AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 17, 2005 — I wake up feeling groggy from dreams. In the dreams we are trying to take care of people but can't do it right. I'm not sure who 'we' is. But I'm talking to other people. "Get the baby's diapers so we can go." I'm not sure where the baby came from. But she lies happy and gooing, but there is this dread that something is wrong and we need to take her to the hospital. I know it's a she because she doesn't have a diaper on. I don't generally dream about babies at all. Usually I'm climbing on precarious things, driving cars without brakes, losing my purse or wallet or clothes or trying to find a bathroom. Must be taking care of the elderly that's making me anxious.

I go over to Dad's to cook him breakfast and get his paper for him. He only wants one egg, one piece of toast, a few little smokie sausages. I tidy things up, cleaning up his French press from his coffee, the dishes, picking up yesterday's papers and junk mail for the recycling. He gets in his easy chair and I get him water and some cranberry juice.

I leave to go to the club, telling him I'll come back around lunch or after our concert this afternoon, or both.

I go to the club. I do a little over fifty minutes on the bicycle, reading some old newspapers and an old (1999, in fact) copy of The New Yorker. I do a few static lunges, leg extensions, sit-ups and lower back exercises.

At home I eat cereal and yogurt, get a shower, look at the evening's TV schedule and set some things on the DVR. I call Dad. He says he isn't really hungry, why don't I come by later in the day.

FFP and I have purchased tickets for a concert some friends' house given by A. Mozart Fest. We also know the music director of the group who is also the accompanist for the concert. We have to return our rented nehru jackets from last night so we have to go down to Lucy in Disguise on our way. Downtown is brimming with people. Groups of kids in uniforms, people headed to Auditorium Shores. FFP lets me out to return the stuff then comes around and finds a parking place in front. I take a minute to shoot a couple of pictures of the Uncommon Objects windows for my collection.

The concert takes my mind off things. There are songs Mozart wrote in French and German. Little funny lyrics he wrote or set from poems. The gal explains them and they provide translations, too. That way I can pick up the occasional Harz or coeur. The second half is bits of masses or arias from operas. Italian gets into the mix. The soprano is very good and it is nice to sit right in front of her in a room with about forty people.

After the concert there is great food (mini onion tarts, delicious croissant sandwiches, crab moray, homemade crackers, the cheese ones being ultra delicious, and pappadan and fruit, desserts) and some good wine. We talk to our friend who own the house. FFP is wearing his Salvation Army jacket which he's had tailored and we brag a bit about his $5 silk jacket. We allege that we have to save on the clothing bill to have the money for music. It's only partly facetious.

We go home. I call Dad and tell him I'll cook some vegies to eat with the leftover chicken from the other day. I slice up some zuchinni and yellow squash FFP bought the other day, put them in the steamer with a little onion, season them up and cook them. I divide them up to take some to him.

At Dad's I heat up some chicken we cooked 'his way' (with a can of soup dumped over them in the oven). I try to get him to eat some soup, too, but he doesn't want anything else. He asks me to get him water and apple juice and put them by his easy chair.

"It's hard to carry a full glass in the chair." He says.

"Well, before we start making accommodations, maybe we can get you walking again."

He transfers to his easy chair, showing me that he can stand for a few seconds on both legs. It still hurts too much if he actually walks, he asserts. In his chair with the foot rest up he shows me he can lift the legs up.

"I couldn't do that yesterday."

Maybe the anti-inflammatories and rest are helping a bit. He can't think of anything else that I can do for him. So I go home.

As I'm pulling out of the driveway, I see a kid wearing a purple helmet careering down the street on a little bicycle. A man is standing in the middle of the street, watching for cars. I make sure the kid is down the street a way toward the cul-de-sac and pull out. The dad stops me. My dad has told me that Alexander (the kid) came over the night before to show him he could ride the bike. I guess Dad went outside in the wheelchair and watched him. He said the kid went home and got him some chocolate chip cookies which he ate. This family has been very nice to Dad, sharing a pizza night ritual. Dad in turn has found things to give the children, things he found lying around the house, promotional items. For Christmas, I found some toys in my 'gift closet' and my friend SuRu wrapped them up for him. I don't know the Dad's name and I'm too embarrassed to ask. I explain the procedure to him.

"He said this is his last shot. If it doesn't work, he has to go to the nursing home." He says.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far." My dad was kidding. I think. But the guy is worried about him.

"I told him I could help him do things, but he won't let me. He says, 'I worked in a hospital, I know what to do.'"

Old dad, he's a card.

At home, I read some of the Sunday papers, do a few things on the computer and we watch various things off the DVR.