A shoe holds more ounces than a jigger.

The Nordstrom shoe salesman betrayed the usual amount of quizzical uncertainty as Jeff and I approached to look over the deck shoes in the men’s section. I may not be the most socially adept human east of the Mississippi, but I can read body language. Hmmm...why is this woman taking charge? If the shoes are for the dude, what’s with this dynamic?

But he too, evidently, had the capacity to catch on, and as I briefly explained that we were leaning toward laceless models, and he attempted a couple different prompts before Jeff put the proper foot on the size gauge, he understood.

Jeff’s Clark’s “UnStructureds” is a fine pair of shoes, and they served us well on our southwest sojourn, for train-riding and light hiking. But that’s why I brought that pair...for their sturdiness. Once home, he’s reverted to wearing the world’s oldest Sebago docksiders, with layers of leather peeling off, and laces that look like sun-dried and run-over jerky. The laces don’t much matter, is the thing. The shoes are old, relaxed, and go on and off without any need to tie or untie.

We ended up with a pair of pricey Sperrys. They’re somewhere between a classic deck shoe and a loafer, are soft of leather, and stout of sole, and should work for everything once I stash the diversionary beat-up or laces-required pairs in the closet, under Jeff’s lower rack of shirts.

For now I will help with the belt. For now I will help get the shirt buttons on even kilter. And occasionally run the razor over his neck, which is a hair-sprouting zone he usually seems to forget about.

It was not a bad day to be at the mall. Christmas shopping is, of course, in full spate, and the California Pizza Kitchen filled up with lunchtime diners, shortly after we started on salad and pasta. Still, it was Monday, early, and not bad...especially when you are free to look around and think Ah...Christmassy-ness, without having any pressing agenda of your own. At such a pace, I could happily snag a couple of stocking stuffers at Crate & Barrel, in addition to a jigger--something which I have heretofore lacked. A jigger is the amount of rum you add to a hot buttered one (rum, that is.) Though I had ascertained that a jigger is approximately 3 tablespoons, depending on the relative generosity of your bartender, it will enhance the experience to make it using the proper measuring vessel. As it will enhance our shoe-wearing experience to not have to re-tie laces every 15 minutes.

Eye be home for Christmas.

As I mentioned in the last post, my right eye had a run-in with a vine and took one for the team on Thursday, in the process of helping me get Otis out of the tree. As of today, Sunday, except for some watering, light sensitivity, and a minor burning sensation, I’m functioning as normal. Mostly.

I cannot recommend corneal scratches. Like many body parts that you don’t give that much thought to as you go about your daily business (feet, knees, fingertips, teeth...,) do one an injury and you find that its incapacity renders you near-useless for days. But, after an intermittent pirate eye-patch, indoor sunglasses, antibiotic drops leftover from someone’s pinkeye, and lots of doing not much, it is with great gratitude that I welcome my right eye back to the world of useable body parts.

This weekend--the first in December--seems to be the one for getting the Christmas game on. As of last night, numerous houses in town had sprouted an assortment of carefully or carelessly (mostly somewhere in between,) lights. Hence, I did mine today, taking care that the job did not involve any peripheral objects ready to take potshots at my face. I don’t do much--just some strings of white lights more or less following the contour of the front porch and its railing. Additionally, we bought a tree and stuck it in a washtub of water on the back patio. Voila...I am maxed out! Until such time as I bring the tree in the house.

Susan Reimer, a columnist for the Baltimore Sun, opined this week that she would never--no matter how weak her motivation--slack off on the holiday fussiness, due to the fact that she perceived such a slow-down in her mother to have represented a slow fade of vitality. And maybe it is. But I don’t plan to worry about it when the time comes. I’ll fade if I good and want to. Meanwhile, it is most fortunate that I set the holiday bother bar very very very low for myself from the get-go, and have never upped the ante.

It is with equal measures of wistfulness and wry chuckling that I think about certain images that so tantalized me as a kid and hopeful romantic. Holiday special magazines, in which the snug log house in the distant snow-frosted vale, glowed golden-warm at dusk. Inside, a festive garland hugged the banister, while mom (that would have been the future me,) greeted dad (that was the unsubstantiated future mate with a twinkling eye or two) in a kitchen with a couple not-too-aggravating children and a pleasant pet or so. The funny thing is...as I stand in my kitchen looking across the eating table toward the stairs descending, mid-house...it looks almost just the way it was supposed to look. Except there’s no garland. That would be just too many pine needles to sweep up later. The pets are there though, and sometimes so are the children--they’re just a little overgrown. As for the dad...sometimes his eyes do twinkle. It’s a rather unfocused, uncomprehending twinkle, but then, we’re not in a snow-frosted vale either.

I think I'll take the finger in the eye.

My worst residual problem is eye pain. But with a salt water rinse, and some leftover pink-eye drops, I hope I’ll be fully binocular by morning.

See, here’s the thing about the anatomy of the 12’ no-man’s-land (aka county right-of-way) behind our back fence: It is full of huge bamboo (flute-makers may apply,) a couple decades’ worth of fallen limbs, and vines to make Tarzan proud. I could have picked a more agreeable site to spend 6 hours of the day getting a kitten out of a tree.

But Otis didn’t ask my advice before scampering 4 feet up an old silver maple, then thinking hey cool, and going higher. Twice, actually, before getting to the first crook and realizing he was completely out of his league. So he pretty much spent the next 6 hours crying piteously, while I attempted to get him down.

Becca was home for the first couple hours of effort and, after much coaxing failed, we implemented plans A and B. A was my Little Giant ladder. The only extension ladder I can manipulate without dropping it on my head with unfortunate consequences, or breaking a window. Sadly, it did not extend enough, and put us (standing on the highest safe rung) just over half-way there. So on to Plan B. After much detangling of line from itself and the aforementioned flora features of the back lot, we succeeded in heaving a bear bag (used for suspending your food, safely away from bears, on camping trips) over a branch near Otis. Then, we pulleyed up an open-topped picnic basket, enticingly loaded with a cup of tuna. He did not care to get in that basket. Barely even gave it a passing thought. Then Becca had to go to work. I had to take a break. Still, I didn’t want to remove the option, so I tied an orange juice jug, partially filled with water so that it would just be outweighed by Otis, to the other end of the line, and went to do some necessary errands.

When Jeff and I got back, Otis hadn’t budged. I brought 100 feet of poly rope back with me though, and I doubled and knotted it in such a way that a daring and agile person might use it to climb enough higher than the ladder permitted to snag a cat. Once at the top of the ladder though, I found myself less daring than required, and returned to the drawing board.

So did my Mom, who--learning of my plight, and knowing me to be, essentially, an army of one--came to help. We tied a sheet to the tree, and she held the other corners while I ascended the ladder and attempted to push Otis from the other side with an extension broom. Alas, due to the angle of the tree, and the thickness of the underbrush, there was no means to connect sufficiently brush-to-cat, and Mom had nothing to catch in her makeshift fireman’s net.

Mom left because she had to. I wondered, via text, when Rachel the tree-climbing wonder-daughter might be able to perform a rescue. But, being a real-life employed teacher of children, there was no way for her to get here by dark, and I was left to ponder. And fret. In installing the rope-which-I-couldn’t-climb, I’d removed the escape basket. That seemed wrong. I couldn't give up for the night with no such option in play so, taking a tip from the internet (go net!) I re-threw the bear-bag. (This took about 20 tosses, and as many detanglings.) I got it. This time I hoisted a laundry basket--the floppy kind with two handles. With the tuna, of course.

The nice thing about the floppy laundry basket was that it showed a greater willingness to snug up close to the branch, in a way that the stiff picnic basket had not. Before I’d even gotten my orange juice jug counter-weight tied to the other end of the line, I saw--in addition to the shadow of the tuna container in the bottom of the basket--four paw shadows. I did not waste time. I lowered the basket-kitty contraption and snagged a kitty who was never so glad to be apprehended.

Oh, my eye. It was on one of the about 60 or so trips up the Little Giant that one of those ubiquitous vine or stick things poked me in the right eye. It still hurts, quite a bit. Otis is sacked out on the dog bed, having been properly cuddled and fed. I do not wish for him to go outside ever again. I’m afraid he will.

Jeff used to propose that cat brains looked as follows: One neuron, dangling by a thread in the middle of the skull. I surely hope Otis’ neuron absorbed some aversion therapy about trees today.

on not forgetting to remember everything

Today Becca and I almost lost our newly purchased socks and tights at The Fresh Market grocery store. A composite of what each of us was 97% certain we remembered suggested that the small shopping bag from South Moon Under (an overpriced, except for socks, boutique,) disappeared somewhere between our entering Fresh Market with a double-decker two-basket shopping cart, and getting to the check-out. We found it a bit surprising that someone sneakily lifted our bag while we were selecting apples, or considering yogurt, but it was the only plausible explanation.

Still, once we got home and realized we were without hosiery, I called the store to see if such a bag had mysteriously turned up. Not yet, I was told, but they took my name and number. Within an hour the call came. Our bag had turned up in a random abandoned cart in the store. This meant that during the two and a half minutes that Becca and I were both in the ladies room at the same time, Jeff had managed to switch the cart he had been entrusted to stand with for another empty cart--identical except for the presence of our socks bag in one, and its absence of the other.

