Another great show at the beautiful Varsity Theater in Dinkytown, Minnesota last week. Carrie Rodriguez, whom I've had the pleasure to see perform many times, delivered once again to a room full of fans and some amateur concert goers who did everything from talk through every song to rearrange furniture. Strange but true.
Carrie was touring to support her new record released last month, Love and Circumstance, and I'm already certain this is my favorite CD to date of hers. This is a compilation of somewhat obscure covers, from Townes Van Zandt to Ry Cooder, from Nick Lowe to Lucinda Williams. Carrie brings a new voice to Hank Williams' classic I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry and can nearly bring you to tears on her rendition of Merle Haggard's I Started Loving You Again. But she really shines when she sings a Spanish song once recorded by her great aunt called La Punalada Trapera, which loosely translates to "a terrible back stabbing." So it's not a happy song, but it is gorgeous, even if you don't understand the words. Take a chance on this record, you won't regret it.
I made my first visit to the brand spankin' new Target Field for my first ever outdoors Twins game this weekend, and what did I eat? Why, nachos, of course! Not that there aren't a million other snacks I could have sampled, the new stadium is working hard to bring the fans locally produced food and, from the looks of it, in generous portions. But since I love nachos just a wee too much, I knew what had to be done.
It was too cold for me to search high and low for different options, so the only nachos I am currently aware of are from the Tacos, Burritos and Empanadas stand that never really had much of a line. There were two choices, a $4.50 model that I'm going to assume was simply chips and cheese, and the Grande Nachos, which I purchased for a hefty $8.50. Honestly, though, I think they were worth it. Yes, they are stadium nachos, not restaurant nachos, but the portion was generous and the salsa even had a little heat. For your $8.50, you get a bowl of warm chips layered with cheese sauce, tomatoes, onions, ground taco beef, lettuce, salsa, shredded cheese and sour cream. Many of the Grande Nachos were made a little while ahead of time, sitting there waiting for someone to buy them, but they were still pretty good. While not a huge fan of the cheese sauce, it's necessary in the ballpark where shredded cheese would coagulate in minutes and be almost instantly inedible.
So, overall I would recommend the Grande Nachos at Target Field. They're not life-changing, but they're decent. I also tried my dad's Tony Oliva Cuban Sandwich and it was pretty darn good. But the best part of the whole new stadium is the experience itself. It's so beautiful and so perfectly placed downtown and the details so well-thought out (yea for fireworks when there's a home run!) that it's not going to take me much to make me a baseball fan. I can't even believe that I just wrote that.
The annual flowering of the snow crab trees outside my door came a few weeks early this year. The landscapers pruned them back quite a bit last fall, and I was pretty concerned they wouldn't be as beautiful, but I had nothing to worry about. Sure, I miss the large branches surrounding my little brick and metal facade, but as long as I still get a heavy sprinkling of lavender petals all over my sidewalk, I'm happy. Check out the fat cat on the stoop, he's pretty happy, too.
Six weeks have passed since I last visited the care center, and in such a small time everything seems to have changed, yet everything still seems the same. The same four tables, the same yellow walls, the same three nurses, the same sea of gray metal walkers. But something was definitely not the same and I struggled for a few moments to figure out what it was.
Some health issues, thankfully now resolved, kept me away for the past month and a half and after seriously considering not returning, I ultimately figured out I couldn't not go back. I missed the old, confused folks who are sometimes the only thing that remind me just why we have to live our lives to the fullest now, even if I don't always do such a good job at it. I still can always use the weekly reminder. I made my usual rounds, saying hello to everyone, telling them how pretty they looked, or how much I liked their sweaters, or asking if they were hungry for dinner. A few of my friends on the outside asked me earlier this week if I thought any of the residents would remember me, and I had to admit I didn't think so. Sure enough, I don't think they did, though I did get a military salute from Don like he always does. Alma greeted me by telling me how beautiful I looked and wondering aloud if I've gone out to Hollywood yet to make it big with my beauty. I love Alma. I caught up with Bernice and Lorraine and noticed a couple of new faces. I also noticed a couple of missing faces, namely Mary and John.
