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| (At his favorite eatery.) |
It’s what I do. I write. It’s how
I process.
So, here are a few of his
favorite things; a peek into the last eight years of his life here with us for
those who weren’t here to share in it with him, and some of his quirks, as
well.
He came to live with us eight
years ago. He showed up on our 29th wedding anniversary. What a
surprise! It was sudden and totally unexpected.
I’ll jump around as thoughts hit
me.
He loved to spend time in the
mountains, who wouldn’t, right?
Early on in his stay with us, I
would even take him to some of my hiking trails. Obviously we had to take it
slow, and generally had a pup with us. He got worn out quickly, but felt
accomplished when we got back into the car. I’ll admit, with lungs full of scar
tissue, I was impressed; the altitude here didn’t seem to make his breathing
any worse than I’d seen it in Florida.
As time went on, it was drives
through the mountains, rather than walking on trails. He loved riding through
the Garden of the Gods, up to Helen Hunt Falls and drives along Gold Camp Road;
going through the tunnels up there. He had a terrific time on the trip up Pikes
Peak via the Cog Railway; I’ve included a picture of him in the box car.
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| (Garden of the Gods; at the Kissing Camels.) |
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(Helen Hunt Falls.)
|
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| (A view from Gold Camp Road.) |
\
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| (One of the tunnels on Gold Camp Road.) |
One spring vacation he shared
with us, we took him on a two week road trip. Dave’s brother Steve went with
us, too. We went down to Goodyear, Arizona – where the Cleveland Indians have
their spring training now, spent a few days there. Then we headed out to
California for a few days; saw the glamour and the not so glamorous sides of
Hollywood. Dave and Steve checked out Disney, while Gpa and I chilled at the
hotel pool. We trekked back through the Grand Canyon, whereupon taking in his
first vast, breathtaking views of the Canyon he declared, “Okay, so when do we
get to stop for milkshakes?” We stopped in Vegas on the way back, spending the
night at our daughter, Sandee’s place, even took in the Hoover Dam. It was a
well rounded, nice, long trip.
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| (Another view from the edge of Gold Camp Road.) |
I once took him down to Texas to
visit his son Norm and his family. Air travel with an older man can be
hilarious, though, I’m sure it was frustrating at times. The night before we
flew back to Colorado, we drove up to Dallas to spend the night before catching
our flight out early the next morning. We didn’t want to be driving in the dark
early morning hours. We stayed at a not-so-pricey-hotel, you know, the kind
where you actually have to ask for the remote control for the television. We
surely looked the odd couple, the desk clerk didn’t even ask. Fortunately, I’m
still laughing about it. It was a strange thing to share a room with my
father-in-law.
In the collection of pictures,
you’ll see a few shots from the rodeo. He loved going every year he was able.
Watching him laugh hysterically at the rodeo clowns was even funnier than the
clowns themselves.
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| (At the rodeo.) |
He had binoculars in his room,
and with views like ours, I can see why he’d love to stare out the windows with
them. One day he came to me and said, “That neighbor lady shouldn’t lay out in
the sun like that, she’s too fat.” I shook my head and said, “Well, then just
don’t look at her.” He laughed. But, I think he still watched her.
His favorite “restaurant” was the
Golden Corral. Generally I think of buffets as a place for folks who like to
fill their plates and go back for seconds, you know, big eaters. But, no, he’d
fill his plate and eat a mere fraction of it. He loved being there, though, and
“flirting” with the waitresses. He could never just leave a tip for them; he
had to personally put it in their hands like it was the biggest tip they were
going to get for the day. They got to know him and always greeted him when we
walked in. They knew how he took his coffee and brought it to him with a smile.
He ate some strange food
combinations. He loved his albacore tuna packed in oil, dumped in a bowl with
apple cider vinegar and a huge dollop of salad dressing stirred in. You could
smell it the minute you pulled in the driveway! (I exaggerate a wee bit,
there.) His morning cup of coffee was a tad odd, too. He kept a small coffee
cup in his room. Each morning, he’d carry it to the bathroom and put “hot” tap
water into it, then add 3 spoons of instant coffee and at least 5 spoons of
sugar, a squirt of Hershey chocolate syrup and top it off with some Coke.
Mmmmm! Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?
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| (Another of the many mountain views.) |
He had some strange “addictions”
– or maybe a better word would be compulsions.
He
was eccentric when it came to taping things to the walls in his room; maps,
post cards, newspaper articles, notes with quotes he wrote to himself....posters
he made for himself.
