Circles

Today is what Dad calls “chickenshit weather,” a term he coined long before Alzheimer’s to describe grey, rainy, dreary days. It reflects his hatred of cleaning out the chicken house as a boy in Gloucester.

Dad is pondering the bowl of cheese-flavored potato chips I have given him for a snack. He says, “somehow I think they’re waterproof, at least to a degree.” Then he moves on to considering their shape: “these cheeses are different than others, they curl around.”

Dad’s preparing to wash the dishes. “I’m pretty slow at it, but I’m good at it, not a speck on any of it.”

“My Mom sends you ‘hello’ from Maine,” says Kate S. “Send her hello, too, from Massachssetts,” says Dad. “You mean New York,” says Kate. “I think I’m cracking up,” says Dad. “I’m forgetting piles of things.”

Dad is offered some cheese straws as an appetizer. He has trouble navigating the long, limp pieces to his mouth, so he cups them in one hand and gobbles at them. When he notices that Kate S. and I are laughing at this, he gobbles in a more exaggerated fashion, like a monster on sesame street, and keeps doing it for a little while after the straws are gone. What a ham.

“No circle is better than none,” says Dad, bafflingly. “No circle is not better than none, I made a mistake. Any circle is better than none. No, that’s not true.” “What kind of circle?” I ask. “Circle? Circle? What kind of a circle?” Dad seems as confused as I am. “You just said ‘no circle is better than none,’” I tell him. “ ‘No circle is better than none?’ How do you accomodate that? I don’t think it’s accomodatable.”

Kate S. gets out the steel drum. “Can you play that? I can’t play it,” says Dad. “Sure, you can,” says Kate, setting it up in front of him. “No, I can’t, I never played it before,” he says, though he has. Kate S. gives him the stick and he starts banging out one of his rhythms. “Can you actually play music on this?” he says, stopping. “Yeah, you can,” says Kate, “but I don’t have any music.” I hand her Twinkle, Twinkle and she plays it for him, and he is duly amazed.

Kate S. installed a grab bar that I bought for Dad on the side of his bathtub. When she’s done, we steer him into the bathroom for a look. She shows him how he can use it help himself get in and out of the tub and says, “it’s really solid.” He gives it a pull and says “how did it get to be so solid?” She shrugs. “I’m really strong.”

Kate S. has given Dad the bubble wrap that was wrapped around the grab bar. Popping the bubbles, he says, “who knows how many thousands there are here?”

Kate S. and I are getting ready to leave when thunder starts to boom. Dad hears it and says, “I think you will be greeted by a thunderstorm.”