BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Well, to some extent they go hand in hand. Love, lust, and all points in between. You start out in lust and as you get to know one another the lust becomes love, and if you are lucky, they blend together to become this Love/Lust amalgam that carries on throughout your relationship and/or marriage.

But, before you get all excited or start calling me Doctor Phil, I should point out that I’m actually here to talk to you about dominos again. And, no, still not the pizza.

You see, I’ve been married to EK now for Twen-koff-koff yea-koff…Okay…for real, 21+ years, and we “co-habitated” for a year prior to that. So, we’ve been ’round the block in the ol’ Radio Flyer a couple of times – always with me pulling as she beats me with a buggy whip and screams “faster, faster…watch out for that crack in the sidewalk…slow down…careful around that turn…faster, faster!” But, as usual, that’s one of those “other” blogs (actually, they probably wouldn’t even let me post it here…but I digress…)

My point being, I’m no stranger to the relationship game, marriage game, whatever… Now, let’s be clear. I am in no way claiming to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t have ANY of the answers. I just pull the wagon and do what I’m told. I’m merely pointing out that I do have at least a passing familiarity with interpersonal relationships between two folks who make up a couple.

Since the EK and I have been together for better than two decades, just like any other couple we have settled into some behavioral patterns. This is not to say that love and lust are gone. The love is there stronger than it was in the beginning, and growing daily. Lust…well…can’t really get into that here (LOL)… But, like I said, as with any couple, patterns will emerge. Ways of interacting. It’s just all part of life. Therefore, a half hour or so ago when I nonchalantly and jokingly said to my wife, “what are you making for dinner tonight?” her response came as no surprise, and the dominos began to teeter…

I suppose you might need a bit of background first…You see, my wife almost never makes dinner. In fact, whenever I go on tour for a week or two at a time, I spend the week prior to my departure working in the kitchen – cooking, packaging, and freezing meals in reusable “freezer to microwave” containers so that I know she and my daughter will eat something other than crackers and yogurt. It’s not that she’s lazy. She’s about as far from lazy as you can get… Hell, I wish I had her energy… It is just that she really dislikes cooking. With a passion it seems. Me, on the other hand, having grown up in a family with diners and restaurants, I absolutely love to cook. So, this makes at least part of the division of labor in our home a no brainer. Put simply, the kitchen is my domain.

But, like I said at the outset, there are dominos involved here, and again, I’m not talking about pizza…even though we are on the subject of food.

To inspect this particular dot-covered game piece we have to turn back the clock to a time EARLY in our marriage. Back when, even though we had dated for some time, then cohabitated for an entire year, and then even been legally married in the eyes of the law for a couple more years, we were still in that state of semi-honeymoon. Not the face-sucking-sex-in-every-room-with-reckless-abandon phase, mind you. Just the hyperactive love-lust combination where you want to impress your partner because you love them so much – and again, I want to be clear on this impressing thing – I’m not talking about dressing up in a negligee and posing next to the bedroom door while batting eyelashes (come to think of it, that’s a pretty good domino too, but I probably wouldn’t fit in that negligee anymore…just kidding… I mean just kidding about the negilgee, not the fitting into it part… you know what I mean…dammit, I’ve never owned a negligee, so just stop it!)

Back to the story… sheesh…ya’ bunch of weirdos…

So, in this particular instance we are talking about dinner. You see, way back when, during the days of hyperlovelustwhatever, the evil redhead decided to make dinner. (They “make” dinner here in the north, as opposed to fixing dinner, like it’s supposed to be done) Now, not being a big fan of the kitchen she wasn’t about to get herself into a major project (I’d like to take a moment to point out that it isn’t that she can’t cook, because she can. It’s simply that she hates cooking.) But still, she intended to “make” dinner. And, so she did. Cheesy tuna and noodles Tuna Helper^TM. Now, before you think I am about to complain, guess again. I happen to like tuna casserole, and mac n’ cheese, and yes, cheesy tuna and noodles. It was all good.

