I visit my Dad over to Mahoosuc Green a couple times a week or so. He lives on Chickadee Lane. (That’s assisted living for us civilians.) From his swanky, new Barcalounger, he has a nice view of the back yard. The Black-Eyed Susan’s are real pretty right now. There’s also a nice trellis with some sort of plant climbing up, getting ready to completely take it over.
Dad says to me, “The truck is buried.”
“Yeah, I can see that. How long has it been like that?”
“Awhile.”
See, that’s the thing. Dad’s memory is spotty at best, and his mind plays tricks on him. This “truck” is really a trellis. We never had a trellis in our yard growing up. The trellis, with its cross hatching of wood, was hard for dad to make sense of. So, I think he scrolled through pictures in his head and decided at first that it was a train. You know, with the grillwork of the engine facing his window. Then, as summer progressed and the climbing plant grew, it became a truck. Sometimes the truck is there because they’re building a rock wall. Sometimes, it’s a fountain.
Everyone, I think, has this need to tell stories to make sense of the world. Dad has lost a lot of things, but he hasn’t lost that.
He sleeps a lot now. The story I’ve made up to explain this is: Dad’s brain is like a radio with bad reception. He’s constantly trying find a station that comes in clearly. But he gets a lot of static and the clear parts only flicker in and out. It’s hard work for him to understand his world and keep bits of the story straight with all that static. It just must be exhausting, don’t you think?
Dad doesn’t have a lot going on in his life anymore, so lately when we visit, he’s started making our story his. Like my sister Irene and I were visiting not long ago and she shared with him that she’s thinking about retiring next year.
About a minute later, Dad goes, “I’ve been thinking about retiring.” (Keep in mind, this is a man who’s been retired over a quarter of a century.)
But you’ve gotta just go with it, right? “I think that’s a great idea, Dad,” I say. “You deserve it. You’ve worked hard for a long time.”
“Yup, I think that’s why I’m always so tired.”
Or on my last visit, I said to him, “Let me see if your phone is working and the ringer is on. I tried calling you several times yesterday and you didn’t pick up.”
A few seconds later, Dad goes, “I tried calling you yesterday, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Huh, I must have missed it on my phone.”
Once Dad latches onto a story, it’s almost impossible to get him off it. He goes round and round with it, like a playback loop. That’s when the trellis-truck comes in handy. It’s a good distraction.
“Yup, I tried calling you over and over, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Dad, what’s going on with the truck?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s buried.”
“Yeah, I can see that. How long has it been like that?”
“Awhile.”
Before I left to go home, I used Dad’s bathroom. When I came out, Dad was already fast asleep.
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: The Trellis-Truck & Other Stories