Glue
was another compulsion. He glued most everything to his desk and dressers and
sometimes to his highly coveted bookcases. From the stones he’d bring in every
single time he went outside, to his pencil holders, his statues, his trinkets
from the Goodwill Stores….all glued down with satisfaction. A week or so later,
he’d decide it was time to move it all. He’d chisel everything off with a
hammer and screwdriver, rearrange it and then glue it all back down, content
that this time it was all where he’d
keep it forever….until a week or two later. One day I suggested that was simply
addicted to the smell of glue, to which he responded, “What? Glue doesn’t even
have a smell!” He laughed at me as if I was a crazy one.
He
saved hundreds of Wal-mart bags in his closet, along with empty bottles and
jars and cut up Styrofoam and cut up cardboard, ceramic tiles and boards he
found in our garage, etc. At any given time, his closet was also filled with
moldy donuts and old moldy loaves of bread stashed away and forgotten about. I'd
clean it out from time to time when he was in the shower or when Dave took him
for a drive....
He
left behind quite a mess to clean up when he moved into the nursing home.
Yeah
- he could be pretty quirky.
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| (A view from the nursing room terrace.) |
Oh, I think I mentioned he
couldn’t hear. To communicate, we had to write everything down for him to read,
which got even more frustrating toward the end, as his eye sight began to fail
him, too. But, he loved the fancy reading glasses he’d picked out at Wal-mart.
He was so proud of them; I didn’t have the heart to tell him they were women’s
glasses with butterflies on the stems.
He read a lot, but more than he
loved to read, he loved to collect books. I think he did it every where he ever
lived. He was a full-blown bibliophile. In one of the pictures you can see some
of the books behind him. It must have been a little painful to up and leave
those book collections each time he thought the FBI or CIA was on to him and he
had to leave town quickly.
Yeah, that was another quirk, he
was very convinced the law was after him, not that he’d ever done anything
wrong (in his eyes). We live across the street from a trail that leads up the
hill to an elementary school. Parents often drop off and pick up their children
in front of our house. If a car waiting for a child had tinted windows, he was
quite convinced it was the FBI keeping an eye on him. He had some hateful ideas
about the vengeance he wanted to pour out on law enforcement officers he’d
encountered over the years. He slowed
down on insisting he had an FBI record that had to contain volumes of files
when I showed him on line that we could order a copy of their file on him for
just fifteen dollars. “Well, they surely wouldn’t send the good stuff,
anyways,” he pouted. I even printed out the form for him to fill out at one
point, but he just tucked it into one of his many files.
He had files that would make a
librarian shake her head. He filed newspaper articles and headlines and
sometimes just words he cut out of the paper. His fingertips were always black
with newspaper ink. His files included information on espionage, his favorite
subject, on foreign countries and dignitaries from around the world.
One time he insisted on reading
his address book to me. I patiently sat on the love seat as he pointed out each
entry on each page. He had Tiffany’s (a jeweler in New York City) address and
phone number. When I asked why, told me it was crucial to have important
numbers like that, you never know when you might need to call them. Of course,
he had FBI numbers out the wazoo, too.
One time I heard him yelling on the phone, so I picked up the
other line to see who he was talking to that deserved the wrath of Vader. He'd
called Focus on the Family and was screaming at some poor soul because Obama
was president and he didn't like it. The frightened girl had no clue what he
expected her to do about it! I just hung up the extension shaking my head.
He
had dementia, you know, so sometimes he would say some very bizarre things.
While in the nursing home he proudly told everyone there that his son was a
police officer; bragging that he’s the mayor’s body guard. Yet, while living at
our house for those first six years, he wouldn’t hesitate to declare that the
only good cop was a dead cop, right to Dave’s face.
He
loved his cheap, warm beer; kept it in the closet in his room. When he first
went to live at the nursing home, he was thrilled to know they’d let him have
his beer there. He went through about two 30 packs a month there in the
beginning. Eventually, it dwindled down to one 30 pack lasting him almost two
months, though he never realized it. He thought he was so sneaky keeping four
or five cans hidden away in his drawer. Like no one knew? It made him grin to
have this little secret I wasn’t supposed to let anyone else in on. No one
cared that he had it there.
 |
| (Riding the Cog Railway up Pikes Peak.) |
He
told me some horrible stories of his past; death bed confessions when he
thought he was dying at various points over the years; one that even begged me
to ask him if he wanted to talk to the police about it. He declined, of course.
Whenever he got the flu or a urinary tract infection he thought his was doomed
for the grave and became serious. Once he got a dose or two of antibiotics in
him, life was back to normal. If you’d ask him, he’d tell you that his only
serious health concern was his runny sinuses.