So, my lovely bride served up a big, steaming dish of Tuna Helper^TM, happy with herself and confident in the fact that she had done something nice for me that I would appreciate. And, I did. Harboring the same hyperlovelustwhatever as she, I sat at the table and shoveled in the Tuna Helper^TM while smiling and telling her how wonderful it was, as well as how much I appreciated her fixing dinner. In fact, I was so overwhelmed with hyperlovelustwhatever that I didn’t even hint at the fact that there was something terribly, and fundamentally wrong with the meal. Not something that would make you ill, mind you, but something fundamentally wrong, nonetheless, given what it was supposed to be. The meal went on, the dishes were washed, and well, I can’t really remember what else happened that night, but I suspect that since we were working on remodeling the house at the time we were probably both exhaused and just went to bed then straight to sleep – none of the “not so blog safe” material to worry about this time.

So, everything was good. I had done my duty and nothing need ever be said about the problem with the meal. The EK was happy, I was happy, and even the cats were as happy as cats can be.

The next day, however, it became apparent that my plan to protect the evil redhead from personal embarrassment had gone terribly awry. At this point I cannot remember exactly what I was doing at the moment of realization. I do, however, have vivid recollection of EK walking into the room with an unopened can of tuna in her hand, which she had found sitting on the kitchen counter right where she had left it the night before. With a look of realization flooding her face, she stared at me and stated, as much as asked, complete with a matter-of-fact incredulity, “I forgot to put the tuna in the Tuna Helper last night, didn’t I?”

I could not tell a lie, but I also didn’t want to add insult to injury. I simply replied, “No worries. It was really good macaroni and cheese.”

The domino in this case? Well, it didn’t have to knock much over. You see, this afternoon when I jokingly asked my wife what she would be “making” for dinner, without missing a beat she replied, “Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.”

We’re older now, and while we still have that hyperlovelustwhatever thing going on, I’ve learned I don’t really have to suffer (unless I want to, that is, but again, different blog…)

I think I’ll just go ahead and “make” dinner tonight.

More to come…

Murv

Nope, not the pizza. They make okay pizza, I guess, but the truth is I got kind of burned out on them quite a few years back. You see, during my college years I had friends who worked at Dominos and we were all the time ending up with pizzas that hadn’t been picked up, or pranked deliveries, or simply an employee discounted “pie” as they called them. We were eating Dominos pizza all the time, so I pretty much had my fill. I mean, I’ll eat it if it’s there, but given my druthers, I’d rather have a Saint Louis Style (thin, crispy crust with provel cheese) from Imo’s or one of the local mom ‘n pop pizzerias.

But, like my usual self, I’m off on yet another tangent. I didn’t come here to talk to you about pizza today. I also didn’t come here to talk to you about the little rectangular tiles with the dots all over them either.

Well, yeah, I guess actually I did plan to talk about the dotted rectangles, but only metaphorically, and just at the beginning. Are you following that? Good, because someone has to. I’m starting to get lost…

Anyway, on with the metaphor. You know how when you’re a kid – or even an adult – you tend not to actually play dominos the way the game is meant to be played? Instead, you spend hours painstakingly lining them all up in intricate patterns, with specifically prescribed distances between each, and then after all that hard work you knock the first one over and watch the 30 second (if you’re lucky and have A LOT of dominos) chain reaction. Go on, admit it. We’ve all done it. Sometimes we even do it with boxes of Hamburger Helper and crap like that you find in the cupboard. Well, at least I do… But I guess we won’t go there…

So anyhow, memories are like that too. You knock one over and the next thing you know there is this whole cascade of memories rattling around in your brainpan. Some good. Some bad. Some funny. Some, not so much. Well, that’s what happened this morning. I was sitting here, minding my own business, taking care of the morning email – well, the night’s email that I was just then seeing in the morning, but…yeah…digressing again – So…There I was… Minding biz… Doing email thing…

That’s when it happened. A particular email from a friend sparked a memory about my wife’s maternal grandfather (now long deceased). It’s kind of a cute memory, and a story I’ve told to many folks to illustrate a point about aging and reality. But, as with Dominos the pizza, and dominos the game, it’s not the actual memory I intend to share today. Yeah, it basically went clack, knocked over another memory, then another, and the next thing I knew there was this other memory left standing – improper spacing of the dominos, I assume, which means I must be having gaps in my memory…but, we won’t go there either…

So… I have absolutely no clue if I have told this story here before or not, but I’m going to tell it again anyway. Why? Because it’s funny and besides, this is my blog so I get to run off at the mouth in it all I want. So there. (hmmmm…wonder why they don’t have just a plain old “sticking tongue out smiley” on this blog interface…)

Okay… On with the tale.

