few screams. No one was hurt, but the father of three of the girls who were skating that night, a big guy named, Jess Chapin, went over to the "neighbor" who had drained the water. George said, "He lifted him up off the ground by his neck and said, "If you ever endanger these kids again, I'll kill ya." It left an impression on George, and I'm sure the neighbor, too.

 Vina, ruling the roost.

Adventure 427: The Story of George, 4

January 22, 2018

In real time yesterday we arrived to find George sound asleep. He woke up easily, got dressed, and ate a pretty good breakfast of raisin bran, grapes, protein water, and a couple of pieces of bacon that Vina brought in. We stayed for a couple of hours, yet. Dad read the paper, Judy knit, and I engrossed myself in A Prayer for Owen Meany. About eleven, Dad went with Vina to knit-wits. Judy and I met Deb and Ed for a walk, a chat, and a coffee. They walked us home, and we took George to the doctor where he had blood drawn, a hip X-Ray, a urine draw, and a check over by Doctor Mueller. Dr. signed all the referrals we need for the urology office, the home health nurse, and we filled out new POLSTS, including two for Judy and me. It took nearly three hours. George held up well. We dropped him just in time for dinner.

George married Margaret the day Kennedy was assassinated. I was in seventh grade. Everyone my age remembers where they were that day. Tom and I visited the newlyweds that summer for a few days. It may have been a week, but whatever it was, it was hard.  Margaret was a complicated woman, but most of all she was hard. She drove hard; worked hard; lived hard; dealt with others in brute, hard ways. George loved her; the rest of us, not so much. She was a striking beauty, though, and at the time she had waist long thick, luxurious red hair that she religiously stroked 100 times a night. I have a clear memory of watching her brush her hair, but I digress. In the summer of my eighth grade year, there must have been something happening in George's lizard brain because he had broken things off with Margaret, and here he had shown up in Spokane to restart things with Chris, my mom. I don't know if he was driven by the guilt of leaving his four kids fatherless, or if he couldn't evaluate his feelings for these women, or what. I don't know what he was thinking. I know the whole romance was intense. The breaking news was that we were getting back together as a family. The whole thing lasted a week before George puttered off in his little Karmann Gia. I remember sitting on the roof of our house later that day writing George a hate letter in red ink. I never did deliver it, but he gave me a harsh blow that day, and he didn't even touch me.

 Vina is a vital part of the care giving team.

 George, much to the joy of his mother, makes his bed every day.

George, waiting patiently for his appointment.

 He's still ambulating.

Adventure 426: The Story of George, 3

January 21, 2018

Real time yesterday morning was a surprise. When Judy and I got to Harvard Park a little after seven, George was already dressed sitting in the main living room waiting for Vina. He looked fresh, was dressed sharp, and he was alert. We said, "Wow! and when Vina came down, they headed off for breakfast while we headed to church. Lunchtime was a bit more subdued. He was asleep at noon; I didn't rouse him. He got up about three; we watched the football game, but his involvement was merely as a presence. He dosed off and on, but went to dinner, ate well, and he and Vina were just setting up dominoes as we left. So, he's trying to reach normal, but he's still extremely low on vigor.

George and Rich and Grandma drank a few more at home until, at some point, the guys had to get back home. They decided to hide the case of beer they bought for the road inside the engine department in case they were stopped. They were, because even as George often claimed, "We are good people, so we follow laws; besides it don't pay to get caught." That day, the effects of the evil demon, alcohol, took over. They were pulled over. The funny thing is that the first place the police officer looked when he reached the car for booze was the engine compartment. Maybe that's when George learned that it doesn't pay to flaunt the law.