Mary has been my main charge for over a year now, half of the Gudrun - Mary duo that has dominated my Wednesday dinners for so long. I've been feeding Mary one hundred percent of her dinner because of her inability to do so. Not her physical inability, but her emotional inability. Her brain just wouldn't allow her hands to work they way they should anymore. Mary spent most meals repeating nonsensical phrases, her favorite being Lawrence Welk's "a one and a two and a three." By the last weeks I saw her in March, she couldn't even lift her head and I literally had to gingerly maneuver a spoon full of pureed something-or-other into her mouth as it rested partially on the laminate table top. I knew she wasn't well, but people last for years unwell so I didn't think too much of it. So when I didn't see Mary right away tonight at her regular spot where her wheelchair fit between Rosalie and Gudrun, I had to ask Kollie the nurse. He told me sadly in his thick Liberian accent that she had died. Honestly, I couldn't even be sad. As cliche as it may be, she is definitely in a better place than she was. I told Kollie that it was probably about time and he agreed. The other missing face tonight belonged to John, a fellow of no more than seventy years, tops, that had joined the dementia unit only about six or eight months prior, but whom I really liked because of his sweet face and demeanor. While he sometimes had an absent look in his eyes, he still said things that made sense and he was cute. His wife visited from time to time, including at the Christmas party in December. I remember watching her hold his hand and sing carols next to him and I wondered what her life was like. Not seeing John at his regular table with Doris and Barbara tonight, I couldn't help but hope he had simply moved to a different unit. But Kollie told me that John had also died. In my two years there, I don't think more than four or five people have died, and in the five dinners I missed two have gone. Again, I'm not so much sad for John as I am for the people who loved him and at least had his physical being there when they needed to see him. John and Mary will be missed.
With Mary gone, it was time for me to take on a new challenge tonight, and a challenge it was. I've written about Melvin before, he's the tall man-child that once peed all over the dining room floor during dinner service and routinely screams in his muppet-like voice about all things indecipherable. Tonight I actually asked Kollie if he ever understands anything Melvin says and, to my relief, he told me no. So it isn't just me. Melvin was rambunctious and talkative as I prodded him to swallow bite after bite of his cheeseburger and fries. He actually did a very good job until he knocked over his full glass of milk which totally upset Alma but had no effect on Gudrun whatsoever. I had to convince Melvin throughout the meal to concentrate on eating and to forget about putting his hand down the front of his sweatpants while bald Lorraine cried like a baby to anyone that would listen that nothing was fair and she didn't like her food.
I'm back at it and, like I said, everything has changed and everything still seems the same.
Look at this photo I took at the State Theater Friday night. See the decorative chandeliers and ornately painted walls? See the old fashioned stage? Oh, and see Anthony Bourdain? That's him in the middle of the shot, on the stage, next to the lectern. Squint your eyes really tightly and imagine a dark, tall drink of water pacing the stage, ranting about TV chefs and food and travel and maybe you can picture him, because this photo will be no help to you.
Purchasing the cheap seats for Anthony Bourdain's lecture was not a problem, there was no reason to be up close, but it was amusing how tiny this tall man looked. My friend Angie and I made a night of it, starting with delicious small plates and cocktails at Bradstreet Crafthouse and ending surrounded by Bourdain's rabid Twin Cities fan base. I am a fan of Tony Bourdain, so much so that I call him "Tony," but unlike so many others in attendance at his show Friday night, I'm okay with disagreeing with him. To be fair, Bourdain is a polarizing figure and attracts a certain type. But I couldn't help but be amused every time he launched into a new topic about a certain well-known chef like, say, Bobby Flay, and the audience broke out in unappreciative hisses (I imagine they feel Flay has sold out or is overexposed or something like that), until Tony talked about how much he likes Flay. Suddenly the rabid fans were all cheering Bobby Flay like he's the second coming of Christ. The cadence of the audience response to Bourdain's topics was fascinating, as if they waited with bated breath to be told by Master Bourdain who to like and who to hate, exhaling with relief if they guessed the proper response.
I love Anthony Bourdain. I think he's quick and funny, I think he expresses himself well, I think he's handsome. But, unlike so many folks at the State Theater Friday night, I also think for myself. I believe Tony would like it that way.