Now, this is a true story. I am telling you that because as you read it and visualize it, you are going to be imagining an episode of The Benny Hill Show or Monty Python going through your head. But, I’m here to tell you this really happened, and there were a whole host of witnesses.

Back when EK’s grandparents were still alive, but most definitely in their waning years, they resided at a very nice assisted living facility. On holidays – Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc – the family would gather out there for a big dinner in the dining room, then retire to their apartment for visiting, etc. This all went on early in our marriage, so EK and I were young and spry back then (trust me, that factoid comes into play later)… Anyway, time marches on and eventually folks pass away, cross over, kick the bucket, expire, or whatever euphemism you wish to apply. In the case of EK’s grandparents, her grandmother went first. Now, as one would expect, and as statistically happens, her grandfather began a steady decline following her loss. After all, his wife of almost 75 years was gone. He ended up moving out of the apartment proper, and into the attached nursing facility. He didn’t last terribly long after that.

Yeah, I know, I said this was a funny story and the above is not funny at all. I realize that. But, we are getting to the funny part and it has nothing to do with death. Well, maybe a little… It actually has to do with life in the face of impending death.

Right around 1 year before EK’s grandfather simply gave up altogether and allowed himself to die, we gathered out at the assisted living facility for Thanksgiving dinner. What with grandma being gone it was a much more somber celebration than it had been in the past, but it was still very nice. At this point, grandpa didn’t move around so good. He could walk, but not a great distance by any means. So, since it was a nice day, as is often the case with Saint Louis around Thanksgiving – fairly cool, but with the sun shining and not bitterly cold – the family decided a nice walk around the “lake” in front of the facility would be in order (actually, where I come from it would be called a pond, but here in Saint Louis they think it is a lake, so I just go along with them). So, with grandpa loaded up in his wheelchair, we set off for a liesurely afternoon stroll.

Now, as much as the family tried to lighten the mood, the tone was still very somber. After all, grandma hadn’t been gone all that long, and holidays were kind of her thing. In fact, she used to “save up” their dining room “meal tickets” so that the family could gather with them. And, from the stories I have heard, grandma used to cook up a storm and put on a hell of spread during the holidays. I met and married EK a bit too late in life to have enjoyed those particular family gatherings, but the get-togethers at the facility were still wonderful.

So anyway, back to the story… We made our way down the hill on one side of the small “lake” then came around the end, and started up the hill that banked the other side. The path itself was a concrete sidewalk so the going was smooth, and the direction we were heading would take us right back to the nursing center, and grandpa’s room. All good. Well, we made it about halfway up this side when everyone decided to stop for a bit to “smell the roses”. Admittedly, the scenery was nice and serene, and we all thought it might be nice to just rest a moment and look out over the “lake”.

We all turned to face the tableau and drink in the splendor of nature. Some geese were flying overhead making geese noises, there were a few wispy clouds in the blue sky…the crisp autumn air was filled with the loamy smells from the carpet of leaves that had fallen off the trees in the small, urban wooded areas at our backs. We were all gathered together, enjoying it as a close knit family unit. It was pretty much “Norman Rockwell Family Postcard Perfect” as we stared out across the glassy water at the bottom of the somewhat steep, grassy incline before us.

It stayed perfect for about 5 seconds, because then I heard the screaming…

Yes, screaming. Well, maybe more like a yell than a scream. In any event is was somewhat weak, but still quite audible and filled with maybe a bit of fear, but mostly what sounded to be complete surprise. And, it seemed to have started nearby, but was now moving away from us…

Wondering what was going on I brought my gaze quickly downward and saw, much to my horror, grandpa, still seated in his wheelchair, arms flailing as he rolled ever faster down the bumpy, grassy hill toward the lake. You see, it seems that my brother-in-law (who shall remain nameless, and I have several so it will be easy for him to remain anonymous) had neglected to set the brake on the wheelchair. Due to our position on the rise, and the fact that he had turned grandpa toward the lake so that he could see what everyone else was enjoying…well, to put it simply when he let go of the handles to point at something, gravity took over, as it tends to do.