The most intriguing thing about this for me is not that it happens, but how things like this seem more likely to happen than not, given half a chance. Not that we like to blame Jeff too much--neither of us, after all, thought about the socks bag until we got home--but it is illustrative of the concept that I’m more apt to slack off in my diligence when I have a fellow Jeff-watcher along on the outing. I stop trying to remember everything I might ostensibly have the slightest cause to remember.

It was just as well anyway. Becca wanted everything bagels, which we’d forgotten on trip #1, and I also grabbed a couple canisters of wipes, which are useful for cleaning the floor up after Otis the kitty, who--when he poos--aims about 18” north of his litter box. Bad kitty.

strides, and life as normal.

Last night, I went to bed leaving Gabe with nothing but the advice to get his stuff organized for this morning’s Amtrak ride back to Connecticut. Remarkably, as I discovered this morning, he’d done exactly that. IPod, phone, and computer were all charged and stowed, clothes were re-stuffed in the duffel, and his college keycard/i.d. was clipped to his jacket. Oh, and his retainer was fizzed clean and back in his mouth. As we got in the car he asked me if I had his train ticket. (I did.)

Now he is northbound, by rail, and one Fall term more grown-up. Next Year has clearly been a timely topic at school, as many of his group plan to continue as full-fledged Mitchell College students next year, and, indeed, we got a related pack of info by mail a couple weeks ago to keep parents in the loop, as kids get their records in order. But I had barely broached the topic upon his arrival home when he replied, with unequivocal resolve, that he would stick with Plan A: Finish this year at Mitchell, then head off to Guilford in North Carolina to study creative writing, Japanese, and an eventual semester abroad in Japan. No waffling on this it seems.

Meanwhile, this morning I ventured out the back door without a jacket. Otis the kitty had zipped out for his morning scamper and seemed--in this late November dip below freezing--to be ready to come back in. He squinched through the fence and around to the front yard, where I apprehended him at a moment during which his urge to scoot and play was offset by ambivalence about the air temperature. But then we--Otis and I--found ourselves at the front door, which I had not yet unlocked from the inside. Drat. Carry the cat around back, or ring the doorbell for Jeff? Luckily, Freddi the dog would not allow Jeff to ignore the doorbell, but he positively could not process what to do once he arrived at the front door. I stood there, clutching the kitten for a moment, as Jeff stared through the door panes gazing at apparently nothing, which was located somewhere beyond my right shoulder. Freddi, in the meantime, wagged her tail at me, wondering why the heck I was not coming in. So I raised my voice to insulated glass-penetrating volume and hollared “Open the door!” Twice or so. Finally, recognition dawned and Jeff did exactly that.

Tomorrow, Rachel’s back to teaching, Gabe and Olivia back to school, and Becca into work as usual. Jeff will get something other than a peanut-butter sandwich for lunch.

Capes R Not Us.

I got a mini-startle as I drew back the shower curtain this morning thinking to step in. The scene resembled what you’d see on-set, just after Norman Bates had carted off Janet Leigh, shower curtain and all, with the following critical cast change: Janet’s role was being played by an alien with pale aqua blood.

Well, I was taking a shower anyway, so it wasn’t hard to clean up. But I will note that a full 33.9 fluid ounces of Target brand dandruff shampoo does make the shower floor a mite slippery. And it had spread quite nicely, dripping as it had from the higher of the two metal accoutrement baskets we have appended to the shower stall wall. Because it had been placed there improperly closed and upside down.

So one of the things we did today was buy Jeff some more shampoo. My goal was prevention. What kind of bottle would one either be most apt to close properly and/or least likely to replace upside down? Not a boxy cap of the type so common and popular for reasons I don’t quite grasp. But since I’ve been giving Jeff anti-flaky shampoo, that limited our options right off the bat, and a small bottle of Selsun Blue, with a normal sort of round cap, seemed the best bet. I even performed a small assessment right on the spot: “How,” (I said,) “would you place this bottle on the shelf? Like this? (upside down) or like this? (right-side up.)” “Like that, I guess,” replied Jeff, choosing correctly. And, in fact, it would take a bit of a balancing act to place it the other way.

It’s the kind of little accommodation I make daily. Another of today’s errands was a foray into Eastern Mountain Sports, in search of a light (but not too light) mens’ jacket. Here was my starting parameter: Can this be fastened without me there to do the zipper? There are ways. There might, for example, be auxiliary snaps, or, even better, velcro. But not, alas, in a jacket of the right weight. Yes for heavy coats, but jackets were stubbornly determined to exist only in zip format. So, on the fly, I came up with a new option: How about a half-zip? If the zipper-starter doesn’t need fiddling with, pulling the pull should be no problem. Such things, double alas, did not exist but in the lightest of fleeces. Something in-between was not to be had; not today anyway.

I’ll keep looking even though it is, in truth, something of an arbitrary goal. The thing is--even with velcro, snaps, or a half-zip--you’ve still got to put the jacket on properly in the first place.

Case in point--an anecdote from this very morning: Jeff headed for the stairs, post-elliptical trainer. “What are you after?” I asked. (Even though I knew the answer since he was wearing a t-shirt and had taken his button shirt off to exercise.) “A shirt,” he replied. “You left your shirt in the kitchen,” I said. “No,” said Jeff. “Not that shirt. That shirt is like a cape. It’s like a Superman cape. I can’t wear that shirt, I need a regular shirt.” Because I live here I knew what this meant. Because I’ve watched Jeff try to put on shirts. He must have tried to put it on (pick one) upside down, or armless, or head in the armhole, or without unbuttoning first. So I said, “let’s see,” and helped him thread his arms in one at a time. Then I started the buttons. He pulled the two sides of the lower placket apart a couple times as I buttoned downward, trying to demonstrate that this was a cape, not a shirt, but finally realized--with a sort of an I’ll be darned expression--that it was, in fact and when donned correctly, a shirt.

There are lots of things that continually surprise me about this brain dysfunction process. One is this: Why is there no sort of meta-analysis going on of the problems we encounter? Why would you not even think your wife asking whether it’s okay to put a shampoo bottle on a shelf upside down is weird? Or not think: wait...a shirt is never a cape. How does it make sense for me to think this is a cape?

But he doesn’t think this stuff. I guess it would be too multi-layered for an Alzheimer brain to take anything except at face value.

Now I’ll check REI online for a heavy-ish half-zip. I will not bother looking in the cape section, because I know we don’t want that.

say what?

Jeff loves to listen to a Bill Bryson book. Any Bill Bryson book. But The Mother Tongue: English and how it got that way has probably (by page 90 out of 245) been our biggest challenge to date.

We are firmly into Chapter 6: "Pronunciation." I am already reading with the exaggerated enunciation of a Henry Higgins protégé, but that isn't quite doing it. I try, for example, to read the following passage:

"...when bits are nicked off the front end of words it's called aphesis, when off the back it's called apocope, and when from the middle it's syncope."

The reading of it doesn't go off quite as smoothly as vanilla ice cream. Rather, I carefully iterate a key term--apocope--and the following conversation ensues:

Jeff: "what?"

Me: "apocope."

Jeff: "escarfee?"

Me: "No, ay-pah-co-pee."

Jeff: "Oh, calumny."

Me: "NO...AY-PAH-CO-PEEE!"

Jeff: "Right, ok...papeerollee..."

Me: "shuddup."

Mind you...my last line in the above dialog was completely uncalled for, and I apologized right away. But this illustrates the basic challenge of this book as read-aloud material for us. It is, compared to some of Bryson's lighter narratives, quite academic and quite full of segments which call for a keen ability to differentiate amongst subtle distinctions in pronunciation, as well as an ability grasp certain points by picturing spellings in your head as I read. Hence, as we're dealing with the twin deficits of so-so hearing and seriously compromised processing capacity, I keep wondering if we should persist, or switch to something a little easier where getting the gist is generally enough.

But Jeff continues to want to listen, and does not seem to frustrate. That's all me. Plus, I'd like to read it, and this smallish trade-paperback with undersized print is neither going to stay open nor be legible on the elliptical console, so read-aloud is my best shot.

Besides, Chapter 7 is not called "Pronunciation," it is called "Varieties of English." Chapter 8 is called "Spelling." Maybe we can skip it. And maybe it doesn't help that we tend to combine reading time with 5 o'clock glass o'wine time.

But for now we will persist. Besides, when we come to unfathomable words in Welsh or Gaelic I have the enormous privilege of pronouncing them however I like, and Jeff just laughs.

the in-betweenies

I'm in the caregiver in-betweenies. It's a term I pulled out of the air, but I think it does an adequate job of connoting both the wiggly restlessness and the inescapable vague limbo-like doldrums of the stage. Except for the afternoon biorhythmic slumps when nothing trumps a nap, I have health, curiosity, and energy to share, and I need to remind myself that wheel-spinning is neither good for the wheels nor the ground.

At the same time, I can think of almost anyone else I know, and imagine him/her saying "I'll take some of that," when she gets a whiff of the relative placidity of days in which making the coffee, freshly ground beans and all, can be an anticipated ritual, where grocery shopping can be gently interlaced with a salad at Punk's Backyard Grill, and where--in the early evening--I pour out two ruby glasses of La Vieille Ferme Farmhouse red before we sit down, covered in pets, to read a chapter of Bill Bryson aloud.

Yes, I am fortunate to have a generally pleasant-natured caregivee who, at the moment, is taking his afternoon nap. Afterwards, he will come down and sit quietly in the kitchen chair to await the next activity I suggest. (Most likely, we will be at roughly the point of Bryson by then.)

