Boreal Witch

"Boy," Dad said, tipping his head in a sideways glance. "You must really like garlic."

"I do," I answered, smiling. We'd had this conversation already - a few weeks ago when he and I were sitting shoulder to shoulder at his desk, working on taxes. Talk about deja vu. 

"Or I'm just smelling garlic," he said. 

"Your nose could be broken," I offered. "After all, the nurse said chemo was going to affect your taste and smell."

A long pause. 

"You think my nose is broken?" Dad asked. 

"No," I laughed. "I just really like garlic."

Then he laughed, too. 

Last Will and Testament

DECLARATION. I, Boreal Witch, a legal adult being of competent and sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

Firstly, I promise to discard or distribute all of all of my personal belongings before I die. 

Second, I promise to never bequeath a large, heavy, or cumbersome item to someone more than 100 miles away. If, for whatever reason, I insist upon doing so, I will pay the moving costs and fees associated with said item.

Third, I promise to find special homes for my fabric and quilting items unless arrangements have already been made for my children, nieces, or nephew to have them. 

Fourth, I promise to not leave the next generation of family members with piles of my stuff, my parents' stuff, and/or my grandparents' stuff. Exceptions will be made for specific family items, to be determined before I die (see #1).

Lastly, I promise to never expect my children, nieces, or nephew to feel obligated to have any of my physical items. In fact, if they don't ask for it, I will assume they don't want it. 

Signed, 

Boreal Witch

2/25/21 

As you, dear reader, well know, my parents are hoarders. My dad has a large collection of stamps and books, both which he sells online, and my mom has a vast collection of stuff. You name it, it's probably under a pile somewhere and Mom knows exactly where she can find it. 

Today, Dad and I both mentioned to Mom it was time to start getting rid of the kid stuff. After all, Balin - the youngest grandchild - was turning 10 this year and would be too old for that (dusty) 24 piece Sesame Street puzzle or the board books. It was well past time to clean up. 

Mom, of course, was reluctant. "Ella still plays with some of these!" she exclaimed. Dad and I both knew it had less to do with the kids actually using the toys and more to do with the emotional value she places on all of these items. She realized I was serious when I enlisted Josh's help.

"But he and the girls play games with those controllers!"

Yes, they probably do. But that's for them to decide. 

Naomi recently referenced Mom's hoarding as "a museum of her life". I really enjoy that analogy. Within your house, your car, your phone, your cabinets and counter tops, and computer, you have things, stuff, items on display. All are a tribute to you. They are pieces of your life. What artifacts do you choose to show off? What is most meaningful? What can you not live without? What best represents you?

Already on this trip, I have been given old schoolwork which my mom expects me to treasure for all of time and eternity. It's special because it was made by my hands; therefore, I must have some kind of attachment to it, right? 

What my mom does not understand - and has never understood - is that, much like an actual museum, I'm choosing to keep my favorite pieces on display. Those I am most proud of is what I will admire the most. 

A torn red fish shape made from construction paper and drawn with a child's hand? Gone. A practice painting from high school? Gone. "The Water Color Book" illustrating different watercolor techniques, an original from a school art class? Keep. I remember working so hard on that artifact. It is a piece I would be happy to place on a pedestal and share with the world. 

It's Sunday. Becky and her girls usually come to Mom and Dad's house today. They visit after lunch to about dinnertime. Sometimes Dad and Becky work on putting together stamp books for APS. Mom will watch movies with the girls downstairs. Today, there weren't any activities planned. They came over and we all just hung out. The girls and I baked cookies, reduced some discarded prune juice (Dad decided he wasn't a fan), and drooled over the first episode of Nadia Bakes. I think they were as smitten with her as I am.

I had bought some fabric crawling with adorable bees to feed Blythe's obsession. I planned to make her a mask, but without elastic, I wouldn't be able to finish it. Becky graciously gave me some of her elastic, with the condition I had to sew up a bee mask for her, too. Not a problem. The cut I bought was large enough for three masks. 

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, they often say. So true of the sewer's heart. If you don't actually feel like sewing, you will have to take a seam ripper to your stitches. Every. Damn. Time. 

I was nearly finished, but I'd had enough. I had to get out of the house, into the wide outdoors. One glance at Molly told me she was listless and thinking the exact same thing. 

"I think I need to go for a walk. Molly, would you like to come with me?"

Her eyes widened. With her upturned mouth, she looked as though she had just won the lottery. 

"Yes!" she exclaimed. 

During the first part of our walk, we talked about school. We talked about where she was going to live someday. Molly surprised me by saying Wisconsin. (She loves the farm, she further explained.) She chose the long way around the neighborhood, which meant she liked being in my company. I was being a cool auntie. 

On the way back, I ran into a high school friend's parents. They didn't recognize me, not at first. I had on my oversized maroon and white UPS hat and a puffy winter jacket - how would they have known? I don't visit often in the winter anymore. 

They asked the typical questions. How's my family? You aren't still in Fairbanks, are you? How many kids do you have? Was your husband able to stay at home during the pandemic? Have you talked to Jenny yet? 

They filled me in on their lovable grandson and their own trials with his distance learning. Then Judith said, "The one thing I remember about you is that you used to draw. Are you still drawing?"

I laughed. "Mostly cute things with my boys. Balin and I will watch guided drawing episodes on YouTube. I mostly write and quilt now."

Then she asked what I write. 

