ever had parsnips?

We had dinner with Bill and Catherine a week ago Sunday, and she made us a traditional British Sunday dinner consisting of roast leg of lamb with mint sauce, brussel sprouts with a cream sauce, and three kinds of roasted root vegetables, including parsnips. I am not proud to say that I did not even try the brussel sprouts, having a strong aversion to them since I was a child. (I barfed them back out onto my plate the first time I was forced to eat them. Boy, did that make my parents mad!) Anyway.

I had never eaten parsnips before, and they were a revelation. They had carmelized as they roasted, and they were creamy and sweet and delicious. They were my favorite part of the dinner, in fact. Catherine sent the rest of the uncooked parsnips home with us, and I roasted them for the two of us the next day. Still delicious. Right on the edge of tasting like a yucky cooked carrot, but somehow managing to avoid it. I can't wait to explore all the possibilites of the humble parsnip.

Eating cooked vegetables is still a risky business for me. Growing up, the only cooked vegetables we ever ate came from a Birdseye box in the freezer. They had no texture and no flavor, and they generally smelled terrible. At least, that's how I remember it. I used to only like cooked corn, and for many years after I left home, that was the only cooked vegetable I would eat. Gradually, I have learned that buying fresh vegetables and cooking them yields unexpected flavor and texture. Thanks, Catherine, for adding another tasty vegetable to my growing list.

reason #4,357 why I hate February

This is how Wikipedia defines an ice dam:

An ice dam can occur when snow accumulates on the slanted roof of a house with inadequate insulation and warm air leaks into the attic at penetrations for plumbing stacks, wiring, chimneys, attic hatches, recessed lights, etc. These warm air leaks are known as attic bypasses. Heat conducted through the insufficient insulation and warm air from the attic bypasses warms the roof roof and melts the snow. Meltwater flows down the roof, under the blanket of snow, onto the eave and into the gutter, where colder conditions on the overhang cause it to freeze. Eventually, ice accumulates along the eave and in the gutter. Snow that melts later cannot drain properly through the ice on the eave and in the gutter. This can result in:

· Leaking roof (height of leak depends on extent of ice dam).
· Wet, ineffective insulation.
· Stained or cracked plaster or drywall.
· Rotting timber.
· Stained, blistered or peeling paint.

Under extreme conditions, with heavy snow and severe cold, almost any house can have an ice dam.

We currently seem to have two ice dams - one above the east window in Julie's room and one above the north window in the living room. I know this because water is drip, drip, dripping into our house in both those places. We had this problem in Julie's room last year, so that is not a surprise. The water in the living room, however, is a most unpleasant surprise.

Our living room is really a lovely room. I can honestly say this. It is a long, narrow room, with a wall of windows at either end. Ben and I have spent a lot of time and effort over the years to make this a pleasant, welcoming room. We had a hideous wood-burning stove removed from the fireplace last year. We have re-painted the walls - most recently only a couple of weeks ago. When the sun comes out, as it briefly did this morning, the living room glows, and I love to just look at it. Not today, however. The furniture is all pulled away from the windows at one end, and old towels catch the dripping water. I hate it. I hate being in there. I hate February.

sometimes, where you least expect it, joy

"Remember my old college suitcase?" my dad asked me recently. "I want you to give it to your cousin, Davey. He always loved it. Used to drag it around the house when it was bigger than he was."

Well, of course, I remembered the suitcase, but I wasn't at all sure that Dave would. The suitcase was older than me, needless to say, and the stickers on its side - "Ohio University" and "Phi Kappa Tau" were among my earliest memories. My dad took it on every business trip, and I remember it coming home festooned with tags from airports across the country.

When my brother, Bill, and I were at the house on Monday, I asked him if he could find the suitcase for me. Of course, he could, and soon he walked down the attic steps carrying the ancient, dusty suitcase. "Are you sure Dave will remember this?" Bill asked me, as he cleaned decades of dust from the leather surface. "Not at all," I replied, "but Dad wants him to have it."

As I drove home that day, I decided to give Dave a call. "Hey, I have a gift for you from your uncle," I told him. "Yeah, what is it?" "Do you remember his old college suitcase? He wants you to have it." I was totally unprepared for Dave's reaction. "Are you kidding me?! Really?! Do you know that the family story goes that I took my first steps towards that suit case? My first steps ever! I am so touched that he wants me to have that!"

"I didn't know, " I told him. I didn't know. And I don't think my dad did, either. But he certainly remembered the strong attachment he and his young nephew - and namesake - had shared. He gave Dave a gift that he may not have known the magnitude of, but that doesn't lessen its value. My heart sang as I drove the rest of the way home. By asking me to deliver his old suitcase, my dad gave me a gift, as well. The gift of joy. Thanks, Dad.

progress report - if you can call it that

We moved my dad to Wesleyan Village on February 1st. It was a cold, clear winter day. In less than two hours, the movers had moved everything Dad wanted to take. And then there we were - Dad and Ben and Bill and me all standing in the room that was now his home. We had lunch there with him, but then it was time for us to be on our way. It felt stranger than I can say to leave my dad there. The three of us went back to the house, and that was strange, too. My dad had embarked on his new life.

