I didn’t have many bosses in my life. Last 4 were ministers mind you. Still none of them ever managed to stack up. I was a stay-at-home mom most of my life, and wouldn’t change that for anything. Loved being there when the kids got home from school and needed their 4-course-meal-snack-2-hours before supper. The only time I regretted my choice was when I signed up for Social Security. I had earned so little they wanted me to pay them. A tale for another day. This is my story about the best boss I ever had. Mark, the owner of McDonald’s in North Muskegon.

Almost 20 years ago, I drove our 15 year old son Adam to our local McDonald’s to fill out a job application. This was traumatic for a couple reasons. He was my baby, and I wasn’t ready for him to get a real job. Plus we had stopped for a short driving lesson in an empty parking lot on the way there. I was a wreck by the time I rescued my car-from-the-clutches-of-certain-death-by-Adam. He hit the accelerator when he was backing out of a parking spot instead of the brake. Missed a cement retaining wall by a foot or so. Holy-moly.

The owners of Mickey D’s were a husband and wife duo. Barb, (the-wife-half) was doing interviews while I waited. There seemed to be a problem with the interview. My hackles went up. Who wouldn’t want to hire my-lousy-driver-cute-punk-son-with-absolutely-no-work-experience?

McDonald’s as a corporation, is famous for giving high school kids their first jobs. Very admirable. McDonald’s however, does not like to hire kids under 16, just a lot of extra paperwork to fill out for the government. They’re also very fussy on the hours they can work. Barb walked over and explained that Adam needed to wait until he turned 16, then she would be happy to give him a job. She inquired, “what about you?” “Umm, I’m just the driver.” I said. No, she wondered, would I be interested in working a few hours a week? No nights or week-ends. “Hmm, maybe but I will not under any circumstance EVER run a cash register or wait on customers.” She agreed (probably could tell, this chick’s a loner (or loser) not-such-a-great-people-person). Thus I started enjoyable employment for a few years. Worked M-F during the lunch rush,10-2. Most of the shift managers were the same age of my kids, except-for-still-15-Adam. All in all not a bad bunch of brats to work with though.

We were very busy during my shift and time went fast. Didn’t take long before I was working more hours, though never on weekends unless it was prom or homecoming. I stayed back in the kitchen, cooking burgers and chicken, getting out new stock. During slow times, you’d better never be caught standing around. Grab a broom, mop the floor, or clean your area. Soon I was trained checking the temps on all the meats during change-over, (breakfast to lunch menu) making sure the grills were calibrated to the right temps.

Mark and Barb would open several more McD’s over the next few years. Barb’s brother Bob ran my store (already I was taking ownership-could be an issue). Their daughter Lisa was scheduled to be store manager at one of their new restaurants a couple miles away. (John has always maintained there were so many McD’s, each house in town had their own, plus a handy turn-around within a block so you could check your food, go back for the stuff you ordered in the first place. Smart ass) I really liked Lisa, and asked if I could transfer to the new store with her when it opened.

I had been there about 6 months and was comfortable with my duties. I was a good employee, never called in sick, car didn’t break down, child care wasn’t an issue. They were very good to me. When John lost our health insurance at work, Mark put us on a co-pay with their policy. They went out of their way to be good to their employees and move you up the ladder. Sorry, never wanted to climb that ladder. Heights scare me. As soon as I became a manager, I would be working nights and weekends. Ahh, no thanks.

McDonald’s Corp. has very strict policies and methods that come with each job description. Clear, consise directions on safe food cooking, calibrating, cleaning. I-am-thee-supreme-rule-follower when the the job description is so precise. I loved it.

One day we were getting hit hard. Some school had called saying they were stopping with 3 bus loads of kids at 11:30. On days like these someone would call Mark or Barb to see if they could come in to help. I had only seen Mark (the-hubby-half) a couple of times. He was in the office most of the time a couple miles away. More of a numbers guy than a McFlurry-maker guy. Lisa had called him though, asking him to help out. He walked in, shrugged out of his suit coat, and started cooking fries. This was a tremendous help. One person just to cook fries when you’re so stinking busy you don’t have 30 seconds to open a new case. After a huge lunch rush and things had finally slowed down, he asked if I liked the job and how I was getting along? I told him great. He remarked, “I see you park about as far away from the store as you can. That’s good. None of the crew want to park way out there.” “Well, I don’t want customers or crew bumping into my car when they open their doors” I said. “How do you like your Eldorado” he asked? “I love my Caddy! I’m so careful. Try to stay away from other cars, then some putz pulls in and parks right next to me! You see that?” “That putz would be me,” he said with a smile. Not my finest moment. Be patient. I can and will do worse.