Sunday in Chicago was the kind of day more days should emulate. Sunny and clear. Sleeping in, no hurry to be anywhere, walking and driving around new neighborhoods, several cocktails, and lots of Spanish. We took the opportunity to use several open hours to explore the city by car, getting to know the streets and neighborhoods and not being concerned about getting lost. Then we checked out Chicago's "Little Mexico" neighborhood, Pilsen, where we visited a Mexican grocery and bought oranges and Mexican soda. We stopped into a local tortilleria and just enjoyed translating all of the Spanish signs. Then we moved toward our late afternoon plan in Wicker Park to meet up with Paul and Mary at Paul's newest restaurant, Big Star.
We had an hour to kill so we stopped at a little bar/restaurant where we enjoyed $3 mimosas and $2 PBRs. Perfect. At one point the chef came out of the kitchen and asked us, "Do you like pork?" There's only one answer to that question, and we were rewarded for answering it correctly with his new version of pork belly sliders, crisp and tender pork belly burgers with a Sriracha sauce. Very nice. Then it was time to hit one of the hottest spots in Chicago, Big Star tacos. Paul and Mary had a table outside in the sun (much easier for the owner to get such a table on a beautiful day than for us!) and we proceeded to order a good portion of the menu, including several different tacos, guacamole, and one spectacular salad. Mary recommended the salad, which is usually difficult to get excited about, but this salad was different. It had so much life and flavor, it was one of the best salads I've ever had. I also had their version of my favorite cocktail, the Paloma, and it was quite delicious. It was fantastic to just sit out in the sun, chat, eat, drink and forget about my real life for awhile. When we were done there and one young couple had stopped Paul (like so many people do) to thank him for his previous advice that they get engaged (!), we stepped across the street for more drinks at the Violet Hour. The Violet Hour is styled like an old time speakeasy, nestled inside a building without a sign and with a door almost invisible. Only if you know where the place is could you find it. We sidled up to the dark, cool bar for expertly made cocktails, like those served here at the Bradstreet Crafthouse, with lots of pomp and circumstance. It's the sort of place I'm not cool enough to be in, but I love it nonetheless. I ordered the Violet Hour version of the Pisco Sour and loved that while they put their own spin on it, they topped it off very authentically with bitters, just like in Peru. The four of us continued to talk and drink until it was time to go and we parted ways.
As we said our good-byes and walked to the car, Doug broke into a shiver and full-on teeth chattering! He was suddenly very ill so all we could do was get him back to the hotel and wrap him in blankets while I found the closest 24-hour Walgreen's (luckily, there is a Walgreen's every three giant steps in Chicago) and a thermometer and Tylenol. With a temperature of 102.5, Doug spent the rest of the night in a delirious shiver while I looked on helplessly. Luckily, we both slept well and by morning he felt a little better. We didn't get to do all of the things we'd set out to do in the Windy City, but we got to do all of the best things. And now we have things to look forward to on a future trip, which there will no doubt be. Man, I love Chicago.
Spring time in Chicago is spectacular. The city is one of this country's finest, offering up beautiful parks and friendly people and fantastic restaurants. Doug and I drove there this weekend in search of all three and were not disappointed in the least.
I found a fabulous deal at the Palmer House Hilton, a gorgeously renovated hotel that showcases all that is beautiful and historic in Chicago. As luck would have it, we were able to upgrade our room for a small fee and ended up unknowingly getting a room with two bathrooms! That is probably the only reason we are still together now. Ha! Doug is friends with Paul Kahan, a well-known chef in Chicago who owns several restaurant hotspots like Avec, the Publican, Big Star Taqueria and Blackbird, President Obama's favorite Chicago restaurant. Paul was nice enough to arrange the best seats in the house for Doug and I for dinner at Avec one night and it was spectacular. We sat at the bar, not near anyone else, directly across from the chef who was plying his craft for the entire restaurant on a small six burner stove. It was fascinating to watch him do a hundred things at once and do them all well, except when he accidentally burned his arm. Ouch. The chef was really friendly and was actually a native of Minneapolis. The other Avec staffers were equally charming, never allowing our wine glasses to become empty and bringing us plate after plate of amazing food.