"Science fiction novels, mostly, about historical events. Right now I take pieces of the American Civil War and fit them into a more modern context. I question our use of technology and examine social issues under a futuristic lens." 

Both seemed duly impressed. They wanted to know if I had a publisher. 

"It's self-published right now. Maybe someday I'll find one, but for now it's kind of a fun challenge to see if I can even do it."

Then Doug, who had been mostly silent until that point, gave me the best compliment: "I never would have thought to put together science fiction and the Civil War."

It's a creative stretch to leap from the past to the future - that's the very reason why I write. Perhaps I'll never be a celebrated author or famous or even well-respected in the science fiction world. Connecting dots that aren't associated with one another is challenge enough. 

If there's one thing Mom knows how to do - and do well - it's small talk. 

Put her in a room with just about anyone and she'll find a way to keep the conversation going. It doesn't matter if you've just met her or if you've known her for years, she's got the gift of gab. 

I'm staying with Mom and Dad while Blythe and Dustun are quarantining. The both of them have been so gracious to house me, but because I've been the one taking Dad to and from appointments, I'm trying to be conscientious. They are returning from a state with no mask mandate. While I know they've been staying safe, there's no telling about the people around them. (Maybe I'm being too safe - I don't know.) Also, I know how I feel after vacationing, and having one more person around the house will probably be a bit stressful, although they won't admit it. 

Anyway. Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table to fill out some medical paperwork and go through some old technology for electronics recycling. When we were through, we had a nice chat about...whatever. Her work. Her dental hygiene routine. Becky's visit tomorrow. Her preference for chili over pizza. Sewing a been mask for Blythe. Lower 48 weather. Hawaii. Possibilities for a spring break road trip. Dad's upcoming chemo session. There was no pause in the conversation, no comfortable breaks. Whatever silence was quickly filled by a new topic. 

As the evening went on, I chastised myself for not retreating at 9:30. Fifteen minutes later, I finally managed to meander downstairs. Mom followed close behind. We examined an old printer (saved from the recycle bin) and found a box of books bound for Title Wave. I sat on my bed, digging out my floss, toothbrush, toothpaste. Still, she hovered in the doorway. 

At long last, she gathered up her pajamas and said her good nights. At the echo of her footsteps on the stairs, I breathed a little easier. I survived the flurry of stories. 

Mom and I don't agree on a great many things. I often have difficulty trusting her word or believing her sincerity, but I would choose her over just about anyone else to accompany me to a big fancy party where I know few people. In a heartbeat. 

This morning got me out of sorts. 

Josh's dad, who I am already not a huge fan of, called Josh this morning. He was hungry, he explained. He wanted to go out to eat. I told Josh today wasn't a good day - we still had groceries to buy and bathrooms to clean, not to mention books to drop off at Title Wave. He'd have to go out with his dad another day. 

Blythe contacted me. She had checked in on Josh's bank account to make sure there was enough money for groceries in it and, well, the contents surprised her. Countless charges to restaurants. An extravagant amount at GameStop. Had I been there when Josh made this outrageous purchase? If so, fine.

Once she said it, I knew the culprit. Kwang had taken Josh to GameStop a few days before. Josh had gotten a new cell case. No specifics on whether he bought it himself or his dad had gotten it as a gift. (But I have my guesses.) There is absolutely no doubt in my mind now what had transpired on that little Father-Son outing. 

No, I explained. It was Kwang. 

She explained Josh had been leaving his debit card at home and hadn't had any issues until Kwang weaseled his way back into his life. And so, it's official in the worst possible way: he hasn't changed since high school. He is still a leech, slowly sucking every bit of value out of anyone and everyone who will let him. 

So, it's really no secret I was pleased I prevented Josh from going out. I had only seen Kwang once and I didn't want to see him for the remainder of my stay. I can't deal with his bullshit. 

And then the dead-beat fucker shows up at the front door. 

I was furious. 

Okay, fine. I was (slightly) above baking the asshat a large pan of ex-lax brownies, but I was not above severing his financial lifeline. I made Josh leave his debit card and all of his extra cash at home. I needed them for groceries, I explained, without feeling bad about lying. 

They went to breakfast. The receipt showed Kwang had paid for the meal. I felt vindicated, but sad - for Josh. The most tragic part of this entire situation? Josh really does want to have a relationship with his dead-beat dad. He's swallowed up by Kwang's charisma and easygoing nature. What he doesn't see - and may never see - is Kwang's inability to love anyone but himself. 

It's a well-worn joke in my family that whatever meal Dad's eating at that moment, he's actually planning the next one. His life revolves around food. He's always had a healthy appetite and unhealthy eating habits, ones that have been inherited by the rest of us. Even myself, arguably the daughter most conscientious about what she puts into her body, struggles with her relationship with food. 

Dad calls me every day with a new shopping list. "Pick up milk," he says on Monday. Tuesday, I'm picking up the celery, carrots, and parsley he needs to make a vegetable broth. By Wednesday, Mom's run out of bananas and needs a couple from the store. Thursday? Sour cream. Friday? Extra-strength Tylenol. Oh, and don't forget the tomatoes. Just two is fine. Saturday? Is there a Costco run in your future? 

I've blown through the $100 he gave me for store purchases in two days.

My sister and her husband get back on Saturday night. I'll be staying with Mom and Dad while they are in quarantine. Dad's not a complete invalid, but his health is fragile. It only makes sense. 

