Thanks-giving for the Memory

Friday was a day to do things at home, like sleep in, chop wood (a lot! I got rid of three rounds, chopping them into nice wedge shapes that have been thrown under the tarp to dry off for use later in the Winter), and got around to wrapping the outside pipe, since the temperature has dropped down to below freezing. I can't use one of those handy-dandy foam contraptions ("foam-boobs" one of the elder ladies at the Normandy Park condo used to call them) to just latch onto the nozzle to tighten, so the process is to find one of my socks with holes in them, take a few of the more "thick" pages of the Voters Pamphlet and wrap them around the pipe and cover the wad with the rolled-up sock (Nothing like a sock full of hot air to keep the pipes from freezing). Presto! See you in the Spring.

While I'm swinging the axe (and to keep him happy, and out of the arc of my swing) the dog is chewing on an "O-bone" from the butcher's shop. He likes to gnaw on them 'til they're nice and shiny, while the action does the same for his teeth. His vocabulary has expanded to where the word "0bone" makes his ears perk up, and he snaps to attention.

While I was doing these chores I also managed (for the second time since we moved to "The Rock") to brain myself by stepping on the tongs of a metal rake in the cluttered shed. The handle snaps up and clobbers me, just the way they did in the silent movies. My reaction both times has been to laugh like a hyena, probably because that joke always works for me, but also because it rattles my brain and drops my IQ fifty digits.

The big toe on my right foot feels better. For the past few days it's been swollen and hurting. I don't know why but I surmise that when I stuck my foot into a shoe this week, I might have been stepping into the new home of a spider, who "bit it." But before "biting" IT, he bit my toe. All better today, though it's just made me reflect that I've acquired more scars since living here than I have in my entire life previous. Which brings to mind the old Red Barber quote: "It's not the one with the most toys, wins. God doesn't count the toys. he counts the scars."

That in mind, I should get on Ebay and sell some of these toys.

But all this activity was just an excuse to think about Thanksgiving, which was rough. A little devastating, really. And I've needed time to think things through--to digest from Thanksgiving, not only gastrically, but also mentally.

Things started off well with the Walaka/Otis pumpkin pancake feast. A fine time was had by all, even by Smokey who got a couple good walks in and got to bound around the RD. It was splendid to see everyone and engage. I disengaged about 1300, and headed for My Seester's, where we went to a local dog park and tossed the frisbee for Smokey until he was taking extended "time-out's." Then we headed for Thanksgiving dinner at a local hotel, with Claudi's neighbor Joan, my cousin Rob and his Mom, Aunt Chris. Chris is my Mom's youngest sister. She's 80. And she's had a series of small strokes, and may possibly have Alzheimer's. Anyway, Rob was helping her with her food--making "runs" to the get, helping her negotiate the utensils, stuff like that. I would engage Chris in conversation, and found that she still had the same caustic wit she always had, which I found was the same with my Mom. That basic core-personality of the person hangs on right until the end, so if anybody thinks they're going to get "mellow with age," they're confusing human beings with wine. So, I kept making Chris laugh, went and got her some dessert to let Rob eat, and helped her with that. At the end of the dinner, she looked at me and said--"You're a pretty nice guy." I thanked her, but it felt like a knife in the heart. That's what my Mom used to say to me on my visits long after she'd forgotten who I was. "You're a pretty nice guy." We talked about Rob for awhile, and then I had to leave. I had to "deal."

I went to the men's room and took long deep breaths, splashed cold water on my face, and tried to keep my heart from racing. It was all coming back and I wasn't handling it well. I took a few minutes, gathered myself, and went back. We had a wonderful time.

But I woke up this morning still obsessing, and my plans for heading to the Mainland were scattered to the winds. I had to digest this as much as I had digested the Thanksgiving dinner, and it was going to take time, activity, and time. And activity. And time. But I'm okay now. I've been thinking about my Mom a lot lately, because the "thing" I wrote all those years ago about her and Alzheimer's and reality had been brought up a few times in the past week (more on that later), and that story was comfortably filed away in my thoughts as "The Past."

And here I was being confronted with it again, like an echo, in the form of my Mom's sister saying the same words, meant to compliment, but bringing no comfort.

Despite things like Alzheimer's, and the other afflictions with similar symptoms, you never really can lose The Past. And whether it warms the heart or chills the soul depends on the prejudices and attitudes of the one who keeps it, or is kept by it.

Like a scar.