A
few years back, I took him to a few appointments with a psychologist, where he
was diagnosed with “alcohol induced dementia”. Ultimately, it was that
diagnosis that allowed a doctor at the hospital to later refer him to a nursing
facility, whether that was his wish, or not. The psychologist didn’t quite
measure up in my eyes, but, Gpa Donald made me laugh numerous times over his
concerns that the doctor might find out he was a communist sympathizer. I think
he was quite surprised, for a minute or two, to see how bad his memory had
become in certain areas. But, minutes later, it didn’t bother him at all,
because he didn’t remember his memory was that bad. I wonder if I’ll be like
that, or God forbid, I already am! Once
he moved into the nursing home, he and I had a running joke that it wouldn’t be
long until I moved into the room next to his.
He
could be difficult at times, like all of us, but I don’t recall him complaining
much; unless it was about politics.
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| (Prospect Lake, at Memorial Park.) |
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| (Prospect Lake, at Memorial Park.) |
From
time to time he’d ask us to take him to get a passport. For some reason we
never got around to it. He’d say, “Everyone should have a passport.” One day
Dave asked him why it was so important. He replied, “You never know when you’re
going to find yourself outside of the country.” How do you hold back laughing
at a statement like that? It’s one of Dave’s favorite “Dad quotes”.
He
told me stories of horseback riding in California, and working in swampy areas
in Florida, with a watchful eye looking out for alligators. He bragged about
skydiving, he was close to 60 when he did that, if I’m not mistaken. He told me
of the thrills of living in dangerous neighborhoods in Cleveland and Tampa, bar
fights and mafia connections, scandalous women and jealous husbands.
He
also told me of escaping death on the railroad tracks as a teenage boy when his
father’s car stalled on the tracks one night when he’d stayed out at the roller
rink later than he was supposed to.
He
must have had a million cousins; he had stories about each one of them, too. I
recall being crossed between amusement and annoyance one day at the retelling
of some of the stories and said, “You know, for having one aunt on your
mother’s side (who legally adopted him and raised him, an only child) and no
aunts or uncles on your father’s side, you sure have a lot of cousins.” He must
not have understood me, because he just laughed.
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| (The view from a trail at Palmer Park.) |
For
those of you who don’t know, his mother died in childbirth, so his mother’s
sister raised him, never allowing him to meet, or even see a picture of his
father. She blamed his father for her sister’s death. Her sister was told she
shouldn’t ever have children, and since Gpa’s father got her pregnant, he was
“the bad guy who killed her sister”.
His
father remarried and had three more sons before dying quite young from heart
issues caused from being exposed to mustard gas during World War I. I found the
one remaining son via the internet and was able to get pictures of them and one
of their father, too. Gpa Donald cried when he saw his father’s face. He shook
his head and said, “He was a good looking man.” His father was an ATF (Alcohol,
Tobacco and Firearms) agent, or rather, an agent for the forerunner of that
agency. He tracked down illegal stills in the hills of Kentucky after the war.
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| (A view from the nursing home terrace.) |
Of
course, he told us of surviving two years of undiagnosed TB and the nurses in
Hillsborough County that got him healthy again. This was the primary reason he
wanted his body donated to science when he passed, he thought they could learn
why he survived the TB and could help others. Interesting side note about nurses,
the prettier they were (at least the ones that took care of him while I was
with him) the more he seemed able to hear them. Hmmm….. Guess I just wasn’t
pretty enough; I always had to write notes. Not a problem!
Something
to make us happy; though he never liked the idea of living in a nursing care
facility, he repeatedly bragged that if you had to be in one, his was the best.
He liked the food, the staff, the accommodations, his roommate, the views from
the terrace, the big screen televisions and the dogs that the staff brought in
daily, especially the tiny ones. He got a kick out of them each day, almost as
if it was a new pleasure each time he saw them. He loved the fish tank there,
the bird cage outside his room and deer that came up to the doors and window
most every day.
So
many times he’d point out another resident and twirl his finger by his head and
laugh, telling me, “His mind is gone, he’s crazy.” I’d chuckle and write down,
“You think maybe he thinks the same thing about you?” He’d throw his head back
and laugh, “Yeah, he probably does.”
He
was quick to point out the residents he thought were going downhill fast and
give me his commentary on it, making up his own version of what was going on in
their lives. Because he couldn’t hear what was going on, he had his own little
world created around everyone there.
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| (Another beautiful mountain view. The Rockies rock!) |
Before
he moved to the nursing home, there were times he seemed to be going through a
second childhood. He wanted to go everywhere I went, following me around closely
like a puppy, or even a small boy wanting to hide behind his mother’s apron.
I
visit folks in the hospital or who are shut-ins, sometimes he’d sit in the car
and wait for me, other times he’d come in and people-watch from the waiting
rooms. He loved to people watch.
But,
in this phase of what I considered to be a second boyhood, he had a hospital stay
for severe internal bleeding. While at the hospital, he insisted that I stay
there with him, sleeping on the couch-like bed next to him every night. When
occasionally I’d awaken from the few winks I could catch (hospitals are noisy
places to try and sleep), he’d be peeking at me to make sure I was still there.