Mark passed away from a massive heart attack in March, 2011, age 63. Happened in his McDonald’s office early one morning. Doing what he did best, crunching the numbers. I can’t tell you how many times he was headed to that office, and I was out on my early morning walk. Without fail, he honked and waved, sometimes stopped to talk for a minute. Didn’t give a hoot that it was 6 a.m. and we were the only 2 dipsticks awake and already out on the street of our sleepy, snooty town. Still miss your honks and waves Boss…

Glanced at the calendar and see I’m celebrating an anniversary of sorts. It’s been about 15 years. Hard to tell exactly. The start up date sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. Too busy with marriage, kids and work. My early-to-mid-40’s. Josh and I at his High school graduation, 1993. Where and when it began, ugh.

Mine started out in a minscule way. I was working at McDonald’s, my hours had increased and I was starting much earlier in the morning. Suddenly I never needed to set my alarm clock. I know people get used to waking up at a certain time, but this was ridiculous. The only time I ever set an alarm was when I was flying somewhere and needed to be at the airport at like 4 a.m. You could safely bet I would be up long before the alarm went off anyway. Even better odds, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, all it took was rolling over in bed, adjusting my pillow to find a new cold spot. A random thought flitting through my head and I’d be done sleeping for the night. Might not have bupkus bothering me, no bill worries, no serious illness, but something would niggle in, not letting me fall back to sleep. When-and-if I did fall asleep, it was lighter, disjointed, and often accompanied with a vague sense of unease. Somewhere during this light doze, something weird would start in my fingertips, move slowly up my arms and torso, getting hotter by the second. Plus uncomfortable to the point of being painful. Throw the blankets off and wait for the pain to subside. In case I ever forgot these new-low-standards-for-sleeping, no matter how ditzy I had become, a reminder would be sent every night for a decade just in case.

I had always been able to do several things at the same time. Bake, watch the Cubs lose, yak on the phone. Discovered I was unable to do anything more than breathe, plus one other task. If I was taking on the phone, I’d glance down at the bowl half filled with ingredients and wonder, now did I put the soda in or not? Nuts. When the phone rang, had to stop what I was doing, and just talk on the phone. The TV was always off now when I was in the kitchen. Way too much of a distraction. OK I confess. I found I could still do one 3-way. It was possible (and probable) to breathe, watch TV and eat at the same time. Why was I not surprised?

One day I was getting my hair cut and noticed there wasn’t much hair on the floor. “Umm Dorothy, you didn’t take much off did you?” She looked down at the floor, continued sweeping and said, “Same amount, you just don’t have as much hair as you did a couple years ago.” Shut up! Was it possible that I hadn’t noticed that oddity cause I had the interest span of a gnat? How could I not miss losing a third of my-thick-coarse-as-a-horse-tail-hair? OK, now I’m losing my mind and my hair! A couple days later during supper I was telling John about my scary hair loss when I noticed a funny spot on my right hand. Now how did I do that? No, it wasn’t a bruise. It was more brown/beige than black and blue. I tried hard but was unable to rub, scrub, or scrape it off with soap, lemon juice, and emery board or John’s electric sander. Great, my first age spot.

Though my mind was working at the speed of sloth, the dang lightbulb finally clicked on. Think it had been on a delay, with the dimmer switch switch turned down. I was going through menopause!! So this is what menopause felt like. Out of sorts, cranky, can’t concentrate. Hot cold, hairless, with funky colored polka-dot spots on my hands. And what was up with John? After 30 years, thought I knew the guy. All of a sudden he couldn’t do or say anything right. (Might have been me instead, hmmm?) How odd that he chose such a traumatic time in MY life to be such an opinionated jerk! Men-can’t live with them, can’t kill ‘me.

There seemed to be no pattern to my hopeless sleeping habits. One night I couldn’t fall asleep, next night it might take an hour, but I’d wake up at 3 and just know I was done for the night. Plus those creepy, painful feelings coursing through me were just a bugger. One good thing though, because I couldn’t concentrate on anything longer than 2 minutes, I didn’t dwell on all this negative stuff very long. It was wildly satisfying however, to finally have a proper name to blame for all my faults and forgetfulness!

