Saturday, August 24, 2013

Adopted Dad


August 24, 2013

  “My memory is good but it’s short,” he chortles, trying to make sense of the story he is telling me, of his lengthy 89 year old life, including his handy livelihood, and small family. Gets lost in the middle of a sentence, while every other paragraph is like “Groundhog Day.” I don’t mind, helps me to work on the fabricated details, elaborating on a grander scale, the next time I tell my own sage, and the subsequent time. I suppose it is time for dinner somewhere on the planet, I finished lunch a few yawning hours ago. He orders me to get whatever I want and claims he wants the “bilt.” “Don’tcha know what that is? Then he, obviously pleased with himself, points to the BLT on the menu and laughs aloud. The waitress mimics my puzzlement and smiles at his joke. In her head, she is only thinking of the onslaught, the masses waiting for suppertime to clamber on their kitchen clocks, before heading out the door. She scurries off to the kitchen in haste, tossing wrapped napkins with silverware poking out the ends, san spoons.

           Choke down half of the greasy sandwich and a handful of the mound of tasteless fries, drank my gallon glass of non-sweetened iced tea, while swallowing the galloping words of my companion. He is a sweet, ancient soul, generous, and appears to enjoy my company. A champ, in my book.

We meander across the weary restaurant, as the tables fill. My aged friend and I arrived long before the Happy Hour Specials were announced, scribbled on the rotating board, in fact, for the only crowd who can read the doctor’s letters, the regulars. I understand the need to arrive early, to get the good parking spot out front and not fear the consequences when the BLT is “sold out.” However, this may very well mean another meal has to be eaten before bedtime. I could very well wither away to nothing before breakfast.

Easy to feel young and perky at 53 when I hang out with the elder. I am pop-sitting for an extended weekend in the country. Despite my limp, I canter ahead of him to open the door, and let myself out this morning. I chuckle when he insists it is too far to walk to the mailbox, just down the short drive to the highway. He allows me to take the wheel when we leave the property, which I appreciate, not sure that he is capable of getting the two of us to town without impaling me on a post, situated at the side of the country road. We take a drive daily, whether we need to or not, to the grocery store, post office (no, we have never put outgoing mail in the box for the carrier, have to take it into town) or to look up friends I have in a neighboring community, because I mentioned I know someone who lives there. Like I said, sweet, kind, and a gentleman. I had to insist they are off, riding horses for the weekend, and are not available for a visit. Yes, it is too bad.
 
     The phone rings this afternoon, nearly shatters the windows from the blare of the foghorn, that belches from his phone, reverberating off the sides of the little trailer. He laughs out loud at my alarm, assuring me he has to have it that loud to hear it. We have to listen to the blast until the answering machine picks up, the solicitor hung up immediately. He is satisfied it is not the President.

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