In truth, George and Rich were only minor delinquents, but they'd made enough bad decisions to develop suspicion. For example, before George left for the Navy, while he was still in high school, he and Rich used to siphon gas out of their neighbor's farm machinery to fill Rich's motorcycle tank. Marie had several hundred acres, which made the Williams' five acres look puny, but George Esher Williams Senior, George Jr's dad, was a hard working man with a gift for small plot farming. He kept a couple cows, a flock of chickens, grew a little alfalfa, maintained several fruit trees, a couple of nut trees, and he managed an incredibly large garden. Of course, the kids helped. The family tree flowed from George E. Williams, Sr. and Rosa Williams to six kids: Betty, Bob, Rich, George, Jr. Roger, and Jim. Everybody had jobs, and both George Sr. and Rosa worked outside the home. George, Sr. worked at a sawmill in his early years, but eventually caught on with the railroad, and spent most of his working life as a fireman for the Sante Fe. Rosa was a nurse at the hospital. Anyway, back to Marie Howard. She was a prissy lady who thought quite a bit of herself. I guess that's how George and Rich justified stealing her gas. They never got caught.

Not getting caught by George, Sr. was entirely another matter. One time George decided to take the family car out for a joy ride. George always liked cars, and he thought, "Dad will never know, and besides, he won't be back from his run up to Headquarters until tomorrow. Mom's at work. Who will know? So, he took the car out, sped around the area, and 
altogether had a good time. He carefully replaced the gas to its starting level and eased the car back into the garage. He didn't quite get it back in the exact position George, Sr. had left it. Serious repercussions followed for George, Jr. At sixteen, George was still of an age to be beaten with the razor strap. He took several licks, but he grinned every time he looked at the family car. You see, George, Sr. liked cars, too, and his was a  brand new sleek, four door, standard black Ford sedan. George, Sr. never had a car older than two years. He made a life time habit of trading in his car for a new model every year. It's easy to see why George, Jr. may have been so tempted.

George and Vina heading to breakfast.

George's 1935 Ford Coupe Convertible with Rumble Seat.

Adventure 425: The Story of George, 2

Jan. 21, 2018

In real time yesterday, George looked pretty good. He still slept most of the day, and he didn't venture out of  his room, but he ate and drank a little bit during the day, he had a few people make a quick visit just before dinner, which flashed that good looking smile he's had a reputation for most of his life. For dinner, he ate most of a sandwich Vina brought him as well as a nice helping of potato salad. He also drank a nice amount of protein water. Judy and I spent the afternoon with my brother-in-law, Chuck O"Brien who is a nurse. We picked his brain, which is like miners striking it rich because not only is Chuck brimming with empathy, he's also extremely knowledgeable and competent. Basically, he's confirmed what we were thinking about next level care. In addition, he's put us in contact with folks who handle that kind of thing. He's also made us think about our personal involvement in terms of daily care. It was good information. We'll begin the research after tomorrow's doctor appointment. So life is good; we're holding steady.

I've decided to keep The Story of George to small daily blog length snippets. And realize, this is his story from my window. I didn't see every little thing I write about, but it's a question of nature/nuture. Even though I didn't spend a great deal of time with my father during most of my life, I find that I'm surprisingly like him in many ways. So, if I'm in doubt about describing something George may have done or felt or thought of, I simply substitute how i would act in such situations. I know we're different, but it's all I got.

Lewiston, Idaho was booming in 1950. Post war hallelujahs were in full swing. Business was booming, and people were having a good time. It was easy for George to climb off the band wagon of conquering hero, even though his Navy service was one year (1948-). After the war, those men and women who fought wanted to get home, so our government took what pains necessary to get people back to the U.S. That exodus resulted in much equipment being temporarily abandoned, and in some case permanently. But the Navy wanted its ships back, so it offered a one year program to graduating seniors. George qualified not only because he was a graduating senior in good standing, but also because he had no prospects, and certainly no goal for the future. George was a fair student doing what he had to to get by. Most often he would latch onto someone to "help" him with school projects, but in the shops, he was a star. George wasn't much of a reader, not much for book learning, but he was good with his hands, had a mind for mechanics, and could see the shapes he wanted to create. He spent all four years of high school taking metal shop, along with woodshop and auto shop. By his senior year, his teacher, who had friends working at the Potlatch Pulp Mill, had him machining parts for pay. George had a knack for the art, a good knowledge and respect for the machines, and he could work independently. That's why he ended up as a machinist's mate in the Navy. So, basically, during his year in the Navy, his service was to help keep the ships working while they steamed back to America. (George spent only the year, which means he doesn't qualify for Veteran's Benefits) I can just see good time George steaming back into the his little North Idaho town, brimming with spunk and confidence. George always liked a good time, and that meant smoking', drinkin', and carrying on. After all, it was the fabulous fifties. One story illustrates. George's grandmother and a few of his same age cousins lived in Coeur d' Alene,  about a two and a half hour drive north of Lewiston. George, who always had a nice car, had purchased a 1935 Cherry Red Ford Coupe Convertible. Hot in its day, it had a V-8 and a Rumble Seat. He and his brother, Rich, piled into the car, no seat belts but plenty of beer, and they headed off to see "the family". In those days in Idaho, a person of legal age could drive up to the liquor store much like we drive up to the hamburger stand today. George's grandma, Lillian Wyman, like beer, too. So, When George, Rich, and grandma Wyman ran out of beer, they all drove down to the drive through to pick up some more, and a little for the drive home. Needless to say, raucous behavior ensued.