A couple years later I picked up my 3 year old granddaughter Peyton from pre-school. Her dad was varsity basketball coach and riding the team bus with Landon in tow. Mom was in graduate school and meeting us at a game in Lansing. Peyton and I were patiently waiting for the game to start when she became totally fascinated with my neck (wrinkly and chickeny) and my hands (wrinkly too, plus several new attractive age spots). To be honest, she thought them (or me) unsightly. I’m right there with you on this one Kiddo. She strongly suggested that I close my hands in tight fists to eliminate the wrinkles. Try it, it really works. For my (her) neck issues, she told me to turn my head up towards the gym ceiling. All night I looked as though I was seeking help and guidance from above, while preparing to kill someone in the gym. I started wearing a turtleneck and gloves when I was with her after that. Looked kinda strange with my swimsuit at Lake Michigan, and I got some bizarre looks. My tan lines were a hoot. Thanks PJ. Every time I think about that night, I have to laugh.

End of an era for me and the baby making machine too. Huh. Once that option is taken out of your hands, it does make you feel different. Maybe a little sense of freedom. Moving on to the next phase of my life. I always said, no-babies-for-me-late-in-life. Then suddenly at 48, (it does go by lickety-split) that option was no longer mine to ever make again. I was OK with that. Done with that chapter of my life-period…

Just read a piece on being a kid during the 1970’s. According to this hilarious article, they should all be dead now. Major concerns from a lack of government safety regulations, (you mean there was a time when big government didn’t control every facet of our lives, really?) plus blaming lackadaisical parents on everything from smoking in the car, (guilty) Lawn Jarts that maimed, (guilty) no seat belts or car seats (guilty) no sun screen. Yada, yada, yada. You know where I’m going with this, right? Well I managed to check off having or doing all 8 accident prone, injury inducing, lacking good parental judgement things, plus a hundred more.

On the farm in 1976, Shannon 6, Josh 1…

I had all three of our kids during the 1970’s, spacing them evenly to maintain my sanity. I knew moms who could pop out a baby every year and keep their wits about them. I just wasn’t one of them. I needed one to be pretty self-sufficient, talking, potty-trained, able to cook a meal and do a load of laundry before I brought another newborn in our world. This proved to be about 4 years apart. I had bright kids.

Shannon our firstborn, slept in a 5 dollar Goodwill crib, painted in bright yellow, lead-based paint. With about 3 slats per side.

 

 

For Christmas as a toddler we bought her a rocking horse from hell. When she climbed on that thing and started rocking, had she ever let go of the reins, she would have easily flown through 3 rooms before landing.

 

 

Shannon 1, 1971. Kids and grands have made it out alive from demonic horsey…

Never had a car seat, never used seat belts. She was either on my lap, or standing up in the back seat so she could see what was going on in the world.

The stove in our kitchen was older than John and me put together. One day I was baking a tuna casserole. Tuna was a staple at our house for the first 5 years of wedded bliss. At 3 cans for a buck, we ate it often, though not happily or with much enthusiasm. Shannon was crawling around and tried to pull herself up by the stove. The small glass oven door window was the spot where she placed her hands, burning them as she slid back down screaming. I plunked her hands in cold water, called John at work 15 miles away, (of course we only had one car) called our pediatrician and waited forever with a writhing 11 month old. She had already rubbed a couple of the blisters open by the time we got to the doctor’s office. Whatever they used on those burns was amazing stuff for the pain, but it would take several weeks for her hands to heal. Both were wrapped in gauze, so crawling and her wobbly first steps came to a screeching halt for about a month.

Dressings had to be changed every week by Dr. Stauch. A very traumatic experience every time she caught a glimpse of her little hands. Only upside, that was the day she stopped sucking her thumb. She still bears a couple small scars of the ones she rubbed open.

