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.