So I got a call from Wesleyan Village this morning. "Dad is doing fine," the soothing voice on the other end of the line assured me right away, "but we've got a bit of a problem." You know, as soon as I saw that 440 area code in my caller I.D., I knew it wouldn't be good news. And it wasn't.
One of the requirements of living in an assisted care facility, it seems, is that once a year the resident's primary care physician must examine the resident and fill out a form pertaining to the resident's general health. You know, the results of an annual check-up. Doesn't seem like a big deal, does it? Well, that's because you're not my dad. Apparently, he insisted he doesn't go to doctors and so doesn't have a PCP. When told that he had visited the doctor a little over a year ago, he replied that he doesn't have transportation to get there now and so can't go. When assured that transportation could be provided for him, he declined, as he would have to pay for it.
"The last thing he said to me before he hung up on me, " the nice lady told me, "was to call his daughter. She got me into this mess." Yes, I got him into that mess. One only need look at my blog posts of early last year to see how I agonized over what to do with my dad as he had clearly deteriorated to the point where he could no longer live alone and care for himself. I shudder to think how things would be for him if he were still living in that decrepit house all by himself. The "mess" that I got him into was the best and most expensive facility in the area. Aren't I a bad daughter for doing that?
I explained to my caller that I live in Maryland now and that my dad is mad at me for moving so far away. (That is what I assume, anyway, as he has never said.) She did not have my updated info, and apologized for not knowing. "We will try something else then, " she assured me. That's what they will have to do because I can no longer drive to Elyria and take care of him. I most especially can't go out there now to deal with this. That would teach my dad that raising a fuss gets my attention. So I will treat him like an unruly child and be careful not to reward his bad behavior. Meanwhile, yeah, I feel like crap about it. And as ornery as my dad is, that's probably just what he wants.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
it still tastes salty
Ben always takes me to the ocean. I think I mentioned before that I never saw the ocean until Ben and I drove to Virginia Beach and Chincoteague Island in, I believe, July of 1979. I fell in love, and the affair is still going strong all these years later. I am told there are people who don't love - or even like - the beach and the ocean, but I don't really get that.
I don't know if I can describe what I love so much about the ocean, but I will try. In no particular order, I love the smell of it. I love the sound of it. I love how windy it is. I love the feel of it, curling around my ankles or trying to knock me over in the surf. I love walking along the beach and stopping to dig my toes into a whole colony of thousands of tiny coquina clams. I love the idea of swimming in the ocean with all the creatures of the Seven Seas. I love standing at the edge of the continent with nothing but the ocean in front of me all the way to friggin' Africa.
On Saturday, Ben and I went to the beach. We drove to Ocean City, which I was delighted to find was less than three hours from our house. My absolute exhileration began, however, as we crossed the Bay Bridge from Annapolis to the Eastern Shore. I craned my neck to look for huge ocean-going ships in the bay below me, and was delighted to see what looked like a whole flotilla of them to the south of us. I was thrilled to drive by so many familiar landmarks of all our trips to Chincoteague. We drove right over the Kent Narrows, where we used to have to stop if a tall sailboat needed to get past the drawbridge. We stopped and ate in Easton, where it seemed like every restaurant we passed was some place we had eaten before. We crossed the mighty Choptank River. We passed Rockawalkin Road. But just past Salisbury, where we usually swing south on 13 to head for Chincoteague, we stayed on US 50 and headed for Ocean City.
I had never been to the ocean when it wasn't summer. I had never been to the ocean without my bathing suit and sun tan lotion. Needless to say, then, I had never been to the ocean in my leather jacket, hoodie, and jeans. But that's how I went because although it was sunny and bright, it was also windy, and I needed every layer I wore.
This was my first visit to Ocean City, and I loved walking along the boardwalk with all its cheesy old souvenir shops. I love that shit. I feel like an eight year-old again with two quarters in my pocket. Ben and I were not the only ones strolling the boardwalk on a brisk Saturday in March, but it was by no means crowded, either. There were other people there just like us, enjoying an early spring afternoon with the promise of summer ahead of us. And this summer, we'll be here to keep that promise. And we'll be here in the fall and the winter, too. You see if we're not.
I don't know if I can describe what I love so much about the ocean, but I will try. In no particular order, I love the smell of it. I love the sound of it. I love how windy it is. I love the feel of it, curling around my ankles or trying to knock me over in the surf. I love walking along the beach and stopping to dig my toes into a whole colony of thousands of tiny coquina clams. I love the idea of swimming in the ocean with all the creatures of the Seven Seas. I love standing at the edge of the continent with nothing but the ocean in front of me all the way to friggin' Africa.