I read something in AARP yesterday about how caregivers should consider doing the hands-on stuff (bathing, dressing, etc) themselves, reserving the do-nothing interludes (naps, quiet sitting, breaking sticks in the front yard,) for hired attendants. This is because doing something...doing anything...tends to be a much more personally rewarding way to pass time than just being there, as the person in charge in case anything goes amiss.

I can, of course, take the "being there" segments of the day and use them to (for remarkable example) write! I have made minor progress this week, compared to the inverse of minor progress (which looks something like 1/minor progress, and must be measured with an electron microscope) which had been the grand total for the previous month or so.

Furthermore, no matter how I squint, I can't really see hiring anyone as a rational choice for now. We're doing just fine, and no one is overly stressed. It is when the caregiver becomes overly stressed that it is time to pry open the doors of the hired help magazine. I assume (because I remain more or less grounded in reality) that incontinence and greater functional blindness are in our future, and it is that horizon whereupon I imagine the hiring will occur.

In the meantime...no matter how much you sometimes don't like the day to day bother of going to your job, I do think there's a bit of a self-winding aspect to the action of kicking yourself out the door and interacting with the other humans. I sort of have to wind myself--not by obligatory activity--but by jumping up and down, and giving in a bit to the wiggly restlessness of the in-betweenies. Then I tell myself this is good...this is a moment to write the silly book...and I tap out a line and a half.

And that is what life is like. You tell yourself...eh, I'm doing ok with this, aren't I? And most likely, you are.

grounded but ready...

I didn't want to buy the wrong suitcase. Which is how it came to pass that I spent a creditable chunk of both today and yesterday researching specs and reviews of a variety of roll-aboards.

I've had my navy blue L.L.Bean model at least since 2000, when the entire family set out for 10 days in England pulling (with the exception of Jeff--always an inveterate duffel lugger,) 5 navy blue international regulation carry-on sized cases, and nothing more, on the pack-less-than-you-need theory. I recall waffling, to the last minute, over whether to stuff in a zip-front wool blend sweater, and being mighty glad that I did since I wore it about every July day we were in the UK.

That case has accompanied me on quite a few jaunts since then, so it was with some dismay that I noted--as I stowed the luggage in our Amtrak Capitol Limited bedroom--that sizeable chunks of a wheel from my suitcase were turning up all over the industrial berber low-loop carpeting of the compartment. It was the outer shell, it turned out, of a wheel made in two layers, and I spent the remainder of the trip pulling it on the remaining inner portion of the wheel. Not difficult, but a wee lopsided.

I am somewhat committed, it seems, to flying with just carry-ons whenever I can. I realize that the rest of the world is also, which makes for some overhead compartment competition at the worst of times, but I knew one thing--that I required a replacement case that would easily pass the ubiquitous airport "is your carry-on small enough?" test.

I checked Amazon, I checked Travelsmith, I checked Magellan's. Today we even popped by the AAA office to see what was on hand, and inspected a few things at The Leather Store. (Which should actually be called The Luggage Store since it's way more about luggage than it is about leather.) I ended up placing two orders--one with Magellan's, one with Amazon--and should, by next week or so, end up with an Eagle Creek Hovercraft 20 roll-aboard, which--though a little short at 20"--compensates by being 16" wide. Additionally, I will make a PacSafe backpack serve as my "personal item," since it's small enough to squish under the seat, but large enough to hold a netbook, reading material, and whatever other sundries I need to transfer into a smaller Eagle Creek Travel Bug backpack once I reach a destination.

The thing that I don't have, is any travel plans whatsoever. I don't see this problem being correctible before Spring, and not in any big way, at that. When the new stuff comes, I may just have to fill it up with laundry and a cat and tote it around the house in the spirit of (but lack of, in any reality-based way) adventure

maybe it's silvery, not gilded.

Two weeks ago, in the moments during which I was concluding that the top bunk of the bedroom compartment on the Amtrak Southwest Chief made for an ungainly platform from which to help Jeff with his middle of the night bathroom needs, I became aware that I'd shifted. I don't mean that I did the shifting in that moment--in fact, in the top bunk, I could barely shift at all. The headroom allowed for crunches, but not sit-ups, and one had to perform a motion much like that of a pole vaulter twisting her body so that she'll land feet first to even consider climbing down from the bed.

No, the shift I noticed was something that had already happened, but I'd yet to take heed of and shake hands with it. It was a particular milestone I'd reached in the gradual translocation of emotional tectonic plates that comes with Alzheimer's spousing. I looked down from that fold-up bunk and thought two thoughts: The first was that it would be easier and more comfortable if we both just squished into the lower bunk. The second was that I was happy to do so because it was easier to do my job from close-up. The job of caregiving. The job of helping find the bathroom and providing middle of the night reassurances to a disoriented mind.

It may seem a little strange to say that I've finally shifted, after 6+ years of diminishing cognitive function on Jeff's part, into the role of caregiver. I've been doing it for some time, 'tis true. But I didn't own the job. I didn't particularly want the job. And approaching the caregivee with the emotional closeness that enabled me to contentedly switch bunks was the new thing.

When a life partner slips from your grasp such that he is sometimes not, then rarely, then never your mind-mate again, you might, like I have, start to seal off the emotional receptor places that were shaped to receive feedback from him. Those spots are safely coated with several thick layers of New-Skin®, liquid bandage for the soul, and--like that gilded room in Captain Von Trapp's fancy chateau--nobody goes there, dammit. There are some rooms in this house we just don't use.

So, when I felt the impulse that propelled me (carefully and stepwise) from the upper bunk to the lower (other than the practical one,) I recognized it as a new row of emotional crops. Ones that have been growing, and emitting tiny whiffs of their usefulness since they sprouted, but not so much that I really understood how they worked or what you could do with them until that moment. This crop is not from the gilded room (nobody goes there, still,) but they come from another room, almost as nice and certainly better outfitted for the task at hand.

I didn't know I had that room, and now it seems I do. And it also seems that it was on our trip westward that the construction crew ripped down the final piece of plastic dropcloth, allowing me ready access. I still don't particularly want the job, any more than I want presbyopia, or pets with skin allergies, or bamboo poking through the fence in the backyard. But it's my job, and I appreciate the tools.

No rolling. Lots of shaking and rattling.

The two porcelain pedestal sinks in our master bathroom have rattled since installation. I can't remember whether Jeff or Yank the plumber hooked them up, but it was after I tiled the floor and walls (in the epoch where, of necessity, I acquired many new skills.)

A pedestal sink consists of two parts: the pedestal and, obviously, the sink. While the pedestal provides a supportive stand, the two pieces are not attached to each other by any means but gravity. For true stability, the sink is meant to be fastened to the wall it abuts. Ours never were.

If you bumped into them (a normal occurrence for us) they rattled. If you scrubbed them (a normal but less frequent occurrence) they rattled. They rattled with a deep but clanging hollow chime--or sometimes rumble--of porcelain on porcelain. And they banged into the tile wall, which was more of a boomity boomity thing. It was an unsatisfactory and somewhat disconcerting condition for sinks.

When I learned (via our handyman who never showed up again) about their improper installation, I began to puzzle over what I might do. The bathroom framing had been done when Jeff was on the verge of losing his powers. Had he, correctly, provided a plank behind the now-tiled wall? He didn't remember, of course. He'd been faltering enough by the time I finally tiled, that it never occurred to him to mention the need for bolts.

Yesterday, I detached the J-bend from the wall, shut off the supply valves, and unhooked the supply pipes which run from the floor to the sink. Then, after carefully walking the sink/pedestal assembly away from the wall, I drilled through the tile. The initial hole was the hardest, requiring the pin-prickiest of drill-bits, followed by sequentially larger bits until I'd achieved two nice half-inch holes. Then, I plowed in further to see what I would hit. Drywall, then air, then...wood? Yes, wood.

I walked-rocked the sink back into place and, with a socket wrench, ratcheted a nice fat hex-headed bolt and washer through each hole (the holes that were always there) in the back of the sinks.

The solidity of the now rattle-free sinks is a satisfying thing, indeed. Next up--replacing my cruddy stiff faucet handles.

Gravity. It's real.

I am a little amazed by the number of people who visit the Grand Canyon and completely ignore the availability of railings such as this one. On the other hand, I recall Jeff himself setting out for rocky outcrops on hikes of yore, and sneaking careful peeks over a few precipices myself...but the GC is special. In the sense that there aren't too many other cliffsides where you have the opportunity to achieve terminal velocity before you reach the bottom. But here it's the norm.

After getting "home" to Flagstaff yesterday, I did a little online research into Canyon fatalities. Sources differ a bit, but it seems that no more than a person or so tumbles off each year, whether accidentally or on purpose. A more typical cause of death in the park is deciding you can hike to the bottom on your liter of Deer Creek bottled water. In point of fact, you probably can. What you can't do is get back up, and--without having carefully provisioned yourself with fuel, water, and proper clothing, you stand a decent chance of meeting your end due to heat stroke or other unfortunate system failure. Consequently, posters highlighting the dangers of hiking unprepared, the surprising rigor of the area, and demises of otherwise healthy individuals are prominent and ubiquitous.

Nevertheless, I'm surprised more silly people don't fall in. At our very first overlook yesterday we saw plenty of humans casually strolling the edge, including one who appeared to be about 6 years old (while his mother stood calmly on a rock nearby. I don't know...maybe they had other children and didn't need that one.)