Adventure 424: The Story of George, 1

Jan. 20, 2018

I skipped a day in real time. I think it was just all to real, but now I'm back. The bottom line is that Judy and I have just become in-house health nurses. We are in the maelstrom of an uncertain future. Currently, George sleeps most of the day. We wake him for meals, pills, and as much fluid as we can get him to ingest. He's awake for three hours a day at most. This pattern has lasted since he came home from his two emergency hospital stays. I can't decide if this is a normal recovery time from his UTI, or if he's aware enough to be depressed by this turn in his life circumstance. Regardless, our plan is to keep this rhythm up until something definitive happens.  George will be 88 years old at the end of July. He came to Harvard Park on his birthday three years ago. At that time I was hoping for five good years with him. It looks now like we may have had two and half good years followed by this indeterminate time, and perhaps, the end. I'm not in charge. I'm just one of the nurses.

If we go back to the beginning, Dad was about to turn twenty-one on July 31, 1951. I was born on May 15, and my mom had turned sixteen on October 12, 1950. Coming from Catholic families as they both did, the marriage bells started to ring. I've seen pictures. My mom did not wear white; instead, she wore a two piece brown dress suit over a white blouse. She wore a corsage. The picture was taken in front of St. Stanislaus Church in Lewiston, Idaho. They tried the best they could to live the dream. Dad worked three jobs: dairyman, gas station attendant, and gofer at the heavy equipment outlet. Later, he would get a job at the Post Office, which ended after he accidentally ran over a three year old with his mail jeep. The kid wasn't seriously hurt, but the mother created enough of an outrage, that George's head rolled. I have faint memories of two houses, and some distinct memories of the house we lived in on Seventh Avenue in Lewiston. That's where I had my first communion, and that's also where the traditional four children came for George and Chris, using the natural rhythm that Catholics like most. The result was four kids by 1956. Things get real fuzzy in my memory around that time. My next clear memory finds me and my brother, Tom, living with my grandparents (Dad, too). My mother and two sisters had left for Edmonds, Washington. Dad was still working for the Post Office then, and he was also developing his interest in golf. His work schedule allowed him to play daily, and I have a very clear memory of Tom and me chasing balls dad hit in an athletic field of the Lewiston Normal College. In the summer of my fourth grade year, Mom showed up in a 1946 hand painted red four door Plymouth. The doors were suicide doors, and the transmission was "three on the tree". Mom, and all four of us kids piled in with our stuff. I waved goodbye to Grandma, Grandpa and Dad. My life changed dramatically that day. In the meantime, George began a relationship with Margaret Henson, who at that time was a very feisty and attractive single mother. She had a good figure, rich red hair that fell to her waist, and she had an eye for George. I can just imagine the flirting that went on between the two at the bowling alley. They both liked to bowl, and I'm not sure if they were on the same team, or simply two teams bowling next to each other. But I have little trouble conjuring up the hot blood my father must have had surging as he watched Margaret roll her ball down the lane. When I knew her as a young woman, I knew her to be fond of cashmere sweaters and neatly pressed linen slacks. She had an ample bosom, a small waist, and while her pants were not overly tight, they were comfortably form fitting. Anyway, to hear Dad tell it, the next thing he knew she was inviting him into her bed. They were married the day Kennedy got shot at the Justice of the Peace in Coeur d'Alene. I was in the seventh grade.

