I Gotta See a Man About A Horse

"Bill," Dad requested. "Can you go to the back and bring me the horse?"

"Which horse would that be?" I asked.

"Just one of the saddle horses will be fine.  I need to get across there to borrow Steve's truck."  He pointed through the window and across the street. 

For some of you rancher types, that may not sound strange. But its been some time since Dad, or anyone living in our neck of woods - Eastern Delaware County, Pennsylvania, part of the Philadelphia metropolitan sprawl - saw a good saddle horse in the flesh, let alone rode such a beast to visit the neighbor. 

Reality gets hard to grasp sometimes for Dad, actually for all of us who share Dad's world. 

Words and ideas are often interchanged in Dad's mind and then rearranged day by day.  Take 'Daddy Max,' for instance, from my last post?  Oh, he was a real man for sure, but Max was no barber.  Dad insisted, "Max cut hair,"  but family members tell me Max actually owned a butcher shop. 

That doesn't mean Dad actually believes Max was a barber.  I've begun to see that, with Dad, the confusion is really just a matter of nomenclature.  Last week, a purveyor of fine meat products was a 'barber.'  Lacking the means to access the word, barber, Dad choose in the moment to call Max 'the guy who cut hair.'  This week, Max the meat man is properly reclassified as a butcher. 

A common strain in all of Dad's conversation is the idea of leaving, going home, or moving. His first greeting for me most days is, "I'm ready to go when you are!"  or "Where are you parked?"  Our friends in the world of hospice tell us this is common for elderly folks who, somewhere in their subconscious, realize they will be passing on soon.    

Dad got particularly animated yesterday about his pending 'move.' He had been watching our neighbor, not actually named Steve, but we can call him that.  'Steve' had been coming and going all afternoon in his Dodge Ram pickup.  It had suddenly occurred to Dad that 'Steve' and his pickup were a means of escape, his way to get out of Dodge - that is, his way to get back home and get all his things moved at the same time. 

A great plan but at some point Dad had accurately recognized that, though he could see 'Steve' from the comfort of his recliner, he was too weak to walk over to his place to ask for his help.  The horse was the best way to get from here to there and he would need my help to mount up.   

Those who know Dad, even a little, know that he spends many hours, day and night, watching western television shows and movies.  Right now he's watching the Gun Smoke movie, starring the elderly James Arness reprising his famous role of Matt Dylan, the marshal of Dodge City, Kansas.  Cowboys and Indians, mean and low-down varmints, bank robbers and gun slingers, tavern dancers and poker players; they are all a part of Dad's daily 'reality.'  Oh, did I mention horses.  Lots of horses. Always horses. 

Maybe Dad really thinks we have horses in the barn. Maybe he thinks we actually have a barn or a large ranch.  I'm not sure, though I'd bet the farm he probably knows we live on a postage stamp in the suburbs.  


So what's with all the talk about horses?  I'm thinking he was hoping I'd get his wheelchair out from the back closet - that old saddle horse - and push him to see 'Steve' so we could talk to him about borrowing his truck for the big move. 

So no, I'm afraid we have no horses, my neighbor is not named Steve, and Dad isn't moving anytime soon.  But like I said, in these parts, reality can be a hard thing to grasp.   

Daddy Max

One name Dad hasn't called me is Max!

Its funny, but Dad rarely calls me by my real name anymore.  Since his memory began slipping, he has branded me with more than a few names;  Ed, Leon, Tom, John, Dave, Bill.   From day to day it could be any of these or others, sometimes several in the same day.

I've come to believe each name has special meaning to him.  Perhaps he worked with Leon or Tom, maybe he served at the church's 'Brotherhood' with Ed or John.  Or these could be guys he liked hanging with or neighbors with whom he'd shoot the breeze.  Whoever they may have been, they were special to Dad.

When he calls me 'Dave,' for instance, he's probably thinking of Dave from church, the church in which Audrey was raised, where Dad and Mom attended and served for most of their adult lives.  Since Dad has been stuck in the house, Dave has regularly visited and continues to be a good friend.

I think his favorite monicker for me is 'Bill.'