From English pea crostini with mint salad, roasted spring onion vinaigrette and pecorino (pictured above) that was so good it nearly changed my life, to chorizo-stuffed Medjool dates with smoked bacon and piquillo pepper-tomato sauce, to prosciutto with honeycomb, orange zest, marcona almonds and black peppercorn vinaigrette (pictured below) that despite my dislike for black pepper almost made me cry, all of these dishes and more made my heart sing and my tongue want for more. And beyond the unbelievable food was the wow factor of this beautiful restaurant. The chef-owner, Paul Kahan, who could not have been nicer when he and his lovely wife, Mary, joined us after our meal for drinks, was a judge on one of my favorite TV shows of all time, Top Chef. His executive chef, Koren, who was also at Avec that night, was also a judge on a quickfire challenge on Top Chef (I knew I recognized her when I saw her!), as well as being a finalist for a James Beard award. President Obama's White House chef, Sam Kass, was there eating, himself a former chef at Avec, and I was introduced to Blackbird chef Mike Sheerin, one of Food & Wine magazine's 2010 best new chefs. It was pretty heady stuff for a little food dork like me!
Between a wonderful meal, a handsome companion, and fascinating conversation with all sorts of people, it was a marvelous introduction to a different side of a city that I already loved, but now love just a little more.
On April 7 my mom had a birthday. But that was widely ignored because that also happened to be the day that the Schell Brewery in New Ulm released an ode to Northeast Minneapolis in the form of Grain Belt Nordeast beer. For one day the only place in the universe one could get their hands on this fine barley pop was Northeast Minneapolis, home of the former Grain Belt brewery where the name became famous. Nordeast flew off the shelves at all of the Northeast Minneapolis liquor stores and bars all over our quadrant of the city ran out of their supply before nightfall. My own happy hour visit to Grumpy's in Northeast on April 7 for my first Nordeast on tap was super fun, but for a limited amount of time. Pretty soon the nonstop view of human butts was more than I could take and though I was thrilled that the whole town was banding together to celebrate my hardworking hometown, I had to break free.
Welcome to the world, Grain Belt Nordeast, you are a welcome and proud addition to our liquor store shelves and barroom taps.
Last night I had the great fortune to attend a show at the Cedar Cultural Center that was a part of the West Africa West Bank series there. Bassekou Kouyate and his ensemble, Ngoni Ba, performed a concert that blew me away. During my two wonderful, lengthy stays in West Africa I often heard it said that people visit East Africa for the animals and West Africa for the people and the music. I know firsthand this is true.
Bassekou Kouyate was born forty-three years ago in Mali, a landlocked country home to the fabled city of Timbuktu, and has developed over time an enormous following there and in many parts of the world because of his mastery of the ngoni, an ancient instrument that looks like a simple, carved guitar. The music Bassekou Kouyate makes with his ngoni is, however, anything but simple. His band, Ngoni Ba, consists of four ngonis, plus percussion, and his singer wife, Amy Sacko, a gorgeous Malian woman with a voice to match. She is known as the Tina Turner of Mali. Together they are able to bring the house down with their infectious energy and obvious love for the music they are bringing to the world.
Bassekou Kouyate has played with some of the most famous musicians on the planet, a tribute to the respect they have for his ability with the ngoni. Here's a video of Mr. Kouyate performing in 2005 with the late Ali Farka Toure, another amazing Malian musician who uses his guitar to bring the blues to a whole new level. Notice just how much music Bassekou Kouyate can make come out of that little boat-shaped instrument with simple strings. It's pretty magical.
Look at the excitement in my eyes as I paw my coworker's new iPad. She took it away from me shortly after this picture was taken. Probably for the best.
Bath time is almost more fun for a certain portly feline than it is for his owner. While I look forward to catching up on magazines, filling in maybe one or two words in the National Geographic crossword (it's hard!), listening to the radio, and just generally relaxing, Hakeem Wallace sees an opportunity for a captive audience to pet him for a good half hour. As you can see, he doesn't leave a lot of room on the bath mat for a gal to dry off!
The guys who own the fabulous Sea Salt Eatery at Minnehaha Falls, which opens this coming week after their winter hiatus, threw their annual Ribfest party at the restaurant last night, inviting folks to enter their best ribs for all to taste and judge. Fourteen different entries were tested, along with sides and desserts, and lots of beer consumed. Money was also raised for St. Jude's Research Hospital, the Danny Thomas charity (as I think of it). But mostly, lots of beer was consumed, Surly and Fulton and Summit, and a poor octopus met a sad fate at the hands of fellows (not the Sea Salt fellows!) not in any condition to take good care of him.