Weeks later John went to her room to get her out of the crib from her nap. Came out said her room was stinky. Figured it was a poopy diaper he didn’t want to change, but no, that wasn’t it. A few minutes later the smell was gone. Happened almost every time we walked into her room. We searched high and low for whatever was stinking up her cute nursery. Might have taken these newly minted, totally inexperienced parents a little longer than necessary to figure out it wasn’t the room. It was our gorgeous toddler. What on earth was causing that horrible smell? She didn’t seem sick. We bathed and scrubbed her, but she still smelled skunky. Ok I’m stumped, called Dr. Stauch for an appointment. After a thorough exam, he spotted something in her ear. Asked the nurse to get a syringe of warm water. Nurse came back, said the water heater was broke, only had cold water. Clever doc took some hot coffee, added cold water until it was lukewarm, and squirted a syringe full in her ear. Out plopped a hunk of Colby. This of course was not her fault. She was much too young to realize that we were life-long Iowa Hawkeye fans. She merely thought we lived in Wisconsin and were cheese-heads…

There’s a certain almost palpable demeanor in some people. Dad didn’t have much of a formal education, yet he carried a very quiet confidence. He knew much of the bible frontwards and backwards. Very well versed in the New Testament. Wasn’t very fond of those odd-duck-prophets from the Old Testament. So he didn’t spend a lot of time studying it. Many of his views were based on his deep faith that he was indeed a child of God, and heaven-bound when his life on earth was done. This can be amazing, inspiring, and kind of ethereal to be around. It just sort of exuded out of him. On the other hand, being in Dad’s little realm could be tough to take. Dad’s faith and beliefs were so strong, there was NO WAY he could be swayed that his way wasn’t the right and only way. He always believed that his sins were forgiven. This is what the bible teaches. To Dad, this meant even if he said or did something offensive, it didn’t matter because, ALL HIS SINS WERE ALL FORGIVEN.

Dad in the late 1980’s…

One night we were having our Methodist Church’s office manager (co-worker) over for supper. Her hubby was a Baptist minister and busy that night, so Jeanne spent the evening with John, Dad and me. Dad was asking her questions (grilling really) about theology differences between Baptist’s and the RCA, Reformed Church of America. The poor Methodist’s in attendance were not even included in this conversation. I guess the phrase here is “worked up.” Dad tended to get worked up when discussing religion. It was useless to argue with him because he was never wrong in his belief’s. Then there’s that no-swaying-him part. He flat out asked Jeanne if she honestly believed there would be Baptist’s in heaven cause he didn’t think so. Oh Dad! I was embarrassed and angry. “Um Dad, that’s wrong and rude of you to say and ask those questions. Where in the bible does it say, Believe on The Lord Jesus Christ, and be a member of the Reformed Church of America, and thou shalt be saved?” He was offended that I snapped at him about something he truly felt was ok to say. He stomped out of the house in a huff. I left him alone for a couple days, then went to his place. He thought maybe it had been a mistake to move here. I reminded him exactly what I did for him daily, but there needed to be boundaries on subjects, judgements and accusations when he was a guest in our house.

Looking back, I think much of this was due to dementia or lack of oxygen from blocked carotid arteries. He had actually mellowed somewhat in his religious fervor over the years. It started rearing it’s rather unattractive head when he had been here awhile, after his stroke. His tolerance level dipped to minus something. He got into an argument with an aide at the Village. He asked her what church she attended, then told her she was going to hell. I was called in the administrator’s office and asked to please speak to him about, well, bullying. He then noticed several people at other tables in the dining room did not bow their heads in prayer before they ate. He was very disturbed by this and felt he should speak to them. It was hard, no impossible for him to understand the concept that this was their home too. He felt it was his right, his job, and his duty to God to tell them exactly what he knew in his heart was wrong with their lives. He needed to instruct them how they must come to know Jesus right now! He was used to a small Iowa Dutch town. With this many nationalities, personalities, religious beliefs and different cultures (who knew there were factions of people in the world who were not Dutch, and some who did not attend church?) was almost unfathomable to him. He should be the guy to change what was wrong with their lives. You know, he had a lot more in common with those Old Testament prophets than I thought.

Dad right before moving to Michigan 2005…

After he settled at the Village, he joined the bible study group, but got into arguments right away. He felt they should stop studying the the Old Testament. He had a better study guide they should be using. He soon stopped going or was asked not to come. He was in a definite decline. He still maintained his church prayer breakfast group, nursing home bible study, the Rescue Mission and prison groups for now. He did not attend many social events at the Village though.