On Saturday, Ben and I went to the beach. We drove to Ocean City, which I was delighted to find was less than three hours from our house. My absolute exhileration began, however, as we crossed the Bay Bridge from Annapolis to the Eastern Shore. I craned my neck to look for huge ocean-going ships in the bay below me, and was delighted to see what looked like a whole flotilla of them to the south of us. I was thrilled to drive by so many familiar landmarks of all our trips to Chincoteague. We drove right over the Kent Narrows, where we used to have to stop if a tall sailboat needed to get past the drawbridge. We stopped and ate in Easton, where it seemed like every restaurant we passed was some place we had eaten before. We crossed the mighty Choptank River. We passed Rockawalkin Road. But just past Salisbury, where we usually swing south on 13 to head for Chincoteague, we stayed on US 50 and headed for Ocean City.
I had never been to the ocean when it wasn't summer. I had never been to the ocean without my bathing suit and sun tan lotion. Needless to say, then, I had never been to the ocean in my leather jacket, hoodie, and jeans. But that's how I went because although it was sunny and bright, it was also windy, and I needed every layer I wore.
This was my first visit to Ocean City, and I loved walking along the boardwalk with all its cheesy old souvenir shops. I love that shit. I feel like an eight year-old again with two quarters in my pocket. Ben and I were not the only ones strolling the boardwalk on a brisk Saturday in March, but it was by no means crowded, either. There were other people there just like us, enjoying an early spring afternoon with the promise of summer ahead of us. And this summer, we'll be here to keep that promise. And we'll be here in the fall and the winter, too. You see if we're not.
Monday, February 28, 2011
mea culpa
Yesterday was my dad's 84th birthday. I did not call him. I did not send him a present. Yeah, I feel bad about it. I sent him a birthday card, a post card, and his regular letter. I briefly considered sending him a potted plant, but when I asked Ben what he thought about that idea, he quickly vetoed it. And he was right. Last spring I took my dad some branches of blooming forsythia in a vase of water. They sat for weeks on his radiator until I removed them. Needless to say, they were quite dried out and dead by that time. I don't know why he left them like that, but he did. Maybe he figured I put them there, I could move them.
Dad doesn't make it easy. There is nothing he needs, but more importantly, there is nothing he wants. Last year, every time I went to visit him, I took him something. A new sweater. A beautiful quilt for his bed, which even Dad thought looked quite pretty. Soft, colored t-shirts so that he would quit wearing his white undershirts to dinner. I never saw him wear the sweater or the t-shirts. He returned the quilt to me and told me it was too heavy to sleep under. So he wears old sweaters over his undershirts, just like he always has. His bed is covered by a cheap, unzipped sleeping bag from Walmart. I never took him flowers again, needless to say.
Ben tells me all the time I should call my dad, and he is probably right. But I don't want to call my dad. He has never been good at talking on the phone, and he is even worse now. He has no small talk, nor is he interested in mine. That is why, really, the letters I send him on a regular basis are the perfect way to communicate with him. He can react to them - or not - any way he wants, and I won't ever know it.
These are my rationalizations for not calling my dad or sending him a gift for his birthday. Pick whichever one(s) work for you. They don't quite do it for me. On the positive side, today is the last day of February. Hooray for that, anyway.
Dad doesn't make it easy. There is nothing he needs, but more importantly, there is nothing he wants. Last year, every time I went to visit him, I took him something. A new sweater. A beautiful quilt for his bed, which even Dad thought looked quite pretty. Soft, colored t-shirts so that he would quit wearing his white undershirts to dinner. I never saw him wear the sweater or the t-shirts. He returned the quilt to me and told me it was too heavy to sleep under. So he wears old sweaters over his undershirts, just like he always has. His bed is covered by a cheap, unzipped sleeping bag from Walmart. I never took him flowers again, needless to say.
Ben tells me all the time I should call my dad, and he is probably right. But I don't want to call my dad. He has never been good at talking on the phone, and he is even worse now. He has no small talk, nor is he interested in mine. That is why, really, the letters I send him on a regular basis are the perfect way to communicate with him. He can react to them - or not - any way he wants, and I won't ever know it.
