During a visit with dad, while he was a patient in an nursing home, the dietician on staff was conversing with dad about snacks. She read a list to him of snacks that were available to him. The list included lots of items like nuts, apples, crackers, protein bars, prunes, raisins, cookies to name a few.
She paused after reading the list, allowed dad a moment to think. Then said “Mr. Evans, what do you think?” Dad answered “cookies are better than prunes.”
In the latter days of his life dad was a patient in a nursing facility. During a visit with him I observed a hilarious interaction between dad and a nurse. She was doing an assessment and asking him a series of questions to see how grounded in reality he was. One question and answer stood out from the rest. She asked him “Mr. Evans, do you know where we are?” With zero hesitation, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes he said playfully “I do….but if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.”
Another theme that is woven into our stories is that we enjoy singing with gusto. And our son Joshua shares that joy. Like us, he sometimes struggles to remember the correct words. And sometimes he cannot pronounce the words correctly.
He struggles with the “th” sound. So mother comes out as “mudder” and father comes out as “fodder.” We love the way he says it so we let it ride.
He also struggles with “f’s”. The “f’s” disappear when he speaks. This is not a communication problem for us. Most times Dawn’s brain and my brain automatically insert the “f” and we understand him.
But some songs are problematic. Like Shift Work by George Strait and Kenny Chesney. When Josh sings the chorus with the “f” omitted, the song takes on an entirely different meaning.
Quick question: How often do you have the awareness and skills of observation to compare someone’s pupils?
If there are themes to my stories, one of them is that you can change your environment but you cannot escape genetics. I am frequently reminded of this as I age and reflect on how I arrived to my current state. I realize and embrace that I am still a work in progress.
Alcohol was not prohibited in our house. For a long as I can remember there were bottles of Bourbon on a very high shelf in a kitchen cabinet. These were gifts dad received from companies that he worked with that built custom machines for Great Lakes Carbon. That was a common “perk” in the sixties and seventies.
But mom and dad did not drink liquor. Dad would drink a beer in the summer on rare occasions. It is a safe bet that they never drank a drop of the Bourbon ever. Mom used it to make whiskey balls about once a year but that consumed very small amounts. And yet, over the years, the Bourbon either disappeared or got watered down to keep the bottle full. I still have several bottles, with unbroken seals, that ended up in my “stuff” after we cleaned out the house.
From 1980 to 1983 my brother and I were both in college and not living at 101 Cascade Street. On weekends we were both home it was a tradition of sorts to drive to Hickory and have a few beers. One weekend we made the trip to Hickory, consumed maybe three (or more?) beers each, and then headed back to the house. When we arrived we walked in and sat down at the kitchen table with mom and dad.
As we were talking, mom’s gaze went back and forth between us. After about thirty seconds mom declared “you boys have been drinking.” We both reacted with a “deer in the headlights” expression and denied it. She was having none of that. She said she was certain we had been drinking. So we acknowledged that we had a few beers. And we both sort of blurted out at the same time “how do you know?”
She said our pupils gave it away. We were like what?! Our pupils? She explained that she looked into our eyes and we both had one large pupil and one small pupil. She said that growing up she had learned to detect when her father had been drinking by looking at his pupils. One large and one small meant he had been drinking. We simultaneously got up from the table, went to the bathroom, stood side by side in front of the mirror and looked into our own and each other’s eyes. She was absolutely correct.
As I said, you cannot escape genetics.
Another one of my fathers maxims was that I had “the same pants to get glad in that I got mad in”. Maybe it was his way of saying “suck it up, buttercup!”
His point was that the person that I had to coexist with and reconcile my feelings with was me. The statement was meant to cause me to pause, reflect, process the emotion and then move on so I (and he) did not have to coexist with an angry me for an extended period.
Our autistic son is a loving, kind and compassionate man. He is also hilarious. About fifteen years ago we were on a family vacation trip to Florida. He is an early riser so I get the pleasure, and it truly is a pleasure, of taking him out to breakfast when we travel. This particular morning I was a little groggy when I woke ups so I did not review his clothing choices before we headed to the Chick Fil A.
After we received our meal and sat down to eat I noticed that his tee shirt was on inside out AND backward. I began to fuss at him about that and he listened patiently for a while. But as I went on and on, he raised his hand to stop me and then he scanned the entire restaurant with his eyes. He then looked at me eye to eye and said “it’s okay dad, nobody here knows me.” Pure gold!