Now I remember a time when Jeff and I hiked with friends in the woods of Pennsylvania. We came upon an overlook which had been carefully and responsibly railed, so as to give hikers a good safe look. A couple had climbed over, for no apparent reason. You could see just as well from inside the railing. The man held out his hand thinking surely I would want to join them on the other side. Here's the thing: I had a nine month old baby in a backpack on my back, and this couple thought I'd want to climb--already unwieldy and top-heavy--over the safety of the railing. I said no thank you.

I guess most humans are as agile and dextrous as they think they are. I just like to err on the side of caution.

a two-town tour.

Thoughts about Sedona: Geologically speaking, it is eye-poppingly stunning. I cannot think of another time I've said "yow!" or similar at every bend in the highway. I laughed when we passed a sign that said "Keep Sedona Beautiful." It meant don't litter. But I asked "how could you NOT keep Sedona beautiful?" and Jeff said "Nuclear explosion?"

Still, I did not come away with any good ideas about why you would go to Sedona other than for rock-gawking. It seems less a town than a series of clustered tourist shops, artfully placed at bends in the road, such that if "Mystical Astrologer" doesn't suck you in, then surely "The Pink Java Cafe" and its friends will. I am not every tourist-dependent municipality's dream come true. When I see another sign touting "Real Southwest Crafts and Jewelry!" I don't say "wheee!" and veer into the parking lot. Instead, I say, "Dang, there's gotta be a place to buy apples around here somewhere."

Then we went to Jerome. Jerome is about 25 miles west of Sedona, up some rather impressive switchbacks, and was, historically, a copper mining town. It is, as far as I can tell, populated by 90% tourists, 2% artsy shopkeepers, 4% long-gray-haired vintners, and 4% guys who looked like they got back from Nam in '71 and began to assemble flotsam and quirky jetsam into precarious shacks on 45 degree sloped, rocky hillsides. I could not help but sense that they were all chortling wryly behind their rusty pickups, and thinking "let's be weird for the tourists, then empty their wallets."

It was a good day of driving, and having a car--which we rented from Hertz at the Flagstaff Amtrak station--helped a lot. Today, our carriage pretty much turned back into a pumpkin by 4:00pm, so I brought Jeff home to the Inn, gave him a glass of wine, squished into the almost-big-enough-for-two chair with him, and played That Thing You Do, on dvd. Then I tucked him in bed. I hope he will still manage to sleep later than my 5:00am headache-avoidance wake-up call. Tomorrow, the Grand Canyon. The walking (down the vista trails) will be two things--a delight, and a surefire way to cash in our energy chips early.

nyet roomette.

We have a roomette. A roomette is one of many tiny convertible compartments running along both sides of a sleeping car, with an aisle down the middle.

It is on something of a whim that we are in one at all. This particular leg of our trip--Lamy, NM (the point of embark/disembarkation for Santa Fe) to Flagstaff--began at 2:24 this afternoon, and we will arrive in Flagstaff just prior to 9 pm. So, even at the very moment I was booking it, I wondered why I would pay even a little extra as opposed to just having seats in coach. We will not, after all, be converting our two facing seats into a bottom bunk, with the upper bunk lowering from above, like one of those baby changing stations in restrooms. This is mostly why people have roomettes. To more comfortably pass the night.

I think we have it because I was hoping we would nap, and I was thinking we might nap better in a compartment. But between a lengthy service stop in Albuquerque which we used to run to an ATM in the station, to the scenery of New Mexico's rocky crags, to dinner in the dining car at 5 pm, we have scarcely shut an eye. We will be, no doubt, in fine form when we do disembark in Flagstaff.

Having spent two nights in a "bedroom," Amtrak style, I can hardly imagine passing the night in this roomette. Well, I can imagine me doing it--I still like tents, after all--but I cannot imagine managing Jeff in one. I peeked in a few, during our other two nights aboard, that were in sleep mode. I'm not sure, actually, how one accesses the top bunk without opening the compartment door and protruding into the corridor while climbing. And, at that point, you're faced with the same lack of maneuver room or headroom I experienced in the bedroom top bunk. There is a bathroom at the end of the roomette car, much like what you find on an airplane, and several more down the stairs. Also downstairs are a couple of shower rooms, which--though communal--are of sufficient size that you don't have to sit on a potty to use them.

But--in our case--the more important disadvantages are that we'd be hard pressed to dress Jeff in such a space, I could not conveniently help him to the bathroom at 11, 1, and 3:00 at night, and we cannot see what's out the window on the other side of the train, because that's someone else's roomette, and they are evidently very private sorts who have the curtains drawn. In the bedroom, by leaving our curtains open, we had a good view out the windows in the corridor (as bedrooms line only one side of a sleeping car.)

So, while economizing with a roomette seems clever, our life has become the sort in which what we must do dictates what we can do. We can take an overnight train trip because we can book a bedroom. If we could not book a bedroom, we'd have to do something else.

It was, by the way, about 30º F in Santa Fe this morning when we set out, after breakfast, for a stroll across town. The purpose was to get liquid bandage for my cracky fingertips at CVS. The entertainment was crunching around on the frosted grass, and checking out the icicles dripping from a picnic table in the park.

we slow down...

We arrived in Santa Fe yesterday about 3:00 pm, and spent the rest of the afternoon/evening proving a fundamental rule about travel with Jeff: If you decide to march across town in search of rainwear, do not think you will have an ounce of energy left to spend getting to dinner.

In fact we should have skipped dinner and merely taken advantage of what nibblings we could wrangle up in the Inn on the Alameda, our 2-night Santa Fe home. It was a 15 minute walk from the Inn to El Farol (the oldest restaurant and cantina in Santa Fe) where we ordered wine and tapas, but Jeff's disorientation grew exponentially by each step, and I was carefully keeping him from walking into sign-posts (without 100% success) by the time we arrived at the restaurant. But we ate, and it was good. He will remember zero of it, as he was in the twilight zone.

Usually, when we walk, (especially in unfamiliar territory,) I try to stay on Jeff's left where there's a functioning ear and none of the hemi-neglect which occurs on his right. I either hold his hand or his arm. When the going gets tough, it's more like I'm clutching his elbow. I can gauge with a high degree of sensitivity how tired he is growing by how tightly I must clutch, and how difficult the walking becomes.

You know how it is when you end up with a grocery cart with one front wheel that only wants to roll east, and one rear wheel that insists on a counter-clockwise arc? That's what it's like to keep Jeff moving in the desired direction at anything approaching a walking pace. I end up as tired and in need of retreat as he does, with the difference that I still know where I am and why I'm there.

I like Santa Fe. Ok, I'm not completely overwhelmed by it like I thought I was supposed to be. Probably I need to see a lot more of the surroundings and natural beauty to grow a full appreciation. Certainly the architecture was novel compared with other places I've been. I like it. I just don't like it better than plenty of other places. Somewhat ironically, the only shopping we've done here is microlight stashable jackets from the local REI (we needed them for today's unfortunate weather,) and, from Whole Foods Market, fair-trade warm hats and a few apples. Well, not quite all...I bought earrings for the girls from a shop selling native made jewelry on Canyon Road, a linear enclave of artists' studios.

Despite today's being our only full day here, I've gotten a good feel for our limits, and we took the day on with little to no agenda. That worked. By 7:30 pm Jeff was well ready to hit the sack. Tomorrow: Back on the Southwest Chief, for a daytime-only ride to Flagstaff. But the morning agenda will be a jaunt to the closest drugstore to get some liquid bandage for the finger cracks this otherwise-welcome dry air is exacerbating!

Fog-man: He cometh and goeth.

Friday night on the train was a bit dreadful. I didn't experience it as completely dreadful though, since it was my first night of sleep deprivation in some time, and--in a way--I enjoyed the opportunities to see...Pittsburgh, Toledo, and some other random trackside burgs by night. Furthermore, breakfast and coffee brightened Jeff's mood and cognitive profile by enough that I ended up feeling optimistic.

Still, while I am very happy to be on the Southwest Chief myself tonight--Saturday--Jeff is looking and acting peaked, and I'm concerned that the experiment--2 nights by train--may have been pushing his limits. I hope that even though neither Santa Fe nor Flagstaff are home, we can do enough recuperating in a plush and sleepable bed that we'll reestablish something of his status quo.

Here's a difficult thing about the aspect of a human impaired by Alzheimer's: I see what looks like a down mood, a heavy head, a wan smile...and I want to call it depression, or a sad mood, or a heavy heart. And I want to consider the significance of those things as points relative to the norm--the norm being not-affected-by-Alzheimer's. But between those two points--the aspect I'm considering and a non-AD "norm"--there is a wide chasm. A tired, depleted person with Alzheimer's may not be so bad off as I imagine. I am possibly assigning the aspect more weight than I should. A nice sleep may be all that it takes, and the mood may not be one that I should be thinking of as extreme. (I realize, upon thought, that's it's our version of "sundowning," or the classic Alzheimer's condition of nighttime bringing a marked downshift in function and coherence.)

Well...let us see tomorrow. I think I'll be calling Rich the cabin steward to see if he can wrangle our compartment into sleeping configuration very shortly...