Adventure 423: Fracless Day Thirteen

Resemblance?

That's it for the Fracless traveling adventure. Tale of the tape; 3260 miles in thirteen days. I flew to Phoenix on Tuesday, arriving at 1:50 P.M. We immediately set out North and ended up in Las Vegas by 7:30 P.M. The next day we drove from Las Vegas to Ontario, Oregon, a total of 695 miles. We drove from just before dawn to just after sunset. Today, we hit the road at 6:30 A.M. Mountain time. Almost immediately, we gained an hour as we passed into the Pacific time zone. We made it to Spokane just before noon. We were blessed with more than our usual traveling mercies on the way back. We had no weather challenges at all, the traffic was manageable all the way, the truck performed reliably, and we are at peace with our decision to come home. While away, our daughter Leticia, who is a gifted, compassionate care giver, took care of Dad. We're with him tonight. He's a bit more lively, having been out in the general population for both lunch and dinner. I'm hopeful he's on the way to recovering. Besides our hands on ability to care for Dad now, we're also in a position to be with Dave and Liz Ulmen as they battle Dave's cancer treatment. We're helping with the mission of fattening up Dave. Tonight, we brought them a pan full of baked pasta, which should be easy for Dave to slurp down despite his sore throat. They say things happen for a reason. I hope that reason is the full recovery of those we care about. That's the thing about hope: it gives a person a whole tingly feeling, and that makes life good, especially today.

Note: This is officially the end of Fric and Frac's Fracless Adventure.

Blog entries from here forward will be The Story of George. 

Selfie of the Day: Me, my Bunny, my Dad.

 Until next time, open road.

Adventure 422: Fracless Day Twelve

Bunny Life is Good.

I drove with a purpose today. We left Las Vegas at 6:30 A.M. and arrived, 695 miles later, in Ontario, Oregon. The weather was warm and dry, the traffic was light or cooperative, and I had my Bunny at my side conducting business. She reactivated our comcast account, made an appointment for George with the Doctor, arranged for our stay in Ontario, and together we brainstormed our next course of action. Meanwhile, Leticia was handling George. He's always done well with bossy women, so Leticia wraps him around her little finger. Get this. Yesterday, she fed him Kale and parsley salad that she made from our garden. Dad said, "I don't eat lettuce." She said, "Great, this is Kale; it's way healthier than lettuce. Awhile later, she said, "George, how about some leg exercises?" He replied, "Can't you see I'm wiggling my toes." So, obviously, his spirits brighten when she's there. She gave him a massage with a lotion potion she made for him. She did his wash, monitored his shower, and scratched his back. Tonight, she said he felt like going out of his room to play bingo with the other Harvard Parkers. Whenever Dad would get his back up at her telling him what to do, TC would say, "Hey, I'm not the boss; I'm just following Vina's orders. I don't think he's quite back to being independent yet, but these are all good signs. If we're granted traveling mercies for another day, we'll be home by early afternoon. We laughed today at the notion of how lucky we were that we hadn't unpacked the truck. We simply took a 3,000 mile joy ride. I wonder what the unlucky folks are doing. At any rate, life is good, especially today.

Boot Camp report: No alcohol; only driving exercise; truck munchies: apples, grapes, cheese, bagels and peanut butter; an excellent Angus burger for dinner. Best of all, we've made a plan for "winter' boot camp when we get home.

 The Irish, who know a little bit about life's struggles, seem to have a solid perspective.

 And the Wiley Cager said, "At least I didn't get skunked."

 Small town eateries are notoriously average, but in Ontario, Oregon they serve home grown, grain fed Angus beef. This burger was excellent; the mushy fries not so much. In the spirit of Boot Camp, we left most of them behind,

Adventure 421: Fracless Day Eleven

A nice day for travel.