I'm not a chef so I'm not dispensing cooking advice, but I would advise against drinking many beers and then throwing an unseasoned octopus on a hot grill and calling it a meal. I think this photo of the last moments of this poor guy's existence says it all.
Dating a fishmonger with a love for cooking has its ups and downs. On the downside, less time to post on my blog. On the upside, an impromptu dinner of mackerel, oysters and asparagus prepared for me tonight after a long day at work. A gal could get used to this.
I scored the coveted four day weekend and took full advantage of practically every minute, filling them with friends and food and drink and fun. Just the way it should be.
Friday night included an art opening, then a stunning nighttime view from the Guthrie's famed Endless Bridge, a place I consider to be one of the most beautiful places to visit in the city and do so often, and finally dinner for the first time at Sea Change, Tim McKee's sustainable seafood restaurant inside the Guthrie along the river. While I drank cocktails with odd combinations of ingredients like Sambuca and muddled basil that somehow worked perfectly together, the chef sent out a number of small plates of his choosing. Oysters with roasted jalapeno mignonette, impossibly thin cut albacore tuna with lardo, soffrito crudo and apple cider vinegar, langostines with hot olive oil, chili and rosemary, and my favorite, a sous vide and grilled octopus with a texture that evoked beef rather than the usual octopus mouth feel. It was spectacular. There were lots of other plates and cocktails, but the details are blurry after so much of everything. Suffice it to say it was all some kind of wonderful.
Wonderful seafood continued into Saturday night when I had my gals, The Hags, over for copious amounts of seafood and drinks and music while my friend Doug prepared course after course of glorious, mostly Japanese food for all of us. The menu included oysters on the half shell with a traditional shallot mignonette, soup with Dungeness crab and crab claws, soba noodles with dipping sauce, Kobe beef with smoked sea salt, eel rolls with jewel-like red fish roe, freshly made Korean kimchi, seared tuna with a citrus/pepper/sesame crust, and lots of sashimi - salmon, yellowtail, hamachi, and albacore. I didn't think I appreciated large oysters, but that has all changed and I could have them every day with a simple mignonette and never get sick of them. The same goes for my friends, except not with the mignonette. What a great evening.
Along came Sunday and Joe Henry was singing at the Dakota Jazz Club downtown. I am no Joe Henry expert and have subsisted mostly on his earlier alt-country music, not as much his more current stuff that's closer to jazz and Tom Waits, but I loved almost everything he did last night. He told a funny story about collaborating with his sister-in-law Madonna (yes, that Madonna) on a song that they agreed to each publish their own versions of. Joe said he turned his version into a tango and she turned hers into a hit: Don't Tell Me. His version was beautiful. Just like this weekend.
Everything changes when I miss a week on the Memory Care Unit. Last week's contagious cold left me thinking a visit was not in anyone's best interest, so I opted out and slept instead. Meanwhile, one of my very favorite gals, Leola, moved to another unit. Like other times, I had the uncomfortable task of asking where Leola was tonight, uncomfortable because I always fear the worst. Thankfully, she is still alive, but sadly, she has been moved to a unit for people who need to be assisted physically more than on my ward. I always thought Leola was one of the physical oxen on 2-South, but I guess strength is in the eye of the beholder because she's gone. I'll never forget the day she called out my full name from at least seven feet away, something that hasn't happened before or since on the Memory Care Unit. "Hey, Deb Ellis, I like your outfit," she let me know. It took me a second to realize she was reading my little name tag, and without glasses! I guess her eyes were strong but her limbs weak. I'm going to miss Leola.
It was a tough night on the unit, almost as if it were a full moon or something weird like that. Both Gudrun and Mary couldn't keep their eyes open and Mary wasn't wearing her teeth so her chin stuck out like a witch's and I spilled her protein shake down the front of her bright red track suit while trying to feed her with her head lolling backwards. When the nurse came around to record how much each resident had eaten, I told him he was going to fire me as a volunteer because I'd failed so miserably to feed my charges. He assured me it was okay, that they don't always eat much, but I couldn't help but feel guilty about my already too-skinny elderly friends. At least Bernice was having a good night, taking my good natured kidding in stride and giving it right back.