That was on a Monday. The phone call and email came on Tuesday evening. "Your dad is having some problems adjusting. He had a run-in with the RN about taking his meds. He walked out of the dining hall without dinner when he got confused. What is the best way to handle this?" I was not at all surprised to hear this. I was surprised and dismayed to be contacted so quickly, however. My reply was quick and, I hope, courteous. Dad was going to have to learn to adjust and get along. Without me. I believe my message was received, as I have not gotten daily status reports since then.

I waited a week and a half before I drove out to visit my dad. I thought that would give him time to settle in a bit and start to develop a routine. Hopefully, to adjust. He is not adjusting. He doesn't like it there. He says the meat is tough, and so he only eats salads. He is constipated, and talked about it endlessly. Dad has lost his inner filter - not that it ever worked that well. As we sat in a bank office waiting for a customer service representative, Dad turned to me and asked, "Ever had an enema?" I was surprised, offended, and pissed off. "Not that I remember, Dad," was the best reply I could manage.

I tried to shake the effects of that visit all weekend long, but couldn't quite do it. I had worked so hard to get him in the best place he could possibly be, and he didn't like it. I should be so lucky to end up someplace like that. When I talked to my brother on Sunday, however, he put things in perspective for me. "Dad was never going to be happy there. He's not happy anywhere. He's not happy." He's not happy. It's true. And I was wrong to think that changing his address would change him.

something about walking down the same street on the very same day...

President Obama and I were both in Elyria yesterday. That is what I am told, anyway. I didn't see him and he didn't see me, and I'm fine with that.

As I crossed the bypass, I noticed police cars parked at either side of the intersection. I assume they were there to stop traffic on all the side streets so that the presidential motorcade could speed along the highway. When I went to the post office to drop off Dad's change of address form, I could see further down the street that Cleveland Street was totally blocked off, with traffic being re-routed to Gulf Road. The president had lunch at Smitty's, apparently; a working-class greasy spoon where I never ate in all the years I lived in Elyria.

I think it's fine that the president visited Elyria, and I think it's even better that we didn't impact each other's time there in any way.

expect the worst, I always say

I dragged my ass out to Elyria yesterday, having this inner dialogue as I drove that was really just me listening to me complain. I didn't want to go to Elyria, my dad was going to give me a hard time about some things we had discussed on the phone the day before, the banks and post office would be closed, we wouldn't get enough done in the time I had there. As it turned out, everything I thought was wrong. Well, the banks and post office were closed, but other than that...

When I got to my dad's house, the concerns he had expressed to me the day before were gone. (They may come back, I know.) We picked up his new eyeglasses and had them fitted. That took almost no time at all, and he liked them so well that he left them on for the rest of the day, even though he had worn his old glasses for reading, only. After lunch, we went back to the house, and I loaded my car with some books he wanted to give me, and some paintings I wanted to have.

The most important thing we did yesterday, however, was sign all the papers - so many papers - and put down a security deposit for his studio apartment at Wesleyan Village. Dad will be moving there February 1st. His third-floor "apartment" consists of one large, sun-filled room and an ample bathroom. The room's two large windows face west and overlook a couple of shuffleboard courts, the small patio homes that are part of the Village, and past those, the tops of trees in a small woods that leads down to the bank of the Black River. This is where I have wanted him to live since we first visited Wesleyan Village. I am deeply satisfied. I hope Dad is, too.

did I mention one step forward and two steps back?

My dad had his assessment yesterday for his admittance to Wesleyan Village. What this means is that an RN from the Village came to his house and asked him some questions and gave him a couple of simple cognition tests. I thought he did pretty well. He certainly knew what day of the week it was, what year it was, and what state he lived in, anyway. There may be cobwebs in the corners, but he still does his own laundry, showers every day, and heats up the food Bill and I bring him. All good things.

When the conversation turned to his daily medication, however, the tone took a turn for the weird, as it so often does with my dad. Yes, he told her in answer to her question, he takes his medication every day, because he paid for it, but once he is finished with what he has, he doesn't want to take it anymore. The young lady looked up from her notes and focused her bright blue eyes on him. "Are you saying you would refuse to take your prescribed medication?" I looked up from my knitting at that point, pretty sure that Dad was on the verge of messing up all we had accomplished to that point. "I want to try to get along without it, once I am moved in," he replied. "That seems reasonable," I said, looking right at her. Yes, she agreed, that seemed reasonable. Whew.

I got a call from Roni, our incredible liason, later that day, and to my relief, she said the assessment had gone well, and we could think about setting up a move-in date. At that point, she and I laughed about my dad's comment, but for a minute there, it wasn't all that funny. What a relief it will be (on so many levels) to have him safely settled.