Miriam's kitchen, dave built.

Cogitation stool

In my cabinet shop I have a tall stool, the kind that a draftsman might have used years ago as he/she labored over the drawing board. It is comfortable and has wheels, so it gets rolled all over the rather small shop.

But when I have to make a cutting list, or write in my journal, or just sit and rest or think, I find the cogitation chair and I sit and ruminate.

Alzheimers 'r us

We married at 19, had our first child at 20 followed by three more by the time we were 29. I always liked girls (I had a mother, a sister and a pair of grandmothers I adored) and having a beautiful wife and 4 wonderful daughters was surely heaven on earth.

We were busy, we went to school, I learned a trade, we worked and I went to school some more. Eventually, when I was 49, after taking classes part time for 14 years, I graduated from college. Three years later I earned an MFA in fine art. The redhead got her art degree soon after. She finished the course work for a Masters degree.

It was good, the girls had gone away from home with our blessings, had married and had children of their own (4 grandsons in a row). We went off to Texas to do graduate work. I wanted to be a college teacher.

When we finished, I couldn’t find a teaching job, but the redhead was offered a job as an illustrator for a medical publishing company. The company had just relocated from the Seattle area to the SE corner of Washington state.

She loved that job and worked very hard at it. She was good and produced a flood of really nice art work for their publications.

Then one day they called her in: resign or we will fire you.

She was devastated.

One of our daughters had worked for the same company earlier and knew the owners. “This is not like mom.” They graciously extended Miriam’s medical insurance so tests could be done to see if there was something wrong.

Blood. Scans. A day with a shrink. Then do it over in a few months

No one actually used the Alzheimer’s word for a long time. Doctors have lawyers too, but the whole message was bad and worse. For the 3rd time in my adult life, I put my head down and cried.

I read, and did research. It was not good. Some AD patients went from diagnosis to nursing homes in months, some longer. Some have gone on for 20 years. My redhead, the cornerstone of my whole life was going away and I cried deep bitter tears.

That was in 1999.

And that is who we are. An adoring old husband/father/grandfather cogitating/remembering and dreaming as old guys do.

My friend Jim

Last week I found out Jim was back in town.

I have known Jim since we were kids, his sister was in my class in grade school. Theirs was a family with 9 kids, as I remember. It was Jim that made it possible for me to build my house years ago. I could go on and on about him.

Jim has cancer. He has been battling it for the last dozen years but this time it is going to take him.

He had been in California visiting a doctor friend. He said he would call me when he was back in town, but he was weak and he didn’t want to impose.

I went right over to see him. I only live a few blocks away.

He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He is on horrible pain medicine that sometimes don’t work. “It is not fun any more, Dave.” He whined, and he definitely is not a whiner.

I stayed with him a while, and later went back a couple of times. He is a good guy, the kind the world needs millions of, but we are going to loose him -- anyway.

Thursday night I baked rye bread. He thought he might like some, he said. If he doesn’t eat it, his wife will.

Next week, and beyond, I’ll stop and see Jim a couple times a day. Dot, his wife, works and I will stop by when she is at work. It is lonely dying. He wants a bit of company to lubricate the hours spent watching the clock or equally boring tv. Hospice stops in regularly, but he needs a friend.

It is the least I can do. I will pay my dues, my turn will come one day.

ladies choice

At our school, in the early ’50’s, we roller skated in the school gym a lot.

This being a church school of the time, we had a long list of rules guaranteed to keep boys and girls at a fair distance, but when we skated we could actually hold their hands, under the kindly gaze of the faculty. We might even bump hips as we skated, and if one was really lucky, your arm might graze the bottom curve of her breast.
It was racy stuff.

But I was tall and awkward and gawky and the girls were my friends, but they ignored me otherwise.

Then one day I was sitting next to the consummate school jock. Gene was a good guy, and besides being a great jock, he was handsome and scared to death of girls. I was not a jock even remotely, but he and I were friends. We visited, it was ladies choice, and we both were destined to sit this skate out.

Something caught my attention and I looked up.

There was the red head, asking me to skate with her. (years later I learned that when she left her seat on the “girls” side, she had intended on asking Gene to skate with her, but when she was 10 feet away, she chickened out, and asked me. Gene, I owe you big for that one! Sorta bait and switch!).

I stood up, rather awkwardly (8 tiny wheels on my feet did not make me more graceful), took her hand and was instantly in love.

We were 15.

I have never stopped holding her hands or loving her.

That was 54 years ago.

Notice

The next fall school began and the redhead was one of the new students. I noticed, but she didn’t.

She and I both took art classes from a teacher whose studio was off campus. I would drive my step-dad’s car. I
brought her home from art classes a few times.

She was beautiful, I could see that.

She smelled wonderful.

Her hair was long and deep auburn red.

I noticed.

Only one

I attended a private church school. When I was a freshmen, 8th graders from around the area were brought to the school to interest them in being students, the next year.

That is when I saw her again.

A lot of things had changed in that 8 years.

She had grown up. Up to 5’ 3” that is. I was at the far end of a growth spurt that put me even with the 6’ marker.

She was beautiful (I appreciated girls by then) and wonderful.

I looked the group of 8th graders over, sizing them up as only a high school freshman who has never had a girl friend could: “That red head is the only one in the bunch.”

Hmm.

I met her

I was six when I met her.

She had red hair and a funny nose, the kind that beautiful women often have when they are six. Instantly I did not like her.

My father was killed in an accident when I was 4, and he was 28. A couple years later my mom went to bible camp to work as cooks helper (grandma was the head cook) and I was allowed to tag along. As I wondered around the camp, I met a man who took an interest in me. We became fast friends for a couple of weeks. He was a 40 something orchardist and I a lonely 6 year old.

That fall mom took my sister and me on a trip to spend time with my father’s sister and her family. It happened to be the same town that the orchardist called home. He was at church. That was fine, but then this little red head bounced up to tell me that she was his daughter. Males were few in my life as it was, and I instantly didn’t like the idea of sharing this one.

(Later, she told me that she remembered that meeting. After I had been a bit short -- ok a little naughty to her -- she said she stood back and looked at me and thought to herself -- she swears this is true -- “that brat will probably be my husband some day.”

That is how we met. Not very promising from my direction, and alittle fatalistic from hers!