There's a new woman on the unit, her name is Karen. She's the youngest, prettiest gal I've seen there and I wanted to cry when she showed up at the dinner table with a man who I would guess is her husband from the kiss goodbye he gave her. Karen doesn't look a day over sixty, and she might be younger, but there she was on the dementia unit. Her husband left her there to eat and she sat next to Anita, the only spot available at the time. Karen looked uncomfortable and scared and like she'd rather be anywhere but there. You'd think everyone looks like that there, but they don't. They're either beyond being able to feel the tangible discomfort of life on a Memory Care Unit anymore or they've resigned themselves to their fate, only complaining infrequently that they want to go home. But Karen looked like a little girl at her first sleepover, frightened and shy and wanting her mommy. She reminded me of Julie Christie in the Oscar-winning movie, "Away From Her." In the movie, Christie's character is a victim of early-onset Alzheimer's and struggles between wanting to stay home with her husband and knowing she's a hazard there to him and to herself. She looks lost at the nursing home she chooses to go to, just like Karen did tonight. It's heartbreaking. I hope Karen settles in sooner than later and can relinquish some of the fear that fills her eyes.
You know you have a cool dad when you find yourself enjoying a cold 24-ounce Red Stripe beer with him at the sold out Avett Brothers show at First Avenue, right after sharing polenta fries and foie gras torchon at the Bradstreet Crafthouse. Awesome.
Two things guarantee my absolute productivity. Number one: sporting a roasted turkey hat at the office. Number two: telling myself I have to clean my house.
Today I did the latter, and that means I have added a pretty awesome update to my blog and cleaned absolutely nothing in my home. Because I didn't say telling myself to clean my house makes me productive at cleaning the house, it actually makes me productive at anything but. Check out the "Labels" gadget to the right of the screen. I've now added labels to my posts so that, if you're so inclined, you can read back over posts that specifically refer to Mexico, or to the nursing home, or to restaurants. I'll probably add more in time, this was as much time as I was willing to commit to today. Because there is cleaning to be done and roasted turkey hats to be worn.
My best furry buddy had another tough night last night, but he made sure everyone else was suffering right along with him. He did not suffer alone nor in silence.
I noticed that one of Hakeem's fangs was sticking into his lip last night, and although that didn't hinder his love for food (nothing ever does), he did seem preoccupied with his mouth and he took to sleeping in a spot his never has before, which is one of those things cats do that bums me out because it usually means they're not feeling well. I made a quick call to Dr. Hedges who made room for him late last night at his office. On the way there, we picked up Hakeem's Grandma Judy, who is always very helpful when it comes to transporting the 25 pound beast to the place he feels deserves a special little place in Hell. Packed in his purple laundry basket with a purple towel underneath him and one on top of him, he entered the vet's office with the loudest, longest hiss in feline history. I told the vet tech it was just Hakeem's way of saying hello. She didn't buy it.
In the exam room, Hakeem kept up his defenses and, really, never let them down. I always spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince the doc and the tech that he's the most awesome cat of all time and Grandma Judy usually slips in the story about the time we brought him to the nursing home and all the residents loved him because he was so nice, but I could tell the vet tech didn't believe us by the way she wanly asked, "Really?" I couldn't help but notice that as she held him down, wearing the elbow-length leather falcon handler gloves that kept Hakeem from killing her, she seemed rather skeptical.
Hakeem was screaming so much that the vet had no trouble spotting the bad fang, he just looked inside his mouth during one of my kitty's ten second-long screeches. Then the doc grabbed a medical pliers and simply yanked the entire loose fang from Hakeem's lower jaw, much to Hakeem's surprise. He said oftentimes in older cats the teeth will simply fall out when the root rots (yum!), which Hakeem's was trying to do, and he wouldn't even need any antibiotics. All fixed! Well, almost. Hakeem has that pesky anal sac issue I've mentioned before and, as long as I was paying for an office visit, I had the vet and tech express them. Yes, I'm talking about the anal sacs. All I'm going to tell you is that at one point, while they tag teamed my boy in his purple basket and the doc had Hakeem in - shall we say - a compromising position, Dr. Hedges suddenly yelled "Look out!" to the vet tech. I won't tell you why, I'll leave that to your imagination. Not that the tech could hear the vet's yelling over Hakeem's, I'm pretty sure all of New Brighton could hear him. But, the important thing is that my boy was back to his regular self the second he got back into the car in his purple laundry basket after his awful ordeal.