...In the glowing Colorado Sunday morning light, I can say that we slept much better last night. I gave the upper bunk a shot, thinking maybe elbow room would be helpful for both of us, but I quickly realized that from up there--with no room to sit up, no access to the cabin lightswitch, and a bit of contortionism involved in coming down--I was poorly positioned to help with the inevitable night-time bathroom requirements. So I shoved the upper bunk into stowed position as best as I could, and went with coziness below. It was the right choice. Fog-man, as we will call Jeff's nocturnal alter ego, had many concerns: Whose house is this? Why don't I have pants? Where are my pants? Maybe we should go home and get pants. Comfortable, snug, and with a fine view of the Kansas City rail station (where the passenger bridge strongly resembles a cattle chute,) I handled these questions with humor and aplomb, keeping Fog-man reasonably calm and settled, such that he could transform, by morning, back into a version of Jeff who appreciates coffee, breakfast, scenery, and a bit of adventure.

Sound fx

Overheard last night by any haunts hanging around our compartment, and possibly by the neighboring berths:

Squeeeeeonnnnnk Squeeeeeonnnnnk(The sound of miniature Amtrak sinks when you try to modulate the initial water burst.)

click rattle rattle rattle click rattle rattle rattle(cabinet doors that don't quite shut.)

Jeff: "Why are we here?" Me: "We're on a train trip to Chicago. Then we'll take the Southwest Chief to Santa Fe." Jeff: "What's moving?" Me: "The train we're on. It's supposed to move."

Fwoooooooooooonk! Fwoooooooooooonk! There's probably a reason they toot the choo choo's horn every whipstitch. I'm sure there's a reason.

Me: "Can you please lie down?" Jeff: "What are we doing?" Me: "We're on a train to Chicago. Can you put your head here? No, here. On the pillow."

chumma chumma chumma chumma... (some stretches of track are noisier than others.)

SSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOOMMPH! (This means we just passed another train.)

Me: "Hi, yeah...this is the fifth time you've woken me up...woohoo. But hey...look, it's Toledo, Ohio." Jeff: "Whose kitchen is that?" Me: "That's not a kitchen, it's the train station office" Jeff: "But whose house is that?" Me: "It's not a house, it's an Amtrak station in Toledo." Jeff: "Why are we moving?" Me: "We're on a train."

At 5 a.m. I gave up and got us ready for 6:00 breakfast.

On the Capitol Limited

This is something that cross-country trains have in common with Disney World: Everyone smiles and seems genuinely happy to help you. Not just the staff, but your fellow travelers as well.

It is now 6:35 pm, and we are trundling across some farmlands just west of Martinsburg, West Virginia. I'm not sure at what time Lou (our cabin attendant) will show up to transform our bench seat into a bed, but earlier--for us--would probably trump later. Neither of us is given to nightlife (not that there is any, that I know of, other than watching The Right Stuff for 3 hours with Carl 3 doors down.) But we won't take Carl up on his kind offer as much as I know he'd like our ears for another spell. One of us can only take so much of Carl with a C, and the other tends to turn in early.

Here's what I'm going to try to do once Lou does transform our berth into its nighttime morphology: Take a shower. What that means is I will sit on the potty and aim the handheld sprayer at my head for 30 second intervals of water. I will check back after giving that a whirl, and let you know how it goes.

Meanwhile, I can hardly complain about dinner. Yes, it is true that the salmon "special" was comparable to one of the nicer dishes at Denny's...but it was nonetheless agreeable enough, and the key lime and chocolate peanut butter desserts were completely worth the calories. And here's the thing: At dinner we were seated with (you guessed it) Carl with a C, who was much more tolerable in that setting as opposed to standing in the doorway of our compartment regaling(?) us with a one-way dissertation on Frank Sinatra trivia. You see, I actually had enough to say about Broadway musicals that he occasionally stopped to insert food into his mouth...

...It is now about 9 pm. I discovered that when our small collapsible table is in closed position, the underside reveals instructions for making our seat into a bed. So I did it. So far I am resisting deploying the upper bunk, and just sharing the lower. But first I had to figure out how to manage Jeff's elbows which he especially likes to tuck behind his head. So now I've got his head at the door end of the bunk, next to my feet. Ever since we put the bed down he's been commenting that he thinks he's in someone's rec room, and couldn't we find better accommodations? Hard to think this is the same guy who drove up the Al-Can highway in a VW on a whim. "Like what?" I said, to the question of better accommodations. "Like a hotel," he replied. "The problem with hotels," I said, "is that they don't move." Well...this will all feed into the end-of-trip evaluation process, as this whole thing is a bit experimental.

And oh yes...the shower...Here's how it worked: I stashed my shampoo on one back corner of the john, and my conditioner on the other. You push a button which allows you 30 seconds of spray. However, it takes a good 10 pushes before the water is warm enough that you'd care to aim it at yourself. Still, I got the job done. What I think I will not do is try to get Jeff showered until we're comfortably ensconced in our inn in Santa Fe.

Off and fumbling...

I am quickly squeezing in a moment of Wifi time. In just over 2 hours we'll board the Capitol Limited, which will take us--in our very own compartment--to Chicago. Neither the Capitol Limited nor the Southwest Chief--our homes for the next 2 nights--have Wifi, apparently, but here in the Acela First Class lounge at D.C. Union Station we're up and running.

We're also dozing a bit, which is appropriate given the hubbub of the bustling terminal we just closed the Acela Lounge door on. Most inconveniently, as full as Union Station is of dining choices and upscale shops, the restrooms in the terminal are in the midst of a 6 week remodeling, and all needy bladders are being shunted to the food court restrooms. The result of this is a short wait at the men's room, but--to no one's surprise--a line of 20 women before you even breach the doorway to the women's facilities. Hence, I stood watch by the men's room door as Jeff did his business, but held my own until after lunch when we went back to the Acela Lounge.

In flagrant disregard of a sign posted just next to where I'm sitting, we're munching chocolate cookies from Au Bon Pain, rather than merely availing ourselves of the Lounge-sanctioned snacks of chips and goldfish crackers. I am, however, properly consuming Amtrak/Green Mountain coffee from the lounge dispenso-matic.

Jeff has been in good form. I've been talking up our trip a good bit for the past week, and he's reasonably well oriented to the program. It helps, of course, that we're now in the tranquil Acela lounge, and out of the Barnes&Noble/Food Court/stairways/mobs/escalators of the Station-at-Large where I must remain appended to him at the elbow, turning him right and left like an upright vacuum. That can get on anyone's nerves. Both the turner and the turnee.

Stepping off the MARC commuter train, which took us from the BWI Airport train terminal to Union Station, Jeff failed to notice the gap and stepped down a foot and a half into the pit. Luckily that's all the deep it was, and a porter was positioned to help him as the gap was dicier than normal. Otherwise, so far so good. I am merely berating myself ever so slightly that I didn't think to brighten up his suitcase handles with yellow or orange tape so he'd know where to grab.

Blogging by iPhone is determined to be none other than a pain in the pinfeathers.

the danger of cookies

I cannot argue with evening cookies at a B&B.

That was the opening thought. The followup thought, which entered contention 24 hours later, is that neither can I argue with an evening cookie plus a glass of Gato Negro burgundy/merlot at the same B&B. These things counterbalanced the slip-ups and near misses as we almost lost Jeff several times over the course of a weekend.

Actually, I think we only almost lost him twice: Once, when Gabe--unaware of the weight that the instruction "watch your dad" now carries--failed to do so in the grocery store, and Jeff skedaddled down the row of cashier lanes after who-knows-who. I exited, to have a look outside and alert my mother to our code orange, while Gabe stood by in the store and soon apprehended his father, who was no worse for wear. The second time was when Jeff balked at the top of the escalator in New Haven Union Station as Mom, I, and about 100 other people took off for track 1 the second they gave us our track assignment. Which was about 2½ minutes before scheduled departure. I was half-way down yelling "Jeff! Get on!" as an anxious crowd formed a clog behind him. With my roll-aboard occupying one hand, and my satchel of paperwork the other, he had to follow me without physical contact.

Mom is no doubt wondering (as she sits just behind me in Amtrak Coach, New Haven to BWI,) exactly how I plan to hang onto Jeff next week, as we depart on our cross-country train trip just as the two of us. The only answer I can supply myself is that--without the presence of a third party to help--my diligence dial will be set at maximum. Additionally, I intend to inscribe or embroider my cell phone number, in large numerals, on his black "sport-band" medical alert i.d.

As for the trip--we come away with the positive sense that Gabe is striding in the direction of independence and adulthood, and it was a fine thing for his grandmother to get a glimpse of his current school and world. I also continue to be impressed that maritime Connecticut is a region I could happily pass a good deal more time in. Mark Twain's house was not enough. I'd very much like to see the Mashantucket Pequot Museum of Native American History (bypassing the Foxwoods casino, operated by the same tribe,) and hit a few choice stops on the Connecticut Wine Trail.

Texts from the home-front indicate that Hazel will not eat her medicated food when I have so rudely interrupted her expectations by vamoosing, but I hope she'll get over it. I am not anxious to institute the wrapped-cat and pill-plunger method of cyclosporin delivery. Hence, I am feeling a tad guilty, especially in light of the fact that we'll be hitting the road again in 5 days. But really...here's the choice: Spend an extra week mollifying a fussy kitty, or experience (for the very first time) a sleeper car. No choice at all. Sorry Hazel.

applecarts are made for upsetting.

Lately I've been inclined to notice that my pet-load is, for me, at a plateau of relative manageability. I've had more and I've had fewer, but Chessie, Freddi, and Hazel--while none the most easy-going of critters--have established preferences and ways of dealing with each other such that, pet-wise, we were as close to equilibrium as we ever get.

