Powerless

You finish your dinner and watch a little TV with your wife. Then you get in the car and drive over to the nursing home to spend thirty minutes with your Dad. It’s only ten minutes from your house and in a situation that has rendered you powerless; it’s the one thing that you can actually do. Two months ago it was an agonizing ordeal. But over time it has become routine. You don’t smell the urine anymore. You don’t become nauseous upon encountering an accident cleanup crew in action. All you care about now is seeing your Dad for a while before he goes to bed. All of the nurses know you now and that helps. Most of them are angels.

When you first put your Dad in this place, deep in your heart you thought that he wasn’t like the rest of the patients. He was just too weak to care for adequately at home, that’s all. He wasn’t at all like everyone else there, all of whom seemed to fall into one of four categories.

The Chanters. These are the lost souls who sit for hours repeating the same words over and over.

The Screamers. These are the tortured ones who sit silently for long periods of time but then randomly begin screaming their discontent.

The Mumblers. These are largely sweet hearted folks who are constantly carrying on animated conversations with themselves or sometimes pieces of furniture or an occasional potted plant.

The Announcers. These folks sometime scare you to death with the abrupt nature of their pronouncements. Out of nowhere one of them will announce with great seriousness and energy, “When in the Sam Hill is somebody going to ring the bell for the dogs tonight?”

When your Dad first arrives it becomes your silent mission to protect him from these people. They all seem so terribly troubled and you don’t want your father to be negatively affected.

One Tuesday night you arrive at the usual time but can’t find your Dad. You talk to the head nurse and she informs you that he is in the “diversion room” a place so named by someone clearly unaware of the power of language. You hear “diversion room” and immediately ask, “Wait, what the heck is a diversion room? What is he being diverted from?”

“Oh no, that’s just a room where we take them to do activities and eat lunch and what not,” she explains.

“Then, why not call it the “activity room” for God’s sakes?!” She looks at you like you’ve got two heads.

You find your Dad sitting at a large round table in a room filled with 20 or so patients and four pink-shirted nurses’ aids. There is a huge flat screen TV hanging from the ceiling showing a DVD about Niagara Falls. You sit next to your Dad, and on this night he doesn’t ask you to immediately take him back to his room. He’s actually watching the movie. So you sit with him taking in the sights. There are two Chanters across the way, one constantly repeating the words, “thank you,” the other oddly stuck on the number “182.” You notice that your Dad is one of only three men in the room. One of the other men is a Mumbler. Luckily, the Screamers are silent.

Suddenly, a lady sitting at your table stands up and demands to be taken back to her room. The aid quickly sits her down and reminds her that the movie will be over in 15 minutes. However, this demonstration serves as a catalyst for all of the nascent Screamers in the room who proceed to chime in with full-throated hysteria. Above the roar, you hear a deeper voice, the voice of a man, clear and commanding, “Is everybody here? If we aren’t all here we’re going to miss the bus and then where will we be? The room becomes still. You hear only his voice. Your Dad is an Announcer.

In a season of disappointment, this is a particularly painful revelation. It occurs to you as you pour his juice later that night that he really does belong here. You listen to him tell of his plans to drive the van into town tomorrow. But first he has to go put some gas in it, since there’s no gas in the two gas cans in the carport.

“Why do you need to go into town Dad?” You ask.

“Betty needs to sign up for that class in New Orleans.”

It’s the first time you have heard him say your Mother’s name in months. It makes you smile. You run a comb through his hair trying to correct the damage done by whomever it is that gets him up in the morning. They always part in on the wrong side, making him look like Adolph Hitler, had he lived to be 89. You assure him that you won’t forget to gas up the van before you come on Wednesday. He smiles at you and thanks you for coming.

You’ll never hear about the class in New Orleans again, because it’s not really your Dad who is doing the talking in any real sense. You’ll come back Wednesday and it will be something else. Against the ebbing tide of his sanity, you are powerless. There is only one thing that you can do. You can make sure that every night before he goes to sleep he sees his youngest, most rebellious child sitting at his bedside.

The Nerve of Those Pesky Voters!!

Eric Cantor lost in the Republican Party primary election yesterday to a political novice named Dave Brat, a college professor backed by the Tea Party. To hear the chattering classes tell it, this outcome is akin to the arrival of the four horses of the apocalypse. Bold headlines with words like shocking, seismic, and breathtaking are everywhere. Cantor himself in the moments before his concession speech had that deer in the headlights look as if he was shocked at the nerve required of the voters to deny him his eighth term in office. For his part, Brat looked just as shocked, as if he couldn’t believe their nerve either for electing an economics professor with no political experience. What to think?