All's well that ends well. My boy has been purring for twenty-four hours straight and drooling where the fang is now missing. My dad said he's a feline hillbilly now. I'm afraid he might be right.
On Wednesday night when I stopped by Bernice's table at the Memory Care Unit to tease her about eating too little and to challenge her to a clean plate contest, she said something about probably not finishing her dinner because she had to get to the boat. I didn't think much of it, out-of-left-field statements being par for the course on Wednesday nights. But when I finished feeding Mary and Gudrun and I had received my first ever hug from Mattie, bestowed upon me as if she were greeting a long lost relative, I stopped in front of Clara as I put on my coat. Clara told me, as she pointed her finger down the long, ornately carpeted hall toward Bernice, that she was going to go see her sister, Christine. I told her that wasn't Christine, she was pointing at Bernice. She insisted I was wrong and continued to tell me that she was going to go spend some time with Christine. She got up and walked away as I took a couple of minutes to say goodbye to Leola and Lorraine.
When I finally made my way down the long hall, I turned the corner and found Clara pushing Bernice in her wheelchair, away from Bernice's room. I asked Clara what they were doing and she told me, very matter-of-factly, that she was taking her sister Christine for a walk. Worried that she wasn't fully on board with this plan, I asked Bernice what she was doing, and if she wanted to go back to her room. She looked up at me from her wheelchair and tears started pouring from her eyes as she said, "I need to get to the boat, I'm going to miss the boat." I'd never heard Bernice sound so much like someone with dementia, as weird as that might sound considering where I was. But Bernice always seemed to me that she was on the wrong ward. I sometimes thought that maybe she just forgot to turn off the stove once in awhile, or maybe she had trouble remembering where she set down her keys from time to time. This was the first time I really saw that her brain was not doing what it was supposed to do. "Please, take me to the boat," she pleaded, as Clara insisted they keep moving to her room where she and her sister Christine could talk.
"Hey, Clara, why don't you turn around and head toward Bernice's room, she's not feeling well," I asked Clara. "No, Christine and I are just going to go talk for awhile, I'll take care of her," she responded. I was finally able to persuade Clara to allow Bernice to push herself to her room, but Clara followed closely behind, promising she'd talk to Christine and be with her to make her feel better. As we got to the narrow doorway of Bernice's room, she refused to go in. "Bernice, you'll feel better if you go into your room and get some rest," I offered. But Bernice wouldn't have it, she cried harder and said, "That's not my room." I assured her it was, telling her there was a picture of her in there and her green Care Bear and the calendar I gave her last week. But she just cried harder that she was going to miss the boat, that she had to get to the boat. Kollie the nurse came into the room and tried to calm her down, but it was difficult because Clara was there, insisting that Christine should calm down and they could talk, which only confused Bernice more. I left, having nothing to offer in the way of helping, knowing Kollie could handle it much better than I ever could.
I sure would like it if Clara's sister Christine could actually be there with her, and I wish Bernice could really tell everyone to kiss her ass, she bought a boat, she's going out to sea.
Well, this answers a lot of my questions. I came across this old family photo tonight as I searched for inspiration to write, and for the first time I noticed something beyond how truly 1970's this is. Forget my mom's Carol Brady shag haircut, disregard my dad's Cheech & Chong mustache, don't even think about my brother's "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt and old school Coca-Cola glass, and brush past the fact that I pretty much look like a boy in my flared jeans. Concentrate instead on what's really going on in this picture. Notice my parents as they gaze, if not downright adore, my brother. It's like I'm not even there. They are so in love with their firstborn that they can't even be trusted to pose properly for a family photo. His very existence is a magnet for them, while I pose alone, lost in a sea of just me and the camera lens, barely a blip on my parents' radar.
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