It is true that both Freddi and Hazel require expensive pills--Freddi for her funky dysplastic hips, and Hazel for her funky overexcitable immune system--but we've got everything tamped down to a sub-acute level, routines in place...well, they were.

There's a recognizable pattern that's followed me through life: As soon as I start telling myself "this, I can handle..." then it's time to look for the next ball to thwang, fast and furious, into left field. This time, the ball's name is Otis, and he comes to us thanks to BARCS (Baltimore Animal Care and Rescue Shelter,) and the fostering tendencies of Olivia's boyfriend's kin.

Otis just got neutered on Tuesday, and he's roughly the size of a large squirrel. He moved in last night, and Becca kept him company on the computer room couch where--if I have the story straight--she got minimal sleep, but experienced a good bit of pouncing kitten. As of today, his "room" is Freddi's dog crate (the one she uses for thunderstorms,) in the middle of the kitchen, where he can see (and therefore acclimate to) the noises and personalities with which he can expect to be surrounded.

This is a well-socialized kitty. No feral tendencies whatsoever, as he was born into foster care. You pick him up, and he shuts his eyes and yawns languorously, stretching a bit, anticipating a belly rub. But, with the other animals, he's got some stuff to work out. Only it's not his stuff, it's their stuff.

Freddi hasn't a maternal bone in her body, that I can detect. Possibly, it was located in the top ball of her femur--the one they took off due to dysplasia when she was 1 year old. But it's gone now, and--in her opinion--kitties should be toys. Hence, their interactions mostly involve Freddi bouncing at Otis, who sequesters himself under a hutch, or chair, until the dog is distracted by anything else. We must take care--Freddi's bouncing 45 lbs could be a safety hazard to a kitty who has not yet learned the value of a well-placed bop on the nose, claws optional.

Chessie and Hazel, both divas who merely tolerate, and occasionally taunt, each other, don't seem to be of the opinion that another cat was needed here. Hazel makes sure we're clear on her feelings...yes, I may rub her back...yes, I may turn on the sink a trickle for her drinking pleasure...but she's going to emit a low growly howl the whole time, just so I know I am NOT in her good graces. (Hazel would especially not appreciate Otis' countertop explorations today, when--upon discovering the kitchen sink--he promptly peed in it. I'm discouraging further countertop adventures for now.)

I am in good shape through the upcoming weekend. On Monday, Olivia will return to college, and it will be up to me and Becca (but mostly me, due to work and boyfriend obligations,) to keep everyone happy.

I like it pretty.

Who gets a headache from vegetarian sushi? Well, me. Yesterday was the second time I noticed what appears to be a cause and effect relationship between the Fresh Market veggie rolls of which I’m fond, and a follow-up headache. I’m going to blame it on the MSG. There should not be MSG in sushi--absolutely no excuse for it--but there it was, plain as splotchy grocery store label font, slapped on the tray. MSG. And not only that, but aspartame. eh...what?

Now that I think this through, I do recall that the Fresh Market veggie rolls had a little more zizz...a little more bite than the comparable ones I’ve gotten at Whole Foods Market. Not that you’d expect too much zizz from rice, a few strips of carrot, and a plug of avocado. That’s what the small plop of wasabi they give you is for, if you so desire. And now that I know the truth, and its effects, I’m ready to rededicate myself to the crunchy ideals of Whole Foods ingredient taboos, and hone my appreciation for carrot as carrot.

In Annapolis, there are three main competitors in the not-your-mainstream-grocery-store game. The two aforementioned plus Trader Joe’s. This trio meets my grocery needs. I only venture into the closer-to-home Giant and Safeway when I have an urgent need. I admit to being a food and shopping elitist, but plead that my reasons are legit, and grounded securely in honest self-knowledge.

Safeway (west a couple miles, in the vicinity of my mom’s and sister’s homes,) is almost tolerable. They just don’t have everything I like. Giant (closest to me) is a total sensory trial. The lighting is harsh, disorienting, and leaves my brain swimming in a sort of paranoid surreality. The aisles are tall, canyonesquely narrow, and chock-a-block with items, only 0.75% of which I’d ever consider purchasing. This makes finding what I want a bit like playing Where’s Waldo?(.) There are a few other popular American franchises that have a similar effect on me. I walk in and react as if someone just blew an airhorn, turned on a disco ball, and launched a line of dancing Glenn Becks in my face. In other words, I want to leave.

I don’t exactly know how to account for my reaction. I cannot believe that a major player such as Giant Food has not done exhaustive merchandising research. Apparently I am just a psychological outlier.

The Fresh Market, on the other hand, taking over the space held by Whole Foods until they moved to bigger digs, is pretty. It’s restful. It’s calm. They play nice music. They give you free tiny coffees. They do not, however, have the purity of ingredient shtick thing that defines Whole Foods Market. If I had to summarize Fresh Market’s niche in one line, it would be “we’re prettier than those guys.” You can get napkins or paper plates, but they’re going to be pretty. There are a few cosmetics, but only pretty ones. And if it’s food that comes in a jar, it’s going to be a pretty jar. Of that you can be sure. That of which you cannot be sure is whether a given item will contain chemical additives that you’d typically prefer to avoid. Some things do, some things don’t. It takes label reading. (And now, in my case, 1.50+ pocket-sized magnifying glasses which--I think--I got at Whole Foods.)

I’m sure that I will continue to covet and purchase chocolate cupcakes with white frosting from Fresh Market. Also, indubitably, Thomas’ cinnamon-raisin bagels, unsalted mixed nuts, and a batch of other items which can be happily obtained from any member of my grocery trio.

But when it comes to veggie sushi...well, we’ll let Whole Foods speak for itself, from its own website:

“We carry natural and organic products because we believe that food in its purest state — unadulterated by artificial additives, sweeteners, colorings, and preservatives — is the best tasting and most nutritious food available.”

And least likely, in the case of sushi, to give me a headache.

So yep. That’s me: crunch-elitist. (except where cupcakes are concerned.) I will be sure not to run for President, because the populists would probably use this against me.

Alpha house, alpha kitty

Today, at Clement Hardware, I charged the following items to the Jeff Clement account: 2 bungie cords (for helping Rachel move tomorrow a.m...might need'em to hold down the hatch, if mattresses are too big, and the rest of this stuff has nothing to do with Rachel's move...) 1 can Great Stuff spray-foam (for sealing the gaps between the drywall and tile in the bathroom ceiling,) 1 tube marine-grade silicone caulk (for rain-proofing the back threshold,) 1 roll foam caulk (which I'll stuff in the crack before applying the silicone,) 1 roll of tubular vinyl gasket (for attempting a waterproof seal on the lower back door, thus banning rain influx forever,) and 1 bag of spice drops (because we never get out of that place without spice drops. I don't eat them. Don't look at me.)

Accompanying this initiative is a decidedly pleasant peaceful feeling, leading me to believe I may, finally, be reaching some sort of emotional accord with this house.

I'll be honest--I've entertained the notion for years that I'd run away...nay, that I MUST run away...to Eastport (popularly known, locally, as The Maritime Republic of Eastport.) It's just across the drawbridge from Historic Annapolis, and has held the role--in my daydream--of the place which would shake me out of the Alzheimer-caregiver 'am I eighty years old, or what?' doldrums.

But now let's be really honest--I would still require a house. It would still require maintenance. I would still be in charge of the maintenance. I would still be an Alzheimer caregiver. Life would not suddenly start to happen in new and surprising ways, and I seriously doubt if Clarence (my cross-eyed muse,) would improve in work ethic by any measure just because of a change of residence.

Those things are pretty much true. But I attribute my improvement in attitude to factors other than logic and reason. All the road-tripping I've done this Fall has, and will be, a big help. And I do believe that fixing the downstairs shower drip was--in a weirdly out of proportion way--a breakthrough moment. (Thanks to brother-in-law Fred, who was big help with that project.) Somehow, I've acquired the feeling that, by tackling maintenance bug-a-boos one on one (and even very slowly,) I am establishing an alpha position with this house that I never required prior to Jeff losing his powers. So, in a way, this house is a little like a big dog over which I had no control, so I wanted to give it away and get a puppy instead.

If it is well-maintained and orderly, it no longer feels like a box in which I am trapped. If I know I CAN sell it if I want to, I no longer feel a panicky compulsion to do so.

Thus, the latest bag of Clement Hardware goodies. Next up: weather-seal the back door. Staggered, in the interest of covering all the bases, with reading Bill Bryson to Jeff, eking out a line or two of my book, getting the heck out of here once in a while, and not-cooking.

Who knows? Cooking may be the next dog I stare down. But I doubt it.

(And have I mentioned that a new kitten is moving in here next week? Because apparently our 3 existing pets aren't needy enough? Stay tuned...)

Coffee won't help.

I'm trying to remember how I did it. Quite a few years ago, during the earlier seasons of Survivor, (you know, reality TV--put people on a jungly-beach and watch them act stupid,) I wrote a humorous online column, re-hashing--through my own fractured filter--each episode.

I'm not really sure how I wrangled my brain into cooperating. See, I'd watch the show from 8 to 9 p.m., then--within roughly an hour and a half--I'd spin out a sufficiently clever synopsis that at least a few people around the globe (I got emails) would come back for more on a weekly basis.