I've decided to shop their pantry as much as possible. They've got a lot of food collecting dust, the cans and boxes waiting in meal limbo. They possess a frightening amount of food in various stages of decay in their refrigerator which will not be touched. (Not by me, anyway.) I've strongly considered storing my food in the mini fridge downstairs just to keep it away from the science experiments stored in the kitchen.  

I've mentally chosen easy items to build my meals on. A can of chickpeas, leftover celery, and a box of crackers? Hello, tuna-ish. Canned tomatoes and a box of pasta? Vegan bolognese. They've got pre-packaged Indian food. Add some rice or naan bread and it would make a perfect lunch. 

I fear Dad is living vicariously through me with these many store runs. He misses food, I know. Not eating has been frustrating for him. The added stress of taking care of him has caused me to revert back to some of my own poor eating habits. Perhaps this move to Mom and Dad's will give all of us the little push we need to re-examine food. 

Dad called this morning, excited. He'd finally had a bowel movement after a week. It was no surprise it had taken this long - he hadn't been eating well for a while now simply because it has been too difficult for him to do so. He was so pleased by this turn of events that he said, "I love you" twice during our goodbyes. Dad just doesn't do that. 

He had his hernia appointment today. The doctors tried to fix it using external methods, but they couldn't because the tear was too small to shift everything around. He'll have to wait until after his chemo treatments until they can do surgery. It's unfortunate, and I'm sure Dad's disappointed, but it makes my planning a little easier. I'll be able to go home within a couple of weeks, with the intent to return before his surgery sometime in June. 

Dad's always said "life is cyclical." We are born, helpless, dependent on our parents. Then we grow up and have children of our own. At some point, we become old enough that even the simplest tasks become impossible. Our bodies give out. Our children need to help us as we degrade back to an infant, complete with naps and mashed food and diaper changes. 

I didn't have the full cognizance to understand this then, when I was young, a teenager. I certainly do now, now that I am a grown woman, a parent. I've wiped my kids' butts. I mashed up food for them. I helped them when they fell down. And now I'll be doing this for my parents. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to that my kids will someday do the same for me. 

A friend from high school texted me tonight. She knew about Dad's condition and wanted to know how I was doing. She invited me to sit in on the D&D campaign she's been running with her brothers, husband, and a friend. They use a software program for their character sheets and their rolls. I'm aware of other friends who use a similar interface. I never have. It's always been pen and paper. 

I've been both a GM and a player. Being a player allows me to create a character and back story - my favorite part of participating in an RPG - but as GM I am able to create exciting stories and scenarios for my players. (Right now, my boys, nieces, and nephew.) Either is thoroughly enjoyable. 

My friend was running a pre-made campaign for her group. (Never used one, probably never will.) By her reaction, it seemed this was not normally the run of things. The basic flow of the game was pretty standard, similar to what I've done in the past in my games - each of the players took a turn during an encounter (solve a problem or defeat a monster). They describe what they'll do during their action or attacks. The GM (or DM in this case) describes the encounter and asks questions to clarify player actions. She encourages her players to describe the results of their actions. I have recently encouraged my players to do this as well. It brings them into the action. 

Like my friend, I will also become the NPCs for the kids. In one our most recent campaigns, the kids had to interview a few people in an unfinished fuel refinery in order to determine which ones were working for the CIS. A certain character on the list was an administrative assistant, a secretary. The kids asked her various questions, including what she knew about this big bad guy who had escaped from a prison on Coruscant. Immediately, I pretended to panic. The "secretary" screamed, "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!" The kids could not stop laughing. They still talk about it to this day. 

A big difference, however, is in the execution. My friend plays with adults. She uses maps and a highly regulated sequence of actions (movement, attack, etc.) - and I did, too, at one time because I needed the structure - but I no longer use either when I act as GM, mostly because I have found it interferes with the pacing of events. This is a must when playing with kids. They love action and the less time spent deliberating, the better. I know I'm doing a good job when Arthur jumps up and down or wanders back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. Once, he walked back and forth with such determination, he was dripping sweat. 

It was reassuring to see some of the things I do as GM also done by my friend. Does this mean there are consistent aspects of storytelling which we know are effective and fun? Are they the same across different platforms? By giving kids the opportunities to be part of these stories, do they become more creative adults? 

Stories are fairly predictable to me. They always have been. I watch a movie or read a book and by about the middle, I can usually figure out how it's going to end. Much of this is because I am, in general, a good judge of character. I know if someone is kind, generous, a liar, or a no-good duster. (Couldn't resist a little nod to my novels here.) 

I've always had a hard time with Josh's dad. His relationship with my sister was harmless enough at the beginning. He seemed nice, but after she got pregnant and had a baby, he became more and more toxic. He never left her side. He called constantly. He threatened suicide if she left him. As the years went on, he became less of a fixture at Mom and Dad's house and more like a tumor. He was a bad guy.

Josh texted me before he got off of work. Naomi and I were on our way to pick him up. He told me his dad wanted to have dinner with us. I balked a little inside, mostly because one: I don't like Kwang/Sam due to his history with my sister, and two: it's never so simple with Josh's dad as he has a tendency to complicate things immensely. As we drove back to my sister's house so I could pick up my rental car, I told Naomi that although he'd been making an active effort in Josh's life, I didn't feel quite right about Josh and Kwang spending so much time together. My intuition told me something was off. I did not want him taking advantage of my nephew.