I'm noticing a bit of angst in my spirit, a bit of annoyance with other humans such as the woman who stood up (as we prepared to exit the plane) backing herself right into my personal space without so much as a "How do you do?", or the five or six completely inept plump girls at one of the Boise airport coffee stands amusing themselves with talk of work, dates, and job complaints, all the while failing to notice that every pot of coffee on the self-serve stand was empty. No service. No fill. How inviting. Some people would blow their "disgust" fuse all over people like this, and I might too, if it ever made me feel better. But it doesn't, so I just notice my feelings and find other ways to assuage my angst. I'm also noticing that I'm a little more sensitive, a little more inclined to be miffed, and a little sad that the expectations for my immediate future have changed. In my view, that's what I get for assuming. But it's not bad. Life is still very good. I'll have a chance to convalesce with my buddy, Dave; I'll have a chance to spend the winter training with my Tai Chi teacher, a pleasure that I've given up in recent winters, and I'll have the chance to fulfill my sonly duties, which may be full of conflicts, contradictions, and ironies, but nonetheless require my full attention. Speaking of irony or coincidence, I'm currently re-reading one of my all time favorite books, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Among others, these three passages have given me pause.

First, When did you begin to think that events of specific things were important, or that they had special purpose?

Second, The trick to having faith is that we must believe in God without any reassuring evidence, or any evidence at all, that we don't inhabit a godless universe.

Third, There are no coincidences. Owen Meany believed that coincidence was a stupid, shallow refuge sought by stupid, shallow people who were unable to accept the fact that their lives were shaped by a terrifying and awesome design.

Fourth, Doubt is the essence of faith, not its opposite.

So what to think? I guess my position is that we in the human condition simply adjust. I know you might be thinking, "What choice do we have?" While that's true, the answer is we have the choice of response. I chose not to respond to rude behavior; I choose not to be non-plussed by ineptitude, incompetence, intolerance, or any of the other "ins". Instead, I hold fast to this idea: "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

Thankfully, I'm not one of those people who say when the going gets tough, "I wish I were dead." I want to live and live well. That's my choice. So, regardless of what comes, my position is, and will continue to be, "Life is good, especially today.

Boot Camp report: No alcohol (It's early even for me); idle walking through Boise airport; fried egg sandwich, and a "stress" burrito wrap at the feeble coffee cafe at the Boise airport. It may be time to re-evaluate and re-dedicate my intentions to improve my physical fitness given the fact that bike riding will likely not occur in Spokane until spring. Stay tuned, the human spirit has infinite avenues for excuse, capitulation, and my favorite, rationalization. 

Addendum Day Eleven

We decided we were lucky we didn't have to unpack the truck. I arrived about 1:00 Phoenix time, and I drove with a purpose (Much like my cousin, Douglas, who would be proud.) We arrived at our Hampton Inn in North Vegas a little bit after 6 P.M. We even took time to have a sit down dinner at the very adequate Palacio Mexican Restaurant in Kingman. We got  lucky twice. First, when I thought I WAS my cousin as I squeezed us into the very, very end of a passing lane, and second when a gap opened in the heated traffic of downtown Las Vegas when the GPS said I needed to move over three lanes within a quarter mile. If a guy can't be good, it helps to be lucky. Good night. More road time tomorrow.

 Straight like an arrow back to the cold Northwest.

 Goodbye, desert.

Goodbye, cactus.

Adventure 420: Fracless Day Ten

Ice Cream all gone.