I'm not a night person, is the thing. So that wasn't easy. And, right now (9:50 p.m. Toshiba time,) I'm testing to see whether I can still formulate sentences after dark. The reason I want to know is that there are generally 2-3 hours per night that I spend awake, alone, and wondering wtf. Jeff goes to bed at 7 or 8, depending on whether I have something on tv with which to engage him. Then, I spend the next couple hours either websurfing, tv-surfing, or just sort of otherwise lost in space.

I tell myself I'm too tired to do anything much. And I think it's true. Making intelligent decisions about which objects from the hall closet go in the throwaway or the giveaway bags is not something I'm willing to do with half a brain. Nor would I care to attempt my "real" writing project, half checked out. But I'm not ready for bed, and--with the right topic--I might just be able to reactivate my columnist neural network.

By the way...THIS is not the right topic. This is just practice. And I hear a problem. Footsteps. This means that Jeff woke up enough to go to the bathroom, and--when he is done--he will get back into bed diagonally or maybe even upside-down, such that I will have to shove a bit (creating further disorientation) when I try to fit. Furthermore, he will have his hands under his head with his left elbow sticking halfway across my pillow. I might be able to re-shape him, like Gumby, but I might just cause havoc. So, make sure--if you're a couple, and one of you is planning to become cognitively impaired--to buy your queen bed now, and not still have a regular old full-size (like I do) when the time comes to sleep in it all crooked.

So, how about that? Writing after partial brain shutdown. It would be appropriate if there were a glowing light, slowly pulsating off and on on my forehead, to indicate that the hard drive is not quite up and responsive. I guess Survivor lends itself to commentary by the alertness impaired. I'll have to make note of future topics that could be similarly impervious to nonsensical rambling.

Clairvoyant or not, I still need new sunglasses.

We are home, for three weeks. Although we munched Connecticut-grown Macoun apples while zipping south on the New Jersey turnpike, we haven't needed much else in the way of food today. It was that breakfast near Manasquan, coastal NJ, in a local dive called Mariners' Cove. They offered 200+ omelettes, described on a tabloid-sized menu, and while the spoons per se were not greasy, the food decidedly was. Still, it was clearly popular with the locals, and a steady crew moved in and out while we ate. Nevermind that they were all men, every one of whom looked like he must have bellowed "STELLAAAA!" out his side door before giving up and hitting The Cove. Stella, apparently, was not forthcoming with the breakfast this morning.

So, yes...in three weeks it's back up by Amtrak, for Family Weekend, with my mom in tow. It's a busy Fall. Yesterday, tooling from Connecticut to Jersey, I experienced one of those moments of clairvoyance that I don't quite believe in. Despite the fact that they seem to always end up true. I don't believe in clairvoyance, (or, leastwise, I am stubbornly determined not to,) but my record--skepticism or not--is hard to argue with. If everything turns out fine (at least according to current norms,) and the status is quo after this Fall, then I'll laugh at clairvoyance and tell it I knew it was full of beans. But here's what it says: It's that the busyness of this Fall is my instinctive (almost primordial) reaction to realizing that Jeff's and my time to do this stuff together is drawing to a rapid close. He is going functionally blind, and I sense the pitch of the decline to be growing more acute.

Functionally blind a la Benson's syndrome, of course, bears only surface resemblance to eyes that don't work. A blind person can compensate by means of sharp senses and a clever mind. A victim of Posterior Cortical Atrophy cannot. His cognition is petering out across the board, and when he cannot identify a butter knife as a butter knife there is little he can do to work around that.

I knew about the incident in which he could not, momentarily, identify his brother. I've since learned it happened two weeks earlier as well, with his sister. When he cannot peg me on sight, I don't think all will be lost. He's okay with being told, and accepts what you tell him with comfort and trust. But not knowing family, running into doors, almost eating butter wrappers, and falling over curbs are merely opening volleys in a condition that's poised to worsen exponentially, and--as it does--all bets are off vis-a-vis just what we can expect to do, outside of the safest and most carefully arranged of environments.

How I will manage, and what services I may seek to employ--not yet known. Clairvoyance doesn't like to fill in the details that way. (And trust me...I still don't trust it.)

Hello?

I don't know if Manasquan, New Jersey is the weirdest place on the east coast, but it's sure been the weird spot on our latest adventure.

We're staying at a place called The Inn on Main. It sounds quaint enough, doesn't it? But here's how it works: You pull into a marked parking spot behind a pleasantly shingled, but otherwise nondescript, building. There are two restaurants on the ground floor. Or are there? One's signage suggests a sushi joint, the other, an America Bistro. Both are abandoned and desolate--their tables forlorn and empty, save for askew tablecloths. Around the corner, in a bare tiled hallway, you push the elevator button. Your room is #202, and you have been instructed by email that there is no check-in. Instead, you will enter a particular code (which is related to your cell phone number) in the keypad on the doorknob, and go right in. In the elevator is a small sign, giving you the phone number for hotel staff, but you're clearly not expected to require them. We don't. On each of the doorways in the hotel corridor is a plaque reading: "The Warmest of Welcomes!" That's good. At least the plaque has good intentions, but the word "warmest" seems ironic given the utter lack of humans. The keypad grants us access into a clean and handsome (in a starkly generic way) room. I half expect that when I turn on the t.v. either Rod Serling, or maybe Will Ferrell, will fill us in on our next instructions. So we don't turn the t.v. on. Instead, we go out and drive around.

We view many grand houses but few dining establishments. We walk on the boardwalk, but not on the beach (which is chilly and windy...besides, we don't have the regulation beach badges.) We find an old-fashioned Italian place, and eat tasty heavy chow. Then we come back.

We have decided to make decaf in the room. I have used tiny 4 cup dripolaters, and I have used Keurig pods. This machine is something in between. You insert a mini disposable filter basket, pour one insulated cup full of water in the back of the machine, push the button, and let it dripolate right back into your cup. Hot. Not bad. Weird.

Tomorrow morning we will leave, having interacted with nary a human. There's no phone in here. I almost feel like a squatter. They don't serve breakfast, like our other two stops. Instead, we'll depart, looking for either Mariner's Cove or Ray's Café to please be open and functional.

Here's the thing: The reviewers on TripAdvisor.com overwhelmingly liked this place. I can usually trust those guys. Not that there's anything wrong with this it...it's just that this is a little too much anonymity even for me.

trains, (hydro?)planes, and automobiles...

It is late afternoon. Soon we will return to Gabe's house on campus and scoop him up for dinner in town, New London. What am I observing after his first 3 weeks away? (3 weeks...not a long time, is it?) He seems clean, and their dorm room--chock full with 3 boys--is NOT abysmally messy. Even Gabe's stuff isn't abysmally messy. I'll solicit his impression of where he stands on the privilege stratum (a leveling system whereby a steady hand on the self-responsibility wheel will move you up a step) at dinner. We'll eat Indian, or maybe Thai.

For now, Jeff and I have retired to our Inn down the road in Niantic. This room has windows and marina views on 3 sides, sea breezes, and is an eminently satisfactory place to recoup after plenty of driving.

I've asked myself if this is a crazy trip from the planning stage to now, in the thick of it. Three lodging stops for the core goal of checking in with the kid, barely a month into his semester. But there's more to it for me. Jeff doesn't know where we are from one minute to the next, but he goes with the program...nary a complaint...only wondering occasionally if it might be time to eat. If we stay out of teeming throngs (malls, let's say,) I can keep him on a loose enough rein that he's happy and one place is as good as another.

But I have a sense that we're reaching the end of the time we can do this. That this season--this time we can travel--will end with an undeniable solstice, whether I like it or not. Every so often, a tell-tale leaf falls, and one just did. Gordon told me about it. Happened just a couple days ago when Jeff was with him at Helen's house in NY, during Wade's visit. An almost complete reunion of the Clement siblings. It was early morning, Helen's family room. Jeff looked at Gordon (the brother with whom he's been business partners for two decades,) and, with some concern, said "Who are you?" When Gordon gently revealed his identity Jeff relaxed visibly, chuckled, and sat down. But this was new. When, I wonder, will he be asking me the same thing?

Jeff is wearing his MedicAlert/Safe Return "sport band" i.d. without notice. I slipped it on next to the watch he can't read, muttering something about health insurance, and he nodded as if to give distracted assent. I don't believe he's paid a whit of attention to it since.

Now we'll go seek vittles with the newly-fledged college boy, and tomorrow Jeff and I will stop mid-way down the Atlantic Coast of New Jersey. I will point to things that would interest him. A few, he will look at; most he will stare obliquely past. Other things I will not point out, because they are of interest to me, and I'll tell myself all about them in the running dialog me and I have.

Right now, I am telling myself that there are a heap-load of boats docked at this marina in the Niantic River. And that--300 or so yards that-a-way, out the southern window--three Amtrak trains have hooted and rumbled by. I will not have trouble sleeping here. Gabe could have picked a worse spot to endure two semesters of maturing in exile.

it's what happens

I just found out that my next door neighbor died suddenly. She was about thirty-five and was, by vocation, a pet-sitter. Our pet-sitter, for one. And somebody else's pet-sitter, down the street, where she died, apparently suddenly and unexpectedly.

I keep looking over--there's her car, there's the fence, there's the rusty old shed that's been there for decades...This was someone who was useful in the community, who filled a needed niche and helped a number of elderly ladies. Someone to whom I could have been a better friend when she was a lonely kid.