Throughout dinner, I gave Kwang the benefit of the doubt. I allowed for the possibility of change. Who knows? Perhaps maybe he had really grown up. It had been years since I spent time with him. I could not, in all fairness, discount it. When the check came, I paid my share. Kwang reached for his back pocket. Then Josh took out his debit card. Kwang relaxed when Josh deposited my share into his wallet. It was perfectly choreographed, the way he scooped up the bill and Josh's card and led us to the register. I wondered how often this happened. Was Josh always paying his dad's share? 

I asked Josh about it later, away from Mom (she's always loved a bit of gossip) and Dad (who still hates Kwang with a passion). He told me his dad doesn't make all that much and that it's hard for him to pay for things. 

Yup, I thought. I called it. 

So instead of using my sister for everything she's got, he's now moved on to his son. 

I tell this story not to discourage anyone from trying to become a better person. People can, and do, change. But are there some character traits so ingrained in us we find it hard to evolve? Does Kwang choose not to change because it's just easier to use people up than it is to build up himself? 

I don't have the answers. I wish I did. I'm no closer to informing you why than I was 24 years ago, when I first met him. But, honestly, I don't need to know the why. His actions speak louder than his words. 

"Bobbi! I think you need to come right over after you drop Josh off tomorrow morning. I need you to take me to the emergency room. I've been doing some reading and I think this is the kind of thing they can do there. If I go to that appointment on Wednesday, who knows how long it's going to be before they can do anything about it."

"It", of course, is the hernia which has unilaterally decided my dad is unable to have joy in his life. 

Dad has always been a proponent of quick fixes. If something is broken, he will do the absolutely least amount of work possible to repair it - which is usually nothing. This stems primarily from his impatience. Things must be done immediately, right now, hustle to it. It doesn't matter if what he's out to do makes sense or not - all that matters is that it is done without delay.

I know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow. I will take Dad to the emergency room. He and I will sit in the waiting room for Gods know how long. The doctors will see him. They will most likely tell him there's nothing they can do. This will end with me driving Dad home as he curses the entire Goddamned health care system because they did not deliver the quick fix. I am not looking forward to it. 

But, like the dutiful daughter I am, I will take him to the emergency room and I will sit there while he gets examined. I will listen to his complaints as I drive him home and then on Wednesday, I will take him to his hernia appointment. 

***

Speaking of quick fixes, Josh and I are having a good time. (It's true, he even said so!) Last night, Naomi cut my hair. I called Josh to let him know where we were planning to get dinner and asked him if he wanted anything. He said yes, checked the menu, and asked for a pizza. Not a problem. 

Naomi suggested we go to Blythe's house to drop off my rental car and then head to her house to pick up something together. When we got there, a dark blue pickup was sitting in my spot. A guy was sitting in the vehicle. The engine was one. Naomi was parked nearby. I pulled in close and gave him the stink eye. The guy drove away without a word. 

"Did you recognize him?" I asked her. 

She didn't. I wondered if it was a friend of Josh's. I called him to clarify. I asked him if a friend had stopped by. He said no. He sounded surprised. I asked him who was parked in the driveway. He started to giggle. 

"I got hungry!" he said. Apparently, he was done waiting for his pizza and ordered a burger. 

I laughed. We hung up. What else could I do? It was a silly, silly situation.

He called less than five minutes later. "How did you know, Auntie Bobbi?" he asked. "Are you here?"

I told him I wasn't, that was with Naomi. I had simply dropped off the car, but I saw the delivery guy in the driveway. I thought he might have been a friend. I had hoped the guy wasn't a murderer. He started giggling again. 

"I was hungry!" he exclaimed. 

I gave him a hard time about ordering a pizza and then turning around and ordering a burger. Talk about a quick fix. 

***

In other news, my sister's birthday was today. I've started creating Terraria birthday parties for everyone. I proposed letting one of her girls play as Josh since he had to work during the party. Molly volunteered, so I got to spend the day with my niece. 

I don't know my nieces extremely well, mostly because I see them during the summer every three years and each time, they've grown up so much everything and anything I thought I knew about them is suddenly obsolete. Being able to interact with Molly was fun - she's such a chatterbox! We shared some stories. I got to ask her questions and she did the same. We learned a bit about each other. At the end of the day, she said her favorite part of the day was getting to hang out with me! (Is it possible I'm a cool auntie after all?)

I've talked to more than enough people in my generation to say, with some degree of certainty, that many of us have found our parents to be lacking in good sense. They used to be the responsible adults, questioning our choices because we - as their children - didn't know any better. Now we're badgering, begging, and demanding they make better decisions. What the hell happened? At what point does a parent regress to a child? When did we become the adults?

Children believe in the stability and consistency their parents have to offer. Provided that their parents aren't complete psychopaths, kids grow up watching their mothers and fathers adult. They realize pretty early that their folks have to make decisions - a lot of decisions - about their families, food, money, bills, housing, and so on. That's a lot of responsibility. 

Then the kids grow up. We experience the world. We make dumb mistakes. We do adult things. We pay bills, we have our own kids, we make our own decisions. Eventually, we become the adults. 

So when is it, exactly? Is it the sudden freedom from adulting that causes our parents to backslide? Is it the migration from adult to elder that heightens their "I do what I want" attitude? Does having an additional 30+ years of experience warrant their "you aren't the boss of me" reactions? 