These are my rationalizations for not calling my dad or sending him a gift for his birthday. Pick whichever one(s) work for you. They don't quite do it for me. On the positive side, today is the last day of February. Hooray for that, anyway.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
changes in latitude... you know how the rest goes
A quick check back into the old archives of "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is" shows me that last year at this time I was bemoaning cold weather and ice dams and how much I hate February. I gotta say, I still don't like February, but out here in Maryland, it's not so bad. The temperature was in the 50s yesterday and it was bright and sunny. Today and tomorrow the forecast promises sunshine and temperatures in the mid 60s. Can't complain about that!
We did have a warm, sunny day on Monday, and it was wonderful! I opened all the windows, and even left the big sliding door to the back porch open. I mean, there are no bugs this time of year, so why not? Rufus was a bit confused by the open concept, however, and at one point he just walked inside and stood at the door looking out at me. I wiped down all the furniture on the porch, but I believe it is still too early to put the cushions out. I bought some flowered wellies a couple of weeks ago, so I put those on and strode about the wet, muddy backyard with impunity. I was, you know, on poo patrol, but I didn't hardly mind with all the sunshine and fresh air.
The down side of the unseasonably warm weather was that the regular weather had to come rushing back later in the day. The wind picked up as the day progressed, and by evening, the gusts had turned to steady, heavy blowing. The power went out briefly as we sat down to dinner, but we were fortunate, indeed, that it came right back on again. I heard the wind blowing throughout the night, and I was glad that we weren't back in our house on Grove Avenue, surrounded by big, old oak trees.
The wind had done its damage all the same, though. When Ben went out to leave for work in the morning, he noticed the gate to the backyard was wide open. When he went to investigate, he saw that the latch had been blown right off the gate by the buffeting winds. How lucky we were that Rufus had not noticed that when he went out for his early morning constitutional! He would have been gone, and we would have never even known it. The workmen came and repaired the gate yesterday, and I really doubt that we will have a problem with it again. The screws they installed were literally three times longer than the ones that did not hold. Yeah, the fence was expensive, but included in that cost was the maintenance we expected - and received.
So, yeah, it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day today. I believe I'll go out and enjoy it. Hope you have a good one, too.
We did have a warm, sunny day on Monday, and it was wonderful! I opened all the windows, and even left the big sliding door to the back porch open. I mean, there are no bugs this time of year, so why not? Rufus was a bit confused by the open concept, however, and at one point he just walked inside and stood at the door looking out at me. I wiped down all the furniture on the porch, but I believe it is still too early to put the cushions out. I bought some flowered wellies a couple of weeks ago, so I put those on and strode about the wet, muddy backyard with impunity. I was, you know, on poo patrol, but I didn't hardly mind with all the sunshine and fresh air.
The down side of the unseasonably warm weather was that the regular weather had to come rushing back later in the day. The wind picked up as the day progressed, and by evening, the gusts had turned to steady, heavy blowing. The power went out briefly as we sat down to dinner, but we were fortunate, indeed, that it came right back on again. I heard the wind blowing throughout the night, and I was glad that we weren't back in our house on Grove Avenue, surrounded by big, old oak trees.
The wind had done its damage all the same, though. When Ben went out to leave for work in the morning, he noticed the gate to the backyard was wide open. When he went to investigate, he saw that the latch had been blown right off the gate by the buffeting winds. How lucky we were that Rufus had not noticed that when he went out for his early morning constitutional! He would have been gone, and we would have never even known it. The workmen came and repaired the gate yesterday, and I really doubt that we will have a problem with it again. The screws they installed were literally three times longer than the ones that did not hold. Yeah, the fence was expensive, but included in that cost was the maintenance we expected - and received.
So, yeah, it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day today. I believe I'll go out and enjoy it. Hope you have a good one, too.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
time on my hands, a new post on my blog
I don't know for sure, but I have to assume that everyone hates having workmen in their house as much as I do. I need to say straight away that I have not had a single unpleasant experience with any of the workers personally. They have all (so far) done an outstanding job for us, have been efficient and polite, and have cleaned up after themselves. Still, I hate it. I can't go anywhere for one thing. Now, I hadn't planned on going anywhere in particular today, but, still, I can't go if I suddenly want to. I could go to the bank, it now occurs to me, and deposit the check that I finally received from the Interstate 77 Auction House. (More than we had anticipated, thanks for asking.) I could go to the library and pick up the two books they have on hold for me - which I could then read, of course. I could return the curtains that I bought at Target yesterday that are totally wrong for the basement windows, but that helped me to determine what would be right. But, alas, I can't do any of those things.