I had a dream recently where I was watching myself from a safe vantage point. So, in this out of body experience my safe self was watching my unsafe self body surfing on a huge wave shaped like a half moon,  a mass of foaming power. I floated on it like a soap bubble. I remember feeling the motion as I was hurled forward toward the beach. I had no control, and no choice but to "go with the flow". Eventually, I was tossed off the wave as easily as a cow's tail whipping a small fly off its back. I tumbled, unhurt, onto the beach. My safe self thought my unsafe self looked like the Wiley Coyote in the midst of another of his outrageous crashes, which of course, he deserved as punishment for trying to harm that sweet little "beep", "beep".. I don't know the meaning of the dream, but it did wake me up, and as I shook myself into consciousness, I physically checked to see if I was all right. I guess I am because here I am riding this current wave of reality. I've heard that some Christians who battle adversity say, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle." So, this morning when I woke up with the sore throat, and when I discovered  that the refrigerator water filter required replacing, and when I discovered that Dad had flushed one of the straps holding his catheter bag down the toilet, I asked,  'Really?" In reality, these small trials are so insignificant, they're ludicrous, and except for the sore throat (which could bloom into a bigger issue), I found it all quite funny. We've had a good morning otherwise. Dad's eaten applesauce, chicken broth, cranberry/orange juice, a small bowl of ice cream, three glasses of water, and two orange slices so far. While not active, he is awake, and his physical appearance is rosy. I don't think he's ready to move into the general population, but I'm going to try and keep him awake for a while, and I'll make an effort to get some chicken noodle soup into him at lunch. In the meantime, I've got gameshows blaring in the background as I type this. Last night, I made the trip out to my friend, Dave Ulmen's house. He's in the beginning stages of cancer treatment, which so far he is tolerating quite well. Meanwhile, he's living the good life. His youngest son and wife and grandson, Gus, spent this weekend at home. His oldest son and wife and granddaughter, Celia , come this week, and next week, his middle son and wife (no progeny yet) come. Nothing makes the ride better that family, especially the grandchildren. I only have three; they're all great. I can only imagine what my former in-laws, Jack and Chotsie O'Brien, felt when they were surrounded by theirs. They had 35, and more if we count marrieds, adoptees, etc.  Regardless of the number, I imagine their joy was much the same. I know that Dave and Liz take joy in theirs. It's likely true for most of us. Which brings me to my observation of the day. Back in the sixties a musician named Cannonball Adderly had a song called "Walk Tall". It was a message to African Americans to stay true to the struggle. He said in part. "There's a lot of funky stuff coming down, a lot of rain and thunder, a lot of cold weather, but none of that matters until the storm begins to get you down." He said, "You must face the storm, you must walk tall right into it, take its full force with pride, and never bend under the raging wind." I like that idea, and I also like the comfort of a safe refuge. Family and friends provide that safe place. So, that then helps make life good, especially today.

Boot Camp report: Three shots of bourbon ingested; very little exercise, except for the first sixty-eight moves of the form; random, mindless food consumed as a pitifully weak stress response.

 Dave with his favorite grandson, Gus.

 One of the more surreal parts of this event comes to my mind when I think I just may be looking into my own future.

 Dad made this little sock snowman. Cute.

 His energy is a bit better, his mind seems clearer, and his dexterity with his pills was good.

Vina is a big help, both in terms of advocacy and in terms of companionship.

 Navy George, circa 1949.

 Dad likes ice cream so much, I think I could get him to eat a whole gallon. I didn't realize that my sweet tooth was hereditary.

Adventure 419: Fracless Day Nine

Hobo Scramble. Hold the Cheese.