Regardless of what causes it, I've got to say I am over it. My dad refuses a feeding tube, even though he is having trouble eating and is rapidly losing weight. We've tried to discuss this with him, but he's adamant he'd rather starve than use the tube. Naomi tells me her in-laws have no regard for COVID precautions. They don't quarantine when they travel and they don't bother with masks. 

Argh. Being a parent to two generations of people sucks.

My great-grandfather, Guy, was a notorious burner. He burned everything, apparently, including boxes of family letters. I often wonder about the words he sent to the ether. Did the writer express love or longing? Did they describe simple, everyday life or an exotic trip? Did they bring news during war or regards during peace? I'll never know. Those words are now ashes, enriching the soil with phrases of the past penned by loopy, practiced hands.  

Mom and I searched for some of Dad's old photos in one of the hallway closets. We pulled out bins of slides, cards, a creepy rabbit mask made by yours truly, and photographs. Mixed in with the pictures was an old letter written by George Dehring, a distant relative of mine, when he was in the US Army during World War I. I showed it to Mom and, knowing it was one of Dad's relatives, stuck it into the bag with his family pictures in it. 

Today, Dad and I started working on recording information about his old pictures when I pulled out the letter and showed it to him. He said he'd never seen it. He studied the outside, remarking that the letter had been read because it passed censure. He pulled the yellowed pages from the envelope. We read them together. At this point, he became excited. The pictures were forgotten. Dad wanted to transcribe it and post it on Ancestry. I sat at his computer and he read aloud because "he was good at reading old handwriting." When the swirls were a little too mysterious, he passed the papers to me and I took a guess at it. 

In the end, we had typed out a little piece of family history - of American history. It was a glimpse of what he had gone through during his time in France, a few stories about army life. He wrote about everyday life and hinted at how much he missed home. There's something deeply romantic about turning these fragile pages in my hands, absorbing the emotion behind the words and inhaling my history.  

***

St. Nazaire

France

May 14, 6 0/0 (o’clock) PM, 1919

My dear loving Dady (nickname for his mother),

Received your welcome letter the other day. The one you wrote me April 23. I sure was glad to have [heard] from you, Dady. Well I am fine at present, Dady. Hoping the same with you folks all. The weather is pretty hot here. But I guess we get some rain to night. I wish it would rain now. Ha ha. It is so dusty here now. We had a little sandstorm here to day in the afternoon. I was downtown here in St. Nazaire. Well, Dady, another ship pull out here in the afternoon for the U.S.A. And three more come in here in the afternoon. Well, Dady, there are 5 boys leaving for the States to morrow. That was [they were] working in the Infirmary with me. Some from the 87 Div. and from the 32 Div. They march up the gan plank [gangplank] tomorrow. Well, it won’t be long any more. We all be home. The French men are raise [raising] Hell all the time. Why they don’t send the American soldiers home. May th[e] 1 (May 1st - May Day) We American soldiers was [were] not aloud [allowed] to go down town. The French men said the first American soldiers. They see that day. He be kill[ed]. About three weeks ago. There was some big fight here in St. Nazaire. The American turned the machine guns on the frogs. Well, Dady, the German prisoners are going home this week. They go to Tours this week where they get their discharged. I talked with one this morning. He was five years at the front line trenches. O gee. They sure are so glad when they can go home again. They don’t like French, either. Pa. Well, Pa, the winter rye is higher than I am. They made hay out of some all ready about three week[s] ago. The clover is knee high here in the pasture. They got most[ly] black sheep around here in France. Some are black and white and Jersey ox and a few cows. They got little colds [colts] here to[o] on some places. I saw them all ready. They had one ox. And horse hitch on some old fashion[ed] plow. Ha ha. They even drive dogs on wagons. I sure was surprised when I got in France. Ha ha. Tell you that when I see you. Well, Dady, I got $62.80 cents I sent home now. But I got on hand yet Franks 1.00.75 (100.75 Francs) and I loaned some guie [guy] 75 Franks from my CO. We got transferred one night so I be out of luck for that. And one guie [guy] from 3 Supply Train he got 50 Franks from him. We is up in Nantes now. I was going to Pares [Paris] next week but I don’t no [know] if I go yet. All the boys come from Paris. They say the girls hug the boys on the street. A fellow can’t go down town here. There are 75 wild women after you. They ask you on the street - I tell you when I get home. I got $62.80 cents in this letter, Dady. But the most time we [two words; unsure of the writing] bought our ounie [own] meals. Some French bread and some cheese and a beer. Well, Dady, I will come to close now. Hoping to see the U.S.A. soon. Wish you good luck and happy days. Well, it is raining now. Good by by [bye bye]. Dady. 

Your Son, 

Private Geo E. Dehring. 

Camp Infirmary # 7

M.T.C Reception PRC 

American E.I. Base Sections #1

A.P.O 701

St. Nazaire, France.

Dad's side has been hurting. He assumed it was cancer related. When he started his treatment on Monday, he did well - except for the constant pain in his side. It continued to get worse. This morning, I took him to the oncology department where they were unable to diagnose him. They supposed it was a hernia and scheduled an appointment for him at three that afternoon with radiology. He already had an appointment to remove his pump in the afternoon, so my day was spent taking Dad back and forth from the hospital to someone's house. 

He was not pleased to discover he might have a hernia. 

"I won't be able to do books or stamps anymore," he grumbled. 