He did develop a couple of wonderful friendships with Mary and Red who sat at his table for meals. Yup, both of them prayed before they ate. Whew. Mary was a devout Catholic and Dad was humbled by her deep faith. Red and Dad hit it off right away. Red asked him to join him in an activity Dad had not tried in at least a half century. In one of the activity rooms was a beautiful pool table. They started playing pool together a couple times a week, sans beer. Dad used to be a shark…

For the last several years of Mom’s life, my trips to Rock Valley were much more frequent. I flew about every 3 months, staying with them about a week at a time. When Mom got non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, she immediately went to the hospital in Sioux Falls to start chemotherapy. The cancer in her chest was fast growing and she was having trouble breathing. But it also responds quickly to treatment. After the initial scary first treatment, she was already breathing better. She was scheduled for quite a few treatments, but after 5, she suffered a stroke. There was definite weakness on one side. That was enough chemo for awhile, the cancer was being held at bay, so Mom went home. That propelled Dad into caregiver service, a job he was neither trained for or ever wanted.

All of his “good works” activities that gave him his sense of satisfaction and self-worth would slowly be pushed aside as Mom’s health deteriorated. I know this is what marriage is all about, but they really didn’t have the most conventional marriage. He kept a few activities at first, a bible study at Valley Manor, men’s prayer breakfast, but his favorite, the prison ministry came to a screeching halt. I think he was pretty bitter.

Mom tried physical therapy for a couple weeks, but gave up on it way too soon. She would never walk unattended again. Their life after they retired had been easy, even enjoyable up to this point. Mom and Dad enjoying a meal (a pretty regular occurrence) out in Rock Valley a few years after retirement, late ’80’s.

They frequently went out to eat, but after her stroke, Mom didn’t eat quite as neat as she used to (everything about her was neat-neat-neat-see above). She was convinced when they were eating out at their favorite hangout in Sioux Falls, The Royal Fork, that some guy was watching and making fun of the way she ate. Even though she was easily transported using a wheel-chair and walker with Dad’s help, eating out and shopping trips were a thing of the past. Dad often would stop somewhere for take-out, but he was not and would never be a cook or a shopper.

Though Mom was limited somewhat physically, she was still razor sharp mentally (except for the ill part) and never gave up her alpha status at home or in the family. She always encouraged me fly home, landing in Sioux Falls. Without my own car, she had much more control over what I could do and where I could go. I was there to help them, not shop or visit friends. First piece of business after getting my stuff in the house was the mile-long grocery list. I wanted them to have homemade food to choose from and eat when I wasn’t there. I divided all the meals individually, and froze everything. Typical menu for my cooking experience would be roast beef and meatloaf dinners, spaghetti, chicken, pea, (whole not split) navy bean, and vegetable beef soups, banana and pumpkin breads, chocolate chip and sugar cookies, white rice made with milk, not water. I’d put this ton-o-rice in 8 oz. containers with a pat of butter, then cinnamon and sugar on top. Of course fudge and penuche for her sweet tooth. Plus a big bowl of potato salad and taverns on my last day.

I always included a written, detailed chart of what I put in the freezer, where everything was, top to bottom, left to right. Listed all the meals, what kind containers, what section of the freezer they were in. Dad suffered terribly from the same ghastly affliction as my husband John. Neither could spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge.

Sometime during the week, I’d fix a turkey supper with dressing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie (a given by now, of course REAL whipped cream). We’d have company for this meal, usually my friend Char and her mom, or sometimes Mona. They’d come over and visit for at least a couple hours before we ate. This particular time, Char and Esther were sitting in the living room, just a-yakking away with Mom and Dad. I was in the kitchen (surprise). Supper was a good 90 minutes away, and I thought I had just enough time to sneak in a batch of candy before I needed to get serious with the potatoes and gravy. There I stood on my usual perch at the stove, half-listening to their conversation (this was BBD, before becoming deaf). Wow, it had gotten awfully quiet in the other room. What’s going on? Silence, not one word spoken. Had Dad said something to offend someone? Suddenly I hear Mom yell, “Denise, are you making a batch of fudge? You’re stirring it too much, it’s going to get sugary.” Oh Mom…

After Dad had been in Michigan well over a year, he started having some problems. He’d been doing great. Still “preaching and teaching” at the prison, driving himself to church, going out for breakfast everyday, (no never on Sunday’s, are ‘ya nuts?) but I noticed a couple of troubling things. Even with these clues, I sorta had blinders on cause I didn’t want see things going wrong. Guess I was in denial of having my only aging parent with a host of new health issues.