Here is where the young and spry comes into play… Quite obviously we were all terrified. Here we have a somewhat frail, 90 year old man, hurtling toward a “lake” in a wheelchair, down an incline, on a crisp autumn day. The water in the “lake” wasn’t exactly warm as you can guess. So, while some gasped and screamed, others of us sprang into action, running headlong down the hill after the wheelchair.

Well, as it turns out, grandpa had way too much of a head start on us, so, weak cry, arms flailing, and everything you can imagine from an episode of one of the aforementioned comedy shows later, he hit the water. Now, grandpa was a very practical and intelligent man, so rather than allow himself to be catapulted across the “lake” when the front wheels of the chair struck the muddy edge, he stuck his feet straight out in front of himself and held on. This manuever saved him from taking a chilly swim, however, he still ended up “wading” so to speak as he slipped down in the chair. When all was said and done, the water ended up at about his knees as I recall.

So, as one could expect, a bit of minor panic ensued. My mother-in-law was extremely concerned for her father, my brother-in-law was concerned – and completely mortified, EK wasn’t far behind me coming down the hill, and my father-in-law and one of my other brothers-in-law who was there that year were neck and neck with me in our race to save gramps.

Arriving at the edge of the “lake” and trying to avoid falling in ourselves, we dragged grandpa out of the water. My father-in-law and brother-in-law got on either side of him and more or less carried him back up the hill as I raced ahead with the wheelchair and soaking wet blankets. When we all reached the top of the hill they deposited gramps back into the chair and he assured us that he wasn’t hurt, but that he was getting cold from being wet, naturally. So, while the rest of the family straightened themselves out and started regaining composure, I lit a fire under my own ass and pushed gramps in his wheelchair as fast as I could up the sidewalk and into the nursing center where we could get him changed and warmed up.

Now, at this point, my own heart was racing and I was deeply concerned. I mean, after all, the man was 90 years old, he was soaking wet up to his kees and damp elsewhere because of the water splashing all over him. It was 45 degrees outside, his blankets were pretty much useless since they were cold and wet, and we were still about 100 yards from the nursing center at the top of the hill.

After we had traveled maybe twenty yards, I started hearing this odd noise coming from gramps. I dug in and pushed faster as I asked, “Are you okay, grandpa?”… I was CPR certified at the time, but really wasn’t in a hurry to put it into practice if you know what I mean. At this point, instead of getting an answer, I noticed that the noise was just getting louder and the wheelchair was starting to vibrate. It was then I realized that grandpa was laughing his ass off. Downright belly laugh guffawing…Almost to the point where he was going to risk not being able to catch his breath… I couldn’t help but start to laugh too. When he was finally able to stifle the laughing for a few seconds he said, “That was fun. Can we do it again?”

With that, we both burst into laughter yet again. We were still chuckling like a couple of wingnuts when I got him into his room and the nurse on duty starting helping him change into some dry clothes.

When the rest of the family arrived only a minute or so behind us, they were still in the concerned mode, and rightfully so. I think perhaps grandpa and I must have appeared to be total idiots to the rest of them because we were still grinning ear to ear, and whenever we looked at each other – or at the brother-in-law who let go of the handles – the chuckling would start all over again. But, he and I knew the reality… In that moment, he felt alive.

It might have been brief and I’m sure it was scary. I know I would have been a bit terrified if it was me in that chair, even at 30 instead of 90, but it still made him feel alive.

That was the one and only time I had seen the man laugh, or even really genuinely smile, since his wife had died. And, the memory of it seemed to be the only thing that made him smile for the year he lived aftwards.

Well, that and a glass of smuggled in Port Wine, but I’ll save that for a different blog, because we have now come back around to the beginning of our chain reaction – a joke about “smuggled booze” is the original domino that sparked my telling of this whole story…

More to come…

Murv