"You'll just have to find joy in something else," I said, trying to keep the conversation light. I knew how much this realization pained him. He loves his book and stamp businesses.  

"There's no joy in my life anymore," he retorted. Realizing how insensitive that must have sounded, he paused and then said, "Except for you and your boys. You bring me plenty of joy." 

I let it slide, mentally adding it to the lengthy "Grumpy Old Man Tax" I'll present Dad with when I finally have to leave. (A joke, I promise.) This whole ordeal must be awful. To have throat cancer and rapid weight loss and now a possible hernia on top of it. No wonder Dad's not feeling joy. It's a wonder Dad's able to get himself out of bed in the mornings. 

And the final blow? The moment I bring up the topic of a feeding tube. Dad vehemently opposed it several weeks ago when his doctor first suggested it; however, the option needs to be brought up again. He's simply not getting enough calories to sustain him and I'm worried if he loses any more weight they will have to hospitalize him. That, combined with all the other problems he's facing right now, would deliver the final, crushing punch to his joy.

On Sunday, Dad invited me to watch a few shows with him on PBS. (The vet one, he explained, was really quite good.) Perhaps he considered this a bonding moment, a chance to introduce his non-TV viewing daughter to some quality programming. This in and of itself was odd because: one, he normally falls asleep during Masterpiece and two, he never asks anyone to sit with him. 

As promised, the vet show was quaint, but enjoyable. Another, about a female detective set in Victorian England, was also interesting enough to hold my interest for the half hour I watched. There are some shows and movies, however, that stay with you. The Long Song is one of them. 

There were a number of reasons this program, more than the others, captivated me. Set in post-slavery Jamaica, the show highlights the romance between an ex-house slave and a young overseer. He falls for her the moment he sees her, but knowing his father would never consent to the marriage, he comes up with another plan: to marry the young woman's employer - the widow of the plantation. It seems the perfect solution, for this way, he would gain prestige, a plantation, and be united with his love. 

The reality is, of course, horrifying. Their union starts out well enough. They have a child together. He seems to be able to navigate the lives of the two women (his true wife knows this is happening, but is unable to stop it) but he is not able to earn the respect and admiration of the rest of the ex-slaves on the plantation. He loses his cool when they refuse to obey him. By the end of the episode, you obsess over the possibilities for the inevitable train wreck next time. You know it won't be good for our two star-crossed lovers and yet you need to see just a little bit more. 

Now you know where I'll be Sunday night. 

Dad had his first session of chemo today. I wasn't allowed to be with him while they administered the drugs, so I dropped him off and went back to Blythe and Dustun's house, a short drive from the hospital. 

I assumed things were going well until Dad called. His blood pressure was too low to begin treatment. He'd have to wait before they could start. 

Hours went by. Robinson, who I'd been exchanging texts with all morning, came up with various ideas to raise Dad's blood pressure: a mix tape of Trump's greatest speeches; a reminder of the time Josh's dad promised to bring fish for dinner, then didn't; and sending him this article. (I did send the link. He did get mad about it.)

Eventually, he made it in. Everything worked out. Dad was finally released at 3:30 and I took him home. It was a long day for all of us.

There's been a lot of stress floating around lately. I've been trying to be mindful of my own sanity while I've been here. It hasn't been easy. I'm taking care of my family, but who's going to take care of me? 

In our almost 19 years of marriage, I can count the number of vicious fights my husband and I have had on one hand. We rarely argue, though we do disagree over a key number of issues. I could cite a million different reasons - from astrology to personality - why we are compatible, but it's really quite simple: we are expert communicators. (Okay, "expert" may be too strong a term. "Really, really good" is more like it.)

Growing up, my parents did not talk to each other. Dad yelled to get his point across and Mom spit acid about him to us girls behind his back. Only twice did my parents ever sit down at the table and talk rationally about a family problem: when Mom accumulated a tremendous credit card debt and when my sister found herself pregnant at 16. 

Then and now, I am a witness to the importance of talking to your spouse. Dad has his first chemo treatment early tomorrow morning. I will be the one dropping him off. I am spending the night Mom and Dad's tonight. Josh wanted to tag along, planning to go visit his former teacher who works at Providence. Since I did not plan to make another stop before dropping off Dad, he insisted upon spending the night as well. For any other family, this wouldn't be a problem - my parents still live in our four bedroom family home - except for the fact my parents are hoarders and there is literally no room in any of the extra bedrooms for anyone to sleep. The large family room downstairs could be utilized if half the room hadn't flooded due to a leak in the baseboard heating. It reeks of mildew (and worse). Blythe refused to let Josh sleep over if he had to sleep in the family room. 

I extended a compromise - what if we asked Mom and Dad if Josh could sleep upstairs on the living room futon? Yes, Blythe decided, that would be adequate. I called Mom. She said it would be fine, not a problem. Josh and I came over. Everything seemed just fine. 

Then, of course, it was time to go to bed. Josh got ready to sleep upstairs. Dad freaked out, concerned over his boxes and boxes of stamps surrounding the futon. He became upset ("she never tells me anything!" a common rallying cry) until I explained the situation. Blythe's concern. The phone call to Mom. Obviously, Mom had not checked in with Dad. The two of them were not on the same page about suitable locations for Josh to sleep. I told Josh he could have my space. In frustration, Dad relinquished his half of the bed to Josh and is now (hopefully) resting comfortably on the futon. 