Today the workmen are here laying ceramic tile in our foyer. I guess it is a good thing that the fence installers have failed to show up for a second day. Otherwise, I think there would be a serious lack of space in our short driveway and in front of our house. These things happen for a reason, eh? Although, I truly have to say that our back yard is a sea of mud where the workers shoveled the snow away on Monday, and I don't blame them for wanting to wait for that to dry out a bit. My shoes are seriously coated with mud from the time I had to go out and get Lucie yesterday. Little shit!
The first thing the floor guys had to do was remove the vinyl floor covering that was there when we bought the house. It wasn't bad as vinyl floor coverings go (other than the mysterious holes right in front of the kitchen door) but it was vinyl floor covering. So that is out of here. They spent a great deal of time trying to get rid of all the squeaks in the floor boards. I know they were doing this because I would hear squeak, squeak, squeaky-squeak, then a bunch of pounding. Squeak, pound, and repeat. Next, they must install the Wonderboard©. Do you wonder what that is? So did I, but that is not how it got its name. It was explained to me that the Wonderboard© will save the tiles from the dreaded "trampoline effect" during which the tiles could crack and break. After that, I assume, the tiles will go down.
I probably should mention that our adventure with the floor tiles actually began last night when Ben and I drove over to Home Depot to pick up all the materials necessary for this project. You know we don't have a truck of any kind, but the delivery of materials would cost an extra hundred dollars, and we thought to save that money for another day. It was a great idea, really, but that darn Wonderboard© was just too big to fit in either of our cars. So we had to pay for delivery, anyway, although it only cost fifty dollars instead of a hundred. So I will consider that we saved fifty bucks by loading our little cars down last night with 300 pounds worth of flooring materials, driving it home, and unloading it.
Needless to say, I am eager to see what our foyer will look like with new ceramic tiles instead of the old vinyl flooring. It will probably totally be worth a day spent in my bedroom with the dogs. We have already replaced the light fixture in the foyer, but have not yet re-painted the dark slate blue walls. This house is already much darker inside than our old house was, and we need to lighten and brighten in here. I know our living room will never be as bright as the old one - window walls on both ends of the room will do that for you - but it can be brighter than it is now. And this time of year, we need that. 'Cause it's winter here in Maryland, too, and I'm telling you, it feels and looks like it. In here, though, it looks fresh and lovely. You should see it. No, really, you should come and see it. Did I mention how lonely I am? A topic for another day, perhaps.
Today the workmen are here laying ceramic tile in our foyer. I guess it is a good thing that the fence installers have failed to show up for a second day. Otherwise, I think there would be a serious lack of space in our short driveway and in front of our house. These things happen for a reason, eh? Although, I truly have to say that our back yard is a sea of mud where the workers shoveled the snow away on Monday, and I don't blame them for wanting to wait for that to dry out a bit. My shoes are seriously coated with mud from the time I had to go out and get Lucie yesterday. Little shit!
The first thing the floor guys had to do was remove the vinyl floor covering that was there when we bought the house. It wasn't bad as vinyl floor coverings go (other than the mysterious holes right in front of the kitchen door) but it was vinyl floor covering. So that is out of here. They spent a great deal of time trying to get rid of all the squeaks in the floor boards. I know they were doing this because I would hear squeak, squeak, squeaky-squeak, then a bunch of pounding. Squeak, pound, and repeat. Next, they must install the Wonderboard©. Do you wonder what that is? So did I, but that is not how it got its name. It was explained to me that the Wonderboard© will save the tiles from the dreaded "trampoline effect" during which the tiles could crack and break. After that, I assume, the tiles will go down.
I probably should mention that our adventure with the floor tiles actually began last night when Ben and I drove over to Home Depot to pick up all the materials necessary for this project. You know we don't have a truck of any kind, but the delivery of materials would cost an extra hundred dollars, and we thought to save that money for another day. It was a great idea, really, but that darn Wonderboard© was just too big to fit in either of our cars. So we had to pay for delivery, anyway, although it only cost fifty dollars instead of a hundred. So I will consider that we saved fifty bucks by loading our little cars down last night with 300 pounds worth of flooring materials, driving it home, and unloading it.
Needless to say, I am eager to see what our foyer will look like with new ceramic tiles instead of the old vinyl flooring. It will probably totally be worth a day spent in my bedroom with the dogs. We have already replaced the light fixture in the foyer, but have not yet re-painted the dark slate blue walls. This house is already much darker inside than our old house was, and we need to lighten and brighten in here. I know our living room will never be as bright as the old one - window walls on both ends of the room will do that for you - but it can be brighter than it is now. And this time of year, we need that. 'Cause it's winter here in Maryland, too, and I'm telling you, it feels and looks like it. In here, though, it looks fresh and lovely. You should see it. No, really, you should come and see it. Did I mention how lonely I am? A topic for another day, perhaps.