It did occur to me that this posting about my Dad may be TMI. It's sensitive, but I've decided the documentation is an effective social media vehicle to keep my siblings informed. Liike all challenging situations: the path is assess, determine, decide. Of course, a person needs help and comfort. Food is comforting. comfort helps, and, in reality, I didn't get this XXX petite body by accident. I eat for all reasons, hunger not even being in the top five. I eat to celebrate, to commiserate,  and to deliberate. I eat idly, often after I've just eaten. I eat randomly, often while I'm fixing something to eat. I eat when I'm nervous, excited, scared, bored and when I'm frustrated. I also eat to enjoy, to celebrate, and to socialize. I eat to indulge. I eat to assuage feelings. I eat for fun. I like to chew. I even eat myself (I'm back to biting my nails). Eating is good. It's comfortable, and obviously, I use it as a stress release. So, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the first thing I did this morning after my usual hot tub soak was to go to Frank's Diner for an early meal. It was good. I also wanted to give Dad time to get up on his own so I could observe what his morning routine was. I'm now sitting in his apartment typing this reflective, partly brainstorming documentation about this current situation. It looks like Dad emptied his own bag this morning. I got him to drink a little juice, a little water, and he took his pills. He hasn't eaten. He's sleeping now. I think the infection and the cold he is getting over have knocked him for a loop. So, before we can proceed with any definitive decision going forward, we have to re-build his "daily living" strength. It's all quite real. At breakfast, I overheard the waitress talking with a couple my age. I gathered the woman's father was in the hospital struggling with some obnoxious infirmity. Curiously, it doesn't provide any solace to know that "my story" while common, isn't unique. They say, "It's Hell to grow old." There seems to be mounting evidence that this is true, but what of that? I've never been much of a "Why me, poor me", person. I'm more of a "What now" person.  I can understand that it's difficult to accept these stages of life as just part of the circle. No matter. My morning horoscope, which I read daily, said this morning: "You might not like sudden changes, but you don't fight it". Eerily, it could be like a song lyric I heard in Boston one year, "That Moses, he was a voodoo sort of guy." Voodoo notwithstanding, the requirements  we face are pretty straight forward. First, help him to regain a normal, or "new normal" daily operating strength. Second, on the next business day schedule his catheter replacement appointments. Third, teach him a solidly clean protocol for emptying his bag. Fourth, begin looking into assisted care facilities as that requirement seems imminent.. I don't have a crystal ball, or God's infinite view, so I don't know when that next stage will come, but come it will. If any of you out there in blog land has any insight, please feel free to give me suggestions. In the meantime, I'm sitting here typing the blog update; the football playoffs are on in the background, and otherwise I'm living the dream because as you all know by now, life is good especially today.

Boot Camp report: fell into the bourbon bottle three times last night; no exercise unless you call agitated pacing, "steps"; ate sushi and cereal for dinner.

 Frank's Diner, a better than average breakfast joint that's run out of an elegantly attired old rail car.

 Ambience is no small part of enjoying a good meal.

The father, resting comfortably.

Adventure 418: Fracless Day Eight

Tranquility at breakfast.

Off we go into the wild unknown. I'm sitting in the Portland airport waiting to connect to Spokane. Dad was re-whisked to Sacred Heart Hospital this morning as a result of his ongoing urinary infection. Thankfully, Leticia is there to give him support.  As for me, the Kral's whisked me to the Tucson airport just in time to catch a flight back home. Such is the life of folks my age charged with the care of their parent. It's unknown at this point whether this will blow up our winter plans, but the possibility isn't unexpected. Judy is in the able care of our friends in Tucson, and I will be able to ascertain Dad's condition when I get to the hospital. It's counter productive, in my view, to suppose anything at this point. Like one of those bands sang somewhat long ago: "Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy." Having admitted that this is a crazy time, it pales in comparison to the challenges other people face. I've always felt that way, and my response to adversity has never been, "Why me?" Rather, it's always been, "What now?" Not in the sense that what will happen next, but rather in terms of what will be the best course of action given this particular set of circumstances. Regardless, I'll still likely feel that I'm the luckiest man on the planet. The flight from Tucson was exquisite. We were on a new plane. There were no shimmies, no shakes, no angst, and no  trouble landing. We even had a magnificent view of Crater Lake, so what's not to like. It reminded me of a bicycle trip we took a few years ago around Mt. Bachelor. Quite amazing how different the perspective is from thousands of feet skyward. Enough of that reverie. The most recent news is that they've installed a permanent catheter in Dad. Leticia entertained him during his stay in the hospital by giving him a manicure and a pedicure and by giving him her unique (and special) brand of irresistible love. I'm sure that calmed him down. They've released him from the hospital, and by the time I get back to Spokane, he will have returned to his home at Harvard Park. I'll spend the next few days arranging for home health nursing to make sure he's taking his medications, and God willing, I'll fly back to Phoenix on Tuesday. I'm not really grasping at that possibility. More than anything, I'll respond to whatever comes, which is in keeping with the notion that life is good, especially today.

 Tranquility in the garden.

 A flurry of activity at the Tucson airport

A calming, awe inspiring view of Crater Lake.