I'm (more than) a little annoyed over the situation. First, it's ridiculous my parents live in such a large house and can't have one open room for company. The room I'm staying in tonight was practically empty ten years ago - now there's so much stuff in it, the guest bed barely unfolds. 

But second, much of this problem stems from the two of them being so uncommunicative. They can't find a healthy way to discuss their problems - much less what's bothering them! - in a productive way. It drives me absolutely batty but there's nothing I can do about it. Anything I have to say about their relationship won't be acknowledged because they've got other, more pressing, issues at the moment. And, yes, it's true. They do. I will cut them some slack there.

Every. Single. Day. I am grateful for my husband. We may have married young. Many members of our family and friends didn't think we were going to make it. But we did - we have - because our marriage was built with a solid foundation of communication. 

My longest female friend, Naomi, came over yesterday. She walked through the door, we hugged, and I found myself suddenly sobbing into her shoulder. The week had been so stressful, so frighteningly real, it was good to be in the embrace of someone who's known me for as long as she has. 

We caught up on recent events, how COVID had affected us. Together, we processed the events concerning my dad. She told me a few stories about her parents-in-law and her budding interest in politics. Naomi described how shitty her 41st had been. Mine certainly hadn't been as disappointing as hers, but not much better as far as birthdays go. 

Saturday, we decided, would be our unbirthday, spent in the company of people we really and truly enjoyed, doing activities we really and truly enjoyed. Since my family would be getting together for a craft night, it seemed the perfect way to spend the day. 

We met my sister and the nieces at Jo-Ann's so I could help Becky pick out mask supplies for her girls; one would be starting school on Monday. We found backing fabric for two quilts at a local fabric store. (I even splurged on some manatee fabric because, hey, it's my unbirthday! Don't fret - I do have a plan in mind for this adorable yardage.) Naomi started knitting a hat while my nieces and I made groundhog cookies for the party. Becky and I sewed two rows of my Roman Roads scrap quilt. (I wished she and I lived closer. She's a chain-stitching machine!) 

Robinson sent me cocktail recipes (though I admit I dread having to make my own drinks - I have been spoiled by my wonderful husband!). I picked up Josh. The rest of the family came over. We had soup and talked and crafted. Mom brought out some old picture albums she wanted to sort. Dad watched "Barry" on Netflix. Becky started her masks. Josh and I recovered an old cork board with a striking black fabric for his pin collection. The girls colored pages in their coloring books. I hopped from project to project, as is my custom.  

Gifts were opened, cookies were eaten. Naomi, a huge smile on her face, commented she hadn't been around normal in a long time. I laughed on the inside because I've never thought of my family as normal, though with all of our problems, we generally do a good job taking care of each other. (Robinson would take Naomi's side here. He often cites examples from his "abnormal" family to compare and contrast with my "normal" one.) 

It was a great day. 

I frequent Little Free Libraries all over Beloit, dropping off old books and finding new treasures. I'm not particular about what I read - I've been known to read almost anything, provided the blurb on the back intrigues me enough to shove it in my purse. 

On a recent walk around the neighborhood with my nephew, I picked up a copy of A Short History of Progress by Ronald Wright. It seemed promising (and even more so when my dad read the back and made me promise to pass it to him next). I've been so busy helping my parents with their taxes (which have been finished as of this afternoon), there hasn't been a lot of free time to read. In what time I've had, I've made it halfway through and I'm hooked. 

Wright's argument is simple: we have made so much progress that we are now on a path to destruction. 

The book is simple, but brilliant. Wright did an excellent job taking many different disciplines and weaving them in a straightforward, concise manner. He explains history as a writer would unfold a story. It's enlightening and enjoyable and also...scary. 

We've gotten ourselves into an interesting predicament and if history is bound to repeat itself (which it so often does, as Wright claims), then we're nearing the point when our civilization is about to collapse. We don't see it, not yet, but it's coming. 

Why don't we heed the warnings? Is it because we choose not to? We're afraid? It's easier to continue as we've been doing because acknowledging the truth is too painful? Will people ever realize what we've done in time to save ourselves? 

We were in the entryway putting on our shoes, Dad and I. We had spent the day finishing up the last of the forms for 2019 taxes. There's only one left, which Dad planned on tackling tonight, after dinner. 

He turned to me and said, "You know, I'm really glad you're here. You've been a life saver helping me get these taxes done." 

Later, Mom joined us for dinner. I made lasagna. Mom brought soup, but he insisted on eating the lasagna and garlic bread. Was he trying to please me? Or was it because he so wanted to be able to enjoy a dish made by his loving daughter? (She would have been fine if he had soup. Honest.)

After dinner, Mom and I got a head start on the 2020 taxes, calculating totals for utilities and book purchases. She told me it took her several nights to accomplish what we did in just one. 

They left for home not too long ago. I wonder - there are five of us in my immediate family: Dad, Mom, my two younger sisters, and me. How is it I'm the only one who is able to get anything done? Is it too daunting to get started? Do they fear failure? Are they not excited about all the other stuff that accompanies a big project? Is it far easier to do nothing at all? 

Today was my birthday. I know birthdays are supposed to be happy and fun, but this one really drained me. I expected it to - no surprises. Gloria, the lucky birthday girl, ate Gilles's ice cream. I got taxes and a cancer consultation. 