Dad celebrating his last Christmas w/us. 2007

He had bought a new PT Cruiser months before. We had to order the car because, get this, Dad didn’t know how to drive an AUTOMATIC. Gospel truth. We had test driven one. I had him and the car in an empty parking lot, him watching my foot go from accelerator to brake, back and forth numerous times. No siree, he could not get the hang of it. So the dealer found one a couple hundred miles away with a clutch and zippy manual 5-speed. Oh Dad. Well, he had driven some sort of stick for over 75 years. I wasn’t really surprised that it was too late for him to change, or learn something as complicated as an automatic transmission.

He called one day and said something was wrong with the car. John and I walked up the hill to the parking lot of his building. We were 50 feet from the car when John piped up, “I can smell it, he tore out the clutch.” Dad kept his car in the underground heated garage. It was a sharp turn, plus a steep hill, (the steep driveway was heated so it never iced up) but afforded Dad the luxury (and me not worrying) of him never having to scrape his windshield or walk across a slippery parking lot. We had the car towed to the dealer. They put in a new clutch under warranty-yeah that might have been a questionable call.

Dad loved his Cruiser…

A month later his building manager stopped me and said Dad’s car had hopped the curb that day when driving out of the garage. The car was hung up, but he kept trying to drive off the curb. That didn’t sound like him. Couple weeks later I stopped at his apartment, which he kept neat as a pin, except for random sermons lying around in varying degrees of completion, or awaiting my new proof reading duties. The place was a cluttered mess. Piles of clothes on his bed, more stacked in the bathroom. It had only been a day or 2 since I had been there. What happened? Looking around I noticed his billfold on the floor behind the door of the bathroom. Must have lost it and had been trying to find it. Holy Hannah, he’d be mortified. Out for breakfast and no money. I jumped in the car and made a mad dash for the restaurant. Creature of habit, he went to the same place every morning. Restaurant was closed on Sunday, won his heart and business right then and there. I didn’t make a big deal out of showing up out of the blue. Said I had stopped at his place and spotted his billfold, thought he might need it. He was nonchalant about having no money with him. Sort of assumed someone at his table (met with a different group of folks almost everyday, my social little butterfly) would pick up his whopping tab of coffee-one-egg-over-hard-whole-wheat-toast.

A usual sight at Dad’s. Sermons partially done…

After we got back to the apartment he said something even more troubling. He had driven out to the prison at 5 a.m. that morning when he couldn’t find his billfold. (Wonder what the guards thought of that?) Dad assumed he had left it in the locker he used when he was there the day before for his weekly bible study.

Not a month later Dad was on his way to the prison, which was about 5 miles away from his apartment. It’s only 2 turns, he knew the way there and back really well. I’m doing my Parish Visiting thing when I get a call from my local police department. Dad was on the Causeway about 2 miles from his apartment, swerving, driving erratically. No accidents, but he’d come close with a mom and her kids before she got him to stop, so she called 911. He couldn’t remember my name, and the cops couldn’t find his driver’s license. When he opened his car door, dollar bills were flying all over. Cops found his address on his registration, and drove him back to his apartment. Once there they noticed the list on the fridge with emergency numbers and called me.

When I arrived one of the policemen was explaining to Dad that he could no longer drive. Then he hacked off the corner of his license, which they had finally found in between the front seats. They had also called an ambulance because Dad really didn’t know what was going on, but he did know me. (My name I’m not so sure about that day) He had suffered a stroke and spent several days in the hospital. It was painfully clear that living in his spiffy apartment was no longer an option. Sarah, the hospital social worker was a big help. Plus as parish visitor, I knew the places I was comfortable with him moving into, and the ones I didn’t think were all that great. We decided on Village at the Oaks, about 10 minutes away. A new independent-assisted living facility. His doctor, Sarah and I thought Dad should be able to manage independent living with some physical therapy. While he was in the hospital, John and I moved all his stuff to his new digs. It would take Dad several weeks to get his groove back. Physical therapy helped plus he started using a nifty little walker for balance issues. He tended to walk too fast with his head down. If he met so one in the hallway, he would jerk his head up, losing his balance.

The Village was big,140 apartments. He was pretty mixed up at first. The ever-present wandering aides were quick to rescue him, remind him of meal times, activities, show him to the dining room, elevator or his apartment. He had a terrible time getting used to a shower. I kid you not. Refer you back to the straight-stick-car-issue. Showers were a new-fangled invention for him. I used a permanent pen to mark where the dial should be approximately for the right temperature. Sigh. For the time being things were back in sync, but it wouldn’t last long…