He
loved to go to base. In this town there are five military bases and he saw
three of them; Fort Carson, Peterson Air Force Base and the Air Force Academy.
We frequent Peterson the most, so he saw more of that than the others. He
seemed to feel important after getting his hair cut at the base barber shops.
He’d “sneak” copies of the base newspapers to send to his friend at a Russian
radio station, like anything being made public in the base newspaper was going
to be news to those folks. He didn’t get much mail while living with us, but
the lady at that radio station was faithful to write to him. I have her letters
in a box.
He’d
call me for the strangest things, sometimes when I was right here in the house
with him. One day I got a call, which I always let go to voicemail, then
listened to it, because if I answered and tried to converse with him, it was
more confusing for him, and this particular call he made, thinking that I was
out and about somewhere. He insisted that I come home right away, that he
needed me. Well, fortunately, I was in my room, just next to his, and I went to
his room to ask what the emergency was. He was surprised to see me so quickly,
but relieved. His back itched and he needed me to rub lotion on it. I’m glad I
didn’t hurry home for that one.
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| (Prospect Lake, at Memorial Park.) |
Then
there was the day he called me to tell me that he’d gotten some blood on the
bathroom floor and that I needed to come home and clean it up for him. How bad
could it be, right? So, I didn’t hurry. But, when I did get home, it looked
like he’d butchered a rabbit in there! Good grief! He had high blood pressure
that, at that point he was still refusing meds for, and one of the varicose
veins in his ankle burst and squirt all over the place like a fire hose. It
happened two more times before he’d relent and start taking the medication,
which fixed the problem quickly.
He
was a huge dog fan, but he loved all animals. As a matter of fact, the few
photo albums he had probably contain more pictures of animals than family
members.
 |
| (You'll find them everywhere out here.) |
One
thing that never ceased to amaze me was, that despite his deafness (I’d taken
him to an audiologist for testing, yes, he really was deaf and beyond the help
of a hearing aid), he could somehow walk down from his bedroom and comment on
the conversation that Dave and I were having in the kitchen. Hmmm. How do you
not laugh at that?
I’d
heard many stories about him before he came to live with us. My biggest
take-away is what a forgiving heart my husband Dave has been blessed with. One
day I was talking to God about that. I asked, “God, how can Dave just forgive
his father for all the things I’ve heard about over the years?” I felt like God said to me, “Oh – so you only
want him to be quick to forgive you?” Aha, point well taken.
Did
I always enjoy having him live here with us? No. He was paranoid and
delusional, and not a clean man. But, I honestly have to admit that God taught
me a lot by bringing him into my life. He showed me that in and of myself, no,
I’m not always such a loving person, but that through Him, love was so much
easier.
I’d
like to say that I can love most anyone, now. But, no, Lord – that’s not a
challenge!
 |
| (On the terrace at the nursing home.) |
I’ll
miss sitting on the terrace at the nursing home with him, watching for deer,
enjoying the sunshine and the breezes, talking about anything that came into
our heads, listening to him insist that he could walk “…if he wanted to…”
trying not to let my unbelieving smile be too obvious. I’ll miss the staff at
the nursing home, too. I may just go visit from time to time.
Perhaps
I should have kept all those notebooks I filled with my end of our
conversations. They’d show every aspect of his humor and his stubbornness, his
frustrations and mine, and every little petty thing we talked about along the
way. I never left the nursing home without telling him that we love him. He’d
just nod his head, sometimes focusing on the floor instead of me. One day I
asked why he never said it back. He just said, sadly, “I haven’t said that to
anyone in a long time.” To break the tension that created, with a big grin, I
wrote, “But, you know you love me.” He smiled and bobbed his head.
It
seemed his passing was eminent so many times from when he first arrived in this
altitude with bad lungs, to his hospital stays where it looked as though it’d
be impossible for him to recover, to the urinary tract infections that enhanced
his dementia, noticeably – until the day the nurse called to say he’d told them
he was ready to go and he passed less than two days later. Now that he’s gone,
it somehow feels unreal.
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| (A view from the nursing home terrace.) |
I know
this was sporadic, but, there are countless more stories to share, both good
and bad. (I can only imagine the stories my children will tell about me!) But,
it would take a book to hold his tales and this is no place for a book. Perhaps
I will write a “chapter two” in the upcoming days.
I’m
sure those who knew him have plenty of stories to share as well. Perhaps over
time we’ll see some of them show up on Facebook.
Good-bye,
Gpa Donald. I’m sure we’ll see you again before we know it.
April
23, 1931 – January 3, 2015
~Helen
Williams, daughter-in-law 1/4/2015