For the record, and I know that this will infuriate some of you, I did not vote yesterday. My reason is a simple and pragmatic one, I am not a Republican. This was, after all, a Republican Party primary, and for the same reason that I wouldn’t vote in a Democratic Party primary, I didn’t vote in this one. I feel that only Republican voters should get to decide who their nominee will be. I’m aware that the election was open to any registered voter, but this was a party squabble, and I considered it none of my business.

Now, about the outcome, a few thoughts… I have voted for Mr. Cantor on a few occasions during his 16 year run as Congressman, but it’s been a while. But the longer he has served, the more entitled he has become. This is often the case with politicians of all parties. They may start out with noble intentions, but once they begin to enjoy the benefits of membership in the elite ruling class, they become something else entirely. I am encouraged with the results of this election for the following reasons, none of which have anything to do with Dave Brat.

1. If the result of this election puts the fear of God into entrenched incumbents of both parties, this will be an incredibly beneficial thing for the country. If politicians actually believed that all of them were truly accountable to their constituents, this will serve as a restraint against their more mendacious tendencies.
2. Anyone who claims to desire a Congress that is more reflective of the will of the voters must cheer any dilution of the power of incumbency.
3. Most of the political talking heads I have surveyed this morning all agree that Eric Cantor’s defeat will make any new legislation for the next two years virtually impossible, so spooked will everyone be that a false vote might come back to haunt them come election day. I submit that this is perhaps the happiest result of all. I can’t think of anything this nation needs more than a two year vacation from Congress passing laws!
4. There is something delicious about imagining the horror that must have been coursing through the veins of every career political in DC when the results were announced last night. The prospect, once thought impossible, that their lifetime of privilege and entitlement, their permanently safe seats, their status as the country’s elite might actually be threatened by, er, uh…mere voters, must have been terrifying. The possibility that they might actually one day be forced to find gainful employment somewhere besides the public teat, just might clear the cobwebs. It is a good thing for the Republic to be reminded occasionally that public office is NOT and has never been a divine right, that the phrase, “We the People” actually means something.

No one should shed any tears for our retiring Congressman. He leaves office with an insanely generous pension and will land a seven-figure job with some beltway lobbying firm before Labor Day.    

The Revenge of the French

I promise that this will end soon, but here’s another observation about something I have learned about food since we started planning a wedding. Beware of any food for which there is no American word. If you have to borrow a word from the French to describe something, it’s probably something guys aren’t going to like. Some examples follow.

I can’t speak for all guys of course, but I feel pretty confident that most guys don’t enjoy having to get all dressed up and go to some swanky black-tie affair with their wives. Part of the problem is those interminable receptions where everybody stands around trying to make conversation with people who they would rather not talk to. When we men are forced to do this we immediately become ferociously hungry. The problem is there is no real food to be had, only tuxedoed waiters bobbing and weaving through the crowd with silver platters of hors d’oeuvres. This is a French word meaning, tiny slivers of food-like substance. The phonetically correct pronunciation of this word should tell us men all we need to know about this sort of thing…hors d’oeuvers…pronounced…Whores dee overs. That’s right, we’re about to be screwed.

So, you’re stuck making small talk with a very rich and very old couple who you’ve never seen before in your life. You’re about to compliment the blue-haired woman on her lovely patterned stockings, (which are actually a severe, debilitating case of varicose veins), when the hors d’oeuvers tray comes by, saving you from this frightful embarrassment. You pick up something called a “crab puff.” It’s actually delicious. You’re about to grab four or five of these beauties and fill your jacket pockets when you look up and the waiter has vanished. God knows when he will be back so you excuse yourself and desperately try to find crab puff guy.

When you finally sit down for the meal, the first thing you’re served is another French specialty…vichyssoise, a French word which can be roughly translated, “why in God’s name is this soup cold?” If you were paying attention in that 20^th century history class in college you’ll remember that the Vichy government of France during WWII were the bunch of cowards who collaborated with the Nazis. So, of course any soup named after them would have to be served cold.

Just about the time you think you have finally escaped from this French concentration camp, you’re served your entrée…filet mignon. This French word means roughly, “where is the rest of my steak?” Actually it really means “cute fillet.” Yeah, well only the French would think to describe a cut of beef as “cute.”

Finally, it’s time for dessert. You’re thinking that the only thing that could possibly redeem this mini-meal is a big helping of peach cobbler and ice cream. But then Pierre shows up and places a delicate plate in front of you that has a mint leaf and one raspberry on top of a teacup sized portion of…Crème Brulee.

