going back in time

I get up and get to the club in short order. I have to be ready to leave for Dallas by 9:30. And Dad is always early. I do my aerobic work on the bicycle and my arm and upper body exercises. I go home and shower, making a mental list of things to add to my bag. Dad is early and we are on the road by 9:15 I think.

Dad drives first. It is foggy. Not so bad that you can't see to drive, however. At the town of West we pull off the Highway and stop at Czech Stop on the access road. We go to the restrooms and then I get a coffee and buy us each a sausage roll. I eat mine before we roll because I'm driving now.

This stop is a 'code of the West.' In the family, any tradition, shop-worn and time-honored (however changed to accommodate changing times) is called 'code of the West.' We inherited this from my uncle who married into the family and whose mother, born and bred far, far east (Maine) used this term. When you visit Maine it's 'code of the West' to go to the coast and pick your live lobsters and have them boiled along with steamer clams and then take home leftover lobster (for sandwiches the next day) and then stop at the gift shop near the fort for ice cream. We've added a visit to the fort and a stop for lottery tickets along the way.

But I digress. Code of the West for driving to Dallas is to stop at exit 353, West and the Czech Stop.

The fog goes away around Hillsboro and it's a nice day when we get into the Metroplex. Dad guides me to my aunt's apartment and she's waiting at the security gate. After a brief visit and a sandwich she makes for us, she and Dad and I go to Plano. We take the speedy way, the freeway. I marvel at the huge flyover going up at Central and 635 and at all the skyscrapers I forgot were there since last time. The construction almost fools Dad but he basically flies through it all and navigates skillfully to the nursing home. He's 86 but he's still pretty competent driving around here.

We don't ask anyone at the desk (which is, at the time, unattended) and go right to the room where his brother is supposed to be. It's unoccupied. That seems ominous, but we find him, moved to another room. He doesn't know when he moved. (It was after we visited at Thanksgiving.) He doesn't think anyone has been to visit in six months. The three of us know this isn't true since we were there November 29. Dad and my aunt talk to him. I sit. His roommate opens and closes the door. Dad thinks he's trying to get out in his wheelchair and tries to help him, but he's just opening and closing the door. My uncle says, "We've never spoken, him and me." My uncle is chewing tobacco. He has a pile of paperbacks on his nightstand. When we leave, he comes outside with us, using his walker with wheels. It has a seat and we leave him seated in the parking lot seeming to enjoy the day, his face stained with dribbles of tobacco. I know we all shudder a little, wondering if we will end up thus. Minus the chewing tobacco, of course.

We have called another elderly relative but there was no answer so we go back to the apartment. Dad goes on the streets and goes along some narrow, bumpy streets he says mother used to hate for him to use.

We have an afternoon cocktail except for my aunt who is taking antibiotics. My uncle is antsy to go out to eat. I gently try to dissuade him from Red Lobster but I'm not successful. We stop and pick up one of Dad's friends, a former neighbor. Let's just say that Red Lobster lived up to the ridicule that FFP and I reserve for it. I did buy a bottle of Rosemount Estate Shiraz. (My uncle had to come up with a 'unicard' which is a scam 'private club' so that these restaurants can serve alcohol. In a dry precinct.) The wine is fine and I take solace in it. The less said about the food, the better.

Back at the apartment, we play a game called 'Spinners' that uses double-nine dominoes with the addition of a 'spinner' or wildcard. It isn't hard to play, works well for five people and the old folks enjoy it. Me, too. We have some candy and coffee since we passed at Red Lobster.

Dad and I return the friend to her house. The old neighborhood of the parents has had some changes. The alley behind their house is under construction, having heaved up just as the houses did. Cars are parked along the front curb since people can't get to their houses. Where once there was a grocery and drug store, it is some school office. Still the neighborhood has lots of memories. How many trips to that grocery with Mom during holidays? How many times I turned into that alley, eager to see the folks, to be home?

Dad and I go to the motel, get our rooms and share a quick nightcap. The room is fine but it seems insubstantial. As if everything is the cheapest model possible and things are threatening to give under your weight. The toilet paper comes off the roll and the center pole is made of cheap silver-covered plastic and its unexpected light weight furthers the feeling that the plastic shower back and thin, small towels give to the bathroom. I watch TV and read some papers and magazines that I brought.

Sleep comes. I don't bother with a wake-up call.