I wonder how jaded it makes me, living with a husband who is taking a decade or two to die of an inexorably terminal condition. Am I more or less unsettled than someone who doesn't have the grim reaper penciled into her datebook under the vague heading to be continued...? Maybe I'm more stupefied than affected in any kind of a meaningful way. I just kind of look over and think oh...wow...shiznit.

Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible to get nearly through 5 decades of life and still find anything shocking or traumatizing, or do we all--after this much time--just look out the kitchen window and say to ourselves, "well, I wasn't expecting that one."

I don't think it's the same as being callous. I think I still register empathic pain, and I think I'll still reach out a hand if the obtusity of my mind permits me to notice a need. But, oh...wow...shiznit.

Bed, Bath, & Bewildered

Funny the way things snowball from maybe to imperative. Yesterday, I reached a certain point of conviction that it was time for a medical i.d. bracelet of some sort for Jeff. Today, I lost him in Bed, Bath & Beyond.

I was keeping him pretty close as we waited in line at the checkout to pay for two tablecloths. He tends to position himself awkwardly otherwise--either squarely in the middle of an aisle, such that no one can pass, or he confuses other shoppers who can’t quite tell if he’s in line or not. So, I had him with me until I turned my attention to the credit card box through which I’d just swiped my card. They’re all different, you know. Did this one have a screen that I’d need to pay attention to, or sign on, or would I be signing the paper slip? The slip, as it turned out, but by the time I gathered my tablecloths and receipt, Jeff had given me the slip.

Here is what must have happened: Somewhere in the two minutes when my attention was diverted, another woman with light hair must have come into his visual field. At which point he fixated on the wrong back of a head, and followed it out of the store.

Heaven knows whether the decoy Emily ever even noticed the guy trailing her at 10 paces, out the door, down the stairs, across the street. As Becca later observed--thank goodness he didn’t try to get in her car. I cannot say what happened to her, or even vouch for more than her probable existence, but after I’d made 3 circuits of the check-out zone and entryway, and 1 circuit of the entire store, I stepped outside to scope the surroundings. I was not feeling as calm and collected as I may seem relating the tale in written format.

This particular B,B&B is located one flight up from street level. I knew Jeff could have gone across the pedestrian bridge and into the parking garage, or down the stairs and who knows where from there? To my great relief, when I looked out over the street, from above, I spotted him standing patiently, with a slightly bewildered expression, at the street level entrance to the parking garage across the street below.

Down the stairs I skedaddled. “Where did you go?” I asked. He looked perplexed. What a question. “I didn’t go anywhere,” he said “I’ve been right here the whole time. You disappeared.” (I can only assume “you,” in this case, meant the decoy, who presumably escaped without ever becoming alarmed.) For a moment I protested that he’d disappeared as I was at the register...but this clearly bore zero resemblance to his reality, and I quickly dropped it. “I guess you walked into a wormhole,” I said.

In 10 minutes of lost-person, you can do a lot of thinking about how limited his resources are: He cannot call me because he does not remember my cell phone #, does not have a phone, does not know how to use one. He will not seek help, because he does not understand himself to be impaired. He is too far from home to walk back, and not in the neighborhood where 25% of the people know him by sight. No one will offer him help, because he looks relatively normal. But he does retain one trick, which he told me about at lunch, later. “This thing about being lost,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid, in boy scouts, it’s been hammered into me that if you’re lost, stay put and let someone find you.” So that’s what he did.

I am grateful he retains that tool. Now I must find something else to add to my own toolbox.

paring down.

Among the books on the desk alone are three copies of Benjamin Graham's The Intelligent Investor. Three different editions. Introductions by three different noteworthies. It is somewhere between art and skill, deciding which books to slip into the give-away bag. Two copies of Graham go. I leave enough that if Jeff tires of the 3 books he's been "reading" for the past 2 years, there's something else to offer. Anything with Warren Buffet's name on it is good.

He woke me up at 5:15 a.m. "Emily." he says. "Why and where?" It does not take much to rouse me, as I am primed for intervention. "Why and where what?" I say. At least he still knows "who." "Where are we, and what are we doing here?" "We are at home," I say, "trying to sleep for another hour." But it's somewhat too late. I've already been alerted to my bladder. What happens at night when I go to the bathroom is this: Jeff does not think Oh, me too. I'll go next. He skips straight to the I'll go part, and stands there in front of me, confounded to find there's someone else in the way. "I'll be done in a sec," I say. "Then we're going back to bed." Jeff says "Is there something to eat?" "Yes," I say. "In 45 minutes."

The book collection bag, in the hallway, has also swallowed several tomes on architecture. We have hundreds--mostly full color hardcovers illustrating an architect, a style, a trend. It was a lifelong interest, but he hasn't taken notice of them in years. It's time to thin the herd. It will take awhile, 3-4 at a time. But we have awhile.

I am working on his dresser now. I have unearthed no fewer than 3 identical brown Brooks Brothers glasses cases, each of which has the word "car" written in blue ballpoint on the inside-top of the clamshell. The hardest things to sort are the stacks of correspondence, tucked away in almost every drawer. They're there because family members returned them to Jeff over the past several years, thinking that remembrances would mean something to him. He glanced at a few. Mainly he cannot process them at all, though he might chuckle at a silly photograph. There's a letter from his mother, written on stationery with the letterhead of the small hardware store they owned in Hurlock, Maryland, listing Jeff's parents as proprietors. I don't know why I save it, but I do. I save a card from his Mom in which she wrote that she's especially proud of his unfailing honesty, kindness, and generosity of spirit. Almost everything else goes.

Now we'll take 3 large black plastic trash bags of clothing, and 2 shopping bags of books, to the collection bins down the road. "It's stuff we don't use anymore," I'll say. It's true, and Jeff won't question it.

An interesting place, no question.

I was about to talk about Disney World, starting from my earliest childhood trip at age 11. But what happened was, it read like a voiceover by Earl Hamner Jr. So I hit the delete key a whole bunch of times until I got back to the opening html tag. Then I started again.

I am of split feelings regarding the whole “Disney Experience.” I completely buy into the school of thought that thinks: “Wow...what a remarkably (mostly) neatly and tightly run ship this is! Totally engineered fun, but fun indeed!” But I also: 1) prefer “real” experiences and places and 2) am inclined to avoid crowds. As for the crowd thing--there are probably few places where crowds are steered with the pleasant sort of efficiency that Disney imagineers, and as for the “real” thing...well, there is no question that there is an inescapable layer of realness in contemplating the creation and operation of such places and experiences as exist on Disney property, not to mention the undeniable reality of watching other humans and their behaviors in the context of such a marvel of engineering.

At age eleven I was enchanted. At twenty I was supremely entertained. At thirty, in a rare opportunity to visit the Animal Kingdom with none for company but a pleasant and cooperative infant, I enjoyed the details in a way that you can’t always. Several years later, with a litter of middle-grade children along, I’d pre-planned our days such that opportunities for cranky exhaustion were limited, and fun--in the company of unjaded children--was at its best. This year I went for 3 days with 2 college students. We had fun, for certain; it kept me entertained, for certain--but this was the first time I actively thought: “I think I will have come here enough for one lifetime.”

Nonetheless, I was happy for the trip, and happy for a change from the lonely tranquility of my caregiving days. I will say however, that I cannot recommend jouncy rides to anyone else whose temperament disinclines her to relax her neck and shoulder muscles. And I have a critical suggestion: Disney? Mickey? Seriously. Offer free wifi in your deluxe resorts.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Ennui (a)

I have the tv on for the moment--The Sound of Music to be precise--but I'm probably not going to watch it. Instead, I am wondering if I'm not at least a little nuts for having just planned a three night trip for the core purpose of spending an afternoon and dinner out with Gabe in Connecticut. If I drive straight with just a lunch and maybe bathroom break, it will take us about 8 hours. I can make that kind of a trip, as sole driver, but I don't like it. This is why I'll split it up, and spend 2 extra nights at inns en route...places tranquil enough to keep it easy, but interesting enough to be fun for me.

Anyway, this is what I've been telling myself I'd do once Gabe got situated. Stuff Jeff in the car and go places. It's better for both of us. For me, it makes the home-time more productive and more welcome. I stop feeling like a caregiving hermit in a cave. For Jeff...well, I don't know, but he seems perfectly content.

It's a glimmer of good fortune that given a disease that is known for exaggerating personality traits, Jeff has never been a worrier, or one to fret in unfamiliar surroundings. As long as I lock our hotel or inn room door securely, and stick a small table in front of it for extra assurance (middle of the night bathroom searches can cause the most disoriented fumblings,) we do rather well. I have a little wake up routine in which I say (for example) "We are in Norfolk, Virginia. We are on our way to Nags Head." Then we get breakfast. It seems to work for everyone, and by the time the first coffee kicks in, Jeff has at least a rudimentary grasp of the program.

I have a special file holder for trip planning. It holds five plastic folders, all different colors, and each one contains things like Amtrak barcodes for ticket retrieval, notes on likely places to eat, maps, and hotel information. Since summer I've regularly had 3-4 of the folders full and waiting. I like it that way.

On tv, Captain Von Trapp and the Baroness have just had a little conversation about his busy travel schedule. It's the sort of conversation that would have been edited out of any modern movie, but not in 1965. He says "Activity suggests a life filled with purpose."

Yep. But I had to wait until my children were old enough to govern themselves, since there are no conveniently located convents full of inappropriately impulsive novices, but the time is here. For now. As long as it works for Jeff. And when it doesn't...that's when we'll need Maria.