The morning was spent entering 2019's capital gains and losses into H&R Block's tax program (which, in case you want to know, is a horrendous program - you'd do better wrestling with your own taxes). Mom called a local radio station and entered me into a birthday contest. I was the only call-in with a birthday today and won some tulips from Bagoy's. The catch? I had to pick them up.

She wanted to come over tonight. I said tomorrow would be better. I think she was disappointed, but I knew I wouldn't be in the mood for company tonight. (Turns out I was right.) 

Dad and I went to his consultation in the afternoon which went surprisingly well. I thought I'd have a tough time pulling myself together, but it went just fine. I drove my nephew to work and then drove to Bagoy's to pick up my flowers, which were...not there. The radio station had not called and therefore, the flowers were not available, not yet. A kind gesture had turned into a plastic hassle and by that point in the day, I just wanted to be back at my sister's house, eating one and a half slices of chocolate ice cream cake and working my way through a bottle of wine before cooking noodles and mushrooms for dinner. (Yes, you read that right. Get off my back, it's my birthday.)

I cried for no good reason. Between texts from my husband and my sister, one of my students called. He wanted to check in on me and get an update on my dad. I was reminded about what a privilege it is to be able to leave this country and come back whenever you want. His own mother had health issues last year. He wanted to go see her, but was unable to, not without great cost. He impressed upon me that I was a good person for being here for my dad and I had a hard time keeping it together because what kind of fucking horrible country would make it impossible for someone to return after they've left to care for their SICK MOTHER?

Blythe suggested I have my friend Naomi over. I told her I needed a moment to process everything that happened today. A moment to collect myself so that I could emerge stronger tomorrow. She understood.

My husband poured a shot of bourbon for himself because "I shouldn't be drinking alone."

I drank three glasses of wine. I took a bath. Then my mom called, wanting to know Dad's chemo schedule. (They don't talk to each other. They don't communicate. So she has to call me to ask.) I gave her the details and told her she should sit in when I tell Blythe and Becky about Dad's treatment, if she wanted to, though there wasn't much more to tell her at that point.   

To be fair, it wasn't a terrible birthday. It sounds like it was, but it wasn't. I am grateful to have had so many people check in on me today, especially since I was emotionally drained by the end of it. It reminds me that friendship works both ways. 

I'm in bed wondering how often do I reciprocate? Do I need to make more of an effort? How can I be an active friend? 

Was that my problem with 2020 all along? 

***

It's past 10. Dad called. The stitch in his side is worse than usual tonight. I might have to take him to the emergency room tomorrow morning. After we parted, he did a few errands and didn't get home until late. He ranted and raved about nearly slipping on the ice several times. He's frustrated that no one seems to take the pain in his side seriously. He's tired of the cold. He's sick of the dark. I think he overdid it today and his body is worn out. With a little rest tonight, he could be just fine in the morning. He could be just fine in the morning. 

He's so ready to leave Alaska. I have to convince Mom it's time even though she's so comfortable here. She's afraid of change. She's been in Alaska forever. I know it's hard. I moved out of state, but it turned out to be a really good thing for me. It would be a good thing for them, too. She doesn't have to treat it like a permanent situation - she could be a snowbird and come back every summer if she wanted, with or without Dad. For the sake of his health and sanity, they have to go. 

Today I mailed off my parents' 2018 taxes. They were three years behind. The IRS called Dad a few weeks ago. No more excuses, no more extensions. These taxes had to be done by early February. He and Mom have been trying to catch up. 

Dad's never been motivated to act when he's not interested in something. He'd much rather spend his time watching his new favorite show (The Closer), working on stamp books, or browsing the shelves at Salvation Army and Bishop's Attic. Mom's passive aggressive and will only act when the situation is so dire that not taking action proves fatal. (Case in point: the hole in the roof of the garage. Disaster with a capital "D".)

I can't imagine how frustrating it's been for both of them these past few years, filing extension after extension, and then not seeing results because neither one of them was motivated enough to do anything about it. There's nothing like a quick poke in the butt with a hot IRS iron to get you moving. 

I've been going over there nearly every day and, every day without fail, Dad and I crunch the numbers (in actuality, it's more like printing out enough forms to deforest half of the Tongass and rotating them from the 2018 taxes box to the top of the computer to the 2018 taxes binder to the floor) for two or three hours until Dad decides he's had enough for the day. Before leaving, I try to push him just a bit harder, suggesting we check the binder to see which forms we still need to print or fill out one more form. He won't budge. 

Luckily, Mom's been fairly active in the process because she sees progress. She's pleased the overachieving daughter is able to help get stuff done. I told her she was welcome to bring the 2020 taxes box over one evening. I've been trying to coax her over with wine and a Hallmark movie. I think she's planning to show up once the 2019 taxes are completed, but I should probably throw in the promise of dinner, just to be sure.

Tomorrow, it's my birthday. Unlike last year when my aunt Gloria and I to a road trip to visit Phil and got our picture on the front page in the Punxsutawney paper, I'll be heading over to Mom and Dad's bright and early to help with taxes. Dad has an appointment in the afternoon and then I have to take my nephew to work. I'll have to find the time to squeeze in a 10-minute phone call to my aunt. This is the first birthday in seven years we haven't spent it together. While I'm glad to be spending my birthday taking care of my parents, I'm a little sad I won't be having an adventure with Gloria, as is custom. I was so hoping to check out the ice castles in Lake Geneva this year. Better luck next year.