On your way home you make a quick run by Chick-fil-a and Krispy Kreme.  

Wedding Planning Part VII

Months of preparation, weeks of worry, days of scrutinizing and agonizing over every detail, every possible contingency, and finally the day we have all been dreading has arrived. At this point there’s nothing left to do but take a deep breath and charge into the breach. Are these quotations from a soldier’s journal the morning of D-Day? Nope. Today we have our last meeting with…the caterer.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Pam has crunched the numbers with relentless efficiency. But at some point final decisions have to be made and a check cut. Today is that day, and afterwards there will be no turning back. I mean once you pick the filet and chicken marsala entrees you can’t wake up in the middle of the night next week and suddenly decide that the shrimp and grits with Virginia ham might have been a better play!

But if all we had to worry about was picking an entrée this would be a walk in the park. No, there’s also the prickly debate over “crudités vs. butler passed.” Now, I don’t have to tell you what a thorny issue that can be. Actually…I probably do since before the advent of Pinterest, nobody knew what the heck a “butler passed” was! I see the term “butler passed” in Pam’s notes and I’m thinking, “…may he rest in peace and all, but why is that my problem?? Are there no other butler’s available in the city of Richmond for that weekend??”

Then there’s the question of the champagne toast, the optional “coffee bar” and the baffling omission of sweet tea from the beverage queue. They list lemonade and water only. Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure that this wedding isn’t taking place in upstate New York. This is Virginia people! It will be the middle of July and we’re going to be outside. If we don’t offer iced, sweet tea with lemon, we’re going to have a riot on our hands. If we have to cut cost somewhere, we can always scratch the Dom Perignon and go with the Cold Duck, but I'm drawing the line at sweet tea.

Last night my wife was sitting on the sofa at her laptop, with her three ring wedding planning binder opened and copious notes littered all over the room. She looks up at me and asks, “Do you think there is any way that you can come with Kaitlin and me to the caterer’s meeting tomorrow? She batted her eye lashes, her bottom lip quivered ever so faintly and I found myself saying, “Sure.”

So, I will come along to Celebrations on the Reservoir today to meet the caterer and hash out the great crudités vs. butler passed debate with my girls. I will try my best not to say anything snarky or embarrassing. When asked my opinion I will offer it succinctly and without embellishment, “I agree! Oh, and pass along my condolences to that butler’s family.”

A D-Day Tribute

 

70 years ago this morning thousands of 19 year old kids were being killed on the beaches of Normandy. Two of my mother’s brothers were there along with my wife’s grandfather, who died about a month later.

I read books about it, watch the grainy newsreels, listen to the dwindling group of survivors tell their stories, and yet my mind cannot fathom such a thing. Even Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg’s epic retelling, with its powerful, almost unwatchable opening twenty minutes fails to fully expose the horror that those terrified young men faced on that gray morning. Yet, face it they did.

I try to imagine what would happen today if our government were required to plan and execute something as grand and intricately detailed as D-Day. In late 1943 in a practice run for D-Day called Exercise Tiger, over 900 men were killed either by friendly fire or submarine attacks of a ship which had wandered off course. Of course, back then the debacle wasn’t leaked to the press so it was largely kept from the public. Today, with social media and ubiquitous cell phone cameras, that would be impossible. I can’t imagine any modern President being able to overcome such a public relations disaster.

 

 

Luckily for me, my Dad was in the South Pacific on this day in 1944. Had his vision been a bit better, he could have been one of the boys storming the beaches that day, and depending upon which unit he was in, his chances of survival might not have been so good. Of course, had he died that day, this blog would be just a bit more vapid and uninspired than usual.

I’m not one to go overboard on this “greatest generation” business. I mean, my Dad’s generation did accomplish an awful lot and didn’t whine about their lot in life nearly as much as subsequent, far less accomplished generations have. But they weren’t perfect. Have a listen to your average group of octogenarians talk about race for thirty minutes and you’ll be disabused of any romantic notions of their moral superiority. The truth is that every generation is made up of rogues and princes. Every generation has helped build the world; every generation has done their fair share of terrible things to help destroy it. You take the good with the bad, because there’s plenty of both in us all.

Still, when I watch those jumpy black and white newsreels and I look into the eyes of those men, I can’t help but be overcome with profound gratitude that they answered the bell so often and so well all those years ago. Those guys (and girls) rid the world of the Nazi’s, and for that they have earned an eternal debt of gratitude from all who have come after.