Friday, January 28, 2011
you can't always get what you want --- but sometimes, you can
I was clicking around last week when I found an old black and white movie on TCM. Nothing unusual about that, right? But I lingered on this one for a few minutes, sucked in more by the atmosphere than by the dialogue. A young woman was having tea with a much older woman in a large, old Victorian room. The older woman was chastising the younger one about, it seemed, transgressions in the past towards the young woman's sister, complete with flashbacks to a happier time. The tone was moody and nostalgic and somewhat foreboding. You know, I thought to myself, I am in the mood to read a book that strikes just that tone.
I went to the library and, almost unbelievably, found the perfect book. It is The Distant Hours by Kate Morton. I will tell you straight away this is not great literature. But it is a good, solid, entertaining read that kept me interested throughout its 600 pages. The book has the requisite pair of elderly twin sisters, but (amazingly) they got along, had always gotten along, and had never changed places with each other. There is a big, old moldering house in the British countryside, there is a fey, heartbroken sister, and there is a decades-old mystery to be solved. Our fresh-faced young narrator solves the mystery (of course) and in the process, learns a great deal about her own past - which, surprise! turns out to be entwined with the sad history of the great house.
I know. I know. It sounds like you've read it before. So have I. But the author took some interesting new turns in this familiar tale, and her writing, while a bit florid in places, is deeply satisfying in others. For me, it was the right book at the right time, and the value of that cannot be under-estimated.
I went to the library and, almost unbelievably, found the perfect book. It is The Distant Hours by Kate Morton. I will tell you straight away this is not great literature. But it is a good, solid, entertaining read that kept me interested throughout its 600 pages. The book has the requisite pair of elderly twin sisters, but (amazingly) they got along, had always gotten along, and had never changed places with each other. There is a big, old moldering house in the British countryside, there is a fey, heartbroken sister, and there is a decades-old mystery to be solved. Our fresh-faced young narrator solves the mystery (of course) and in the process, learns a great deal about her own past - which, surprise! turns out to be entwined with the sad history of the great house.
I know. I know. It sounds like you've read it before. So have I. But the author took some interesting new turns in this familiar tale, and her writing, while a bit florid in places, is deeply satisfying in others. For me, it was the right book at the right time, and the value of that cannot be under-estimated.
Monday, January 24, 2011
the waiting game
One thing you have to do a lot of when you are working with contractors and workmen is waiting. One thing I am really bad at is waiting. This morning, for example, I am supposed to receive a call between 7:00 a.m. and 9:00 a.m. that will inform me what two-hour time slot later today a workman will arrive to measure our foyer for the ceramic tiles we purchased over the weekend. Got that? I am waiting right now for a call that will tell me when I have to wait some more later. I hate this!
I desperately want to take a shower. I want to sort the laundry and throw the first load in the washer - something I can only do after I shower. I want to return my books to the library. I want to go to Target to look for a clock for my bedroom. I want to do all manner of things that I can't do while I am chained to the house, waiting for a phone call.
It seems to me that ever since we moved here I have been waiting for someone. The electrician, the plumber, the guys who delivered the new tv, the guy who came to fix our cable reception, the carpet installers, the guy who came to measure for the carpet installers (!), the guys who came to give me estimates for a new fence - each of them due to arrive at a not clearly defined time that I must, that's right, wait for.
My phone rings - hurray! Is it the measuring guy? No. It is Ben, telling me that for some inexplicable reason, the measuring guy has called him at work to tell him when he will arrive at our house. No matter, now I know that my next period of waiting will begin at 1:00 p.m. It's off to the shower for me!
I desperately want to take a shower. I want to sort the laundry and throw the first load in the washer - something I can only do after I shower. I want to return my books to the library. I want to go to Target to look for a clock for my bedroom. I want to do all manner of things that I can't do while I am chained to the house, waiting for a phone call.
It seems to me that ever since we moved here I have been waiting for someone. The electrician, the plumber, the guys who delivered the new tv, the guy who came to fix our cable reception, the carpet installers, the guy who came to measure for the carpet installers (!), the guys who came to give me estimates for a new fence - each of them due to arrive at a not clearly defined time that I must, that's right, wait for.
My phone rings - hurray! Is it the measuring guy? No. It is Ben, telling me that for some inexplicable reason, the measuring guy has called him at work to tell him when he will arrive at our house. No matter, now I know that my next period of waiting will begin at 1:00 p.m. It's off to the shower for me!
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