This title most likely comes from, Bill, the cleaning guy.  Bill is an old friend of mine who runs a house cleaning service.  We were using Bill's services for a while back when Mom was still with us to keep Mom and Dad's place from getting out of control.  Cleaning days were a highlight for Dad.  Bill was more than 'the cleaning guy.'  He was a genuine and caring friend for Dad, who always took interest in Dad's thoughts and concerns.

Max apparently did hair in New Jersey back in the 1930's.  Was he a barber?  A hairdresser?  I'm not sure.  My wife refers to him as "Daddy Max" because of the way Max cared for my father-in-law when he was a child.  We believe he was somehow related to my father-in-law by marriage, perhaps married to his great-aunt.

Dad says,


"On Saturdays,  I'd take the train from 63rd Street and go over to New Jersey to see Max.  I'd spend the whole day with him at his shop."

Dad was an only child raised by his single mom who never married.  An unwed mother raising a child alone was simply untenable in the 1930's.  Young Herb didn't realize until he was a teen that his sister, Freda, was actually his birth-mother and that 'Mom' was actually his grandmother.  His grandfather had passed away before he could form a memory of him.

As a young boy being raised by women, living in virtual poverty, times spent with guys like Max, whatever the relationship, where important to Dad.  Max spent lots of time with young Herbie and made a remarkable impression.

Just this morning, Dad burst out with this fact...

"Each year, Max would send me and the girls to the stores and they would buy me all the clothes and shoes and supplies I needed for school that year."  

One thing that strikes me about old Max; Herb has never forgotten him or even mistakenly called someone else by his name, even on his most confused days.  Perhaps that is simply the way memory works.  We forget our most recent memories before the older ones.  But I'd like to believe 'Daddy Max' holds a special place in Dad's fragile memory, a place that time and aging have not been able to shake loose.

I don't know if there are any young men out there who would remember me in that way.  I hope so.  I know I'd like to find a way to make that kind of difference in a young boy's world, the kind of difference he will remember when all else is forgotten.  I'll look for him.  I'll pray he finds me.

When God Laughs

As Dad finally settled into bed, I paused to pray.  It had been a particularly rough night, one of those nights when I had begun to wonder what God was thinking.  The prayer was not a particularly pious expression of faith.

Many nights Dad will chatter about his day, usually telling stories about things he imagined occurred, or people he needed to meet as soon as we could get him there.  Not this night.  This night he was dead-weight in the sling, arms and legs hanging limply, no words, no smiles, no mumbling of incoherent memories or plans, no movement.  He hung like a wet sweater on a drying rack.  But for the barely visible rise and fall of his chest, there were no signs of life.

The motorized aid gently lowered him onto the waiting bed and he gave an involuntary sigh as his muscles relaxed.  I released him from the the sling and pulled the blankets to his chin, now discolored by  pink juice that hadn't quite made it through his lips.  I flipped on the oxygen concentrator and as it began its familiar hum I wrapped the nasal cannula around his ears and under his nose, the last step in the bedtime routine.

I looked at this man lying there, nearly motionless, my wife's father.  He had spent his day sitting in a chair waiting to go to bed.  He had been fed by others, toileted by others, bathed by others, and now put to bed by others.  I had to ask God why.  Why is he still here?  Could there be any good purpose in keeping this life going?  What possible good could he gain from more of this life?  I prayed.  I argued with God.

Have you ever heard when God laughs?

It's usually not real audible but I'm sure he often chuckles, maybe just a little, right before he tells you something that should be obvious.  He often laughs at me, I think.  Not mean laughter, more like the knowing laugh a loved child gets from Daddy when he asks something silly.  This time he laughed pretty hardily and then said,

"He's not here for his sake!  If this was just about him, he wouldn't be here, living like this.  No way!  No, he's here for you.  He's here to teach you.  He's here to teach you how to love."


I thought about that for some time.  Of all the great work my father-in-law has done for the Lord over his many years of life, perhaps this one could be one of his grandest works; teaching his son-in-law what it means to love.

Each day I spend with Dad could very well be his last, and yet each day is another day of opportunity for me, an opportunity to learn to love.  I don't know how long a trip it will be.  I'm not altogether sure where we're going or if I can make it all the way there.  But for another day, we walk on together.