Dad and I had a moment today.  It started by me asking him if we could sit together with him telling any stories that came into his mind, and I would sit at my computer and write them down.  He said I knew all his stories.  I reminded him of questions I wish I had asked Mom about how her parents met or her dad's education (not sure she even knew these answers), and how Mom had lamented about not asking her dad more questions when he was alive.  Regrets.  The only way to keep regrets at bay is to anticipate them.  

Despite not wanting to talk while I typed, he answered my questions.  It began by him asking me how he and Mom met.  I told him that she always told the story of her in grade school saving a place for him in line after recess, but he always chose to stand by another girl.  Dad quickly refuted this story saying, "Yeah, Mom always said that, but I don't ever remember that." Then I recounted the story of when they really "first met."  Mom was a telephone operator in town, and Dad hollered up to the open telephone office window, "How does stuff work up there?"  Mom responded, "Why don't you come up and see," to which Dad said, "I gotta go home and wash my hair."  OUCH, Dad!  He didn't go home, and that night led to 62 years of marriage.  

Talking about their first meeting led Dad to reflect on how he was with his best friend Billy Klinkenborg, and that led me to asking him how old he was when he hollered up into that telephone office window.  He said he must've been 14 or 15 to which I responded that Mom would have been 9 or 10.  This led to a long discussion of ages and dates and whether this all happened before or after WW II or if he was on furlough.  He knew he wasn't on furlough because he spent all that time with his family.  If he was in the war from ages 18-20, and they got married when he was 21, it had to be when he returned from the war and Mom was 15.  Maybe my brain works differently, but for memories to truly make sense and embed, I have to connect people, places, and dates.  Maybe after 75 years the connections have disinegrated.  

Bringing up the war led Dad to talking about his experiences, both state side and overseas.  I always thought he drove a tank in Europe, but he said that was only in Basic Training at which time he discovered that small, cramped spaces were not for him.  We talked about how lucky he was to never see any fighting, the closest being when the Germans fired on his engineering company trying to build a bridge across the Rhine River to which they promptly dismantled the bridge and retreated.  I asked him again about the can of peaches because it is one of my favorite stories.  He doesn't remember how he got the peaches or why he felt the need to bring them to dinner, but he met a girl in England who invited him back to her house for dinner.  They opened the peaches but refused to eat any until Dad took a bite first.  He did add a detail to this story that I had never heard.  "She must have lived near our camp because I remember we walked up a hill together."  That was it.  A fleeting memory that had never surfaced until tonight.  

I said he was lucky that he spent most of his time getting shipped from Germany to England to France to the Philippines.  That sparked another untold memory of him cleaning the barracks rather than being out on maneuvers.  That led to talking about cleaning toilets and me learning to clean them by helping Mom clean the city park's restrooms while she cleaned the shelterhouses.  That led to him remembering all the hard work he put in when he worked for the town: replacing foot bridges after storms; running the snow plow and getting it stuck in a ditch when the snow was so deep he couldn't discern the road.  

We talked about the work he did as a boy on the many farms his parents rented.  That somehow led to talking about milking cows, which led to him explaining how they would turn the cream separator.  I did not understand what he meant by all the plates that helped separate it so I found a YouTube video.  He was thrilled to watch, and together we learned those plates were actually cones that stacked one on top of the other.  I was happy 2020 technology could remind him of 1935 events.  

For not wanting to talk while I typed, he shared a lot of memories.  Granted I was not typing whle he talked, which is probably why we had a moment.

 "It's the shits to get old," says my 95-year-old dad.  I'm not sure he is as grateful for every birthday like I am.  Let me rephrase that, I think he is proud for each birthday he achieves, but after the pride comes the reminder that he can no longer do most of what he has done all his life...........work.  His 100-year-old sister also still lives in her own home and has been widowed longer than she was married.  She cleans her house, cooks her meals, and delights in every moment.  She once told Dad after Mom died that women were better at being alone.  While I don't think that's true now, it does apply to Dad's generation.  When Mom was alive he never cleaned a room, cooked a meal, or bathed a child.  His work was outside the house, and he does still mow his own lawn, but he hasn't done any manual labor for about five years.  Still pretty damn impressive, but not enough for him to dwell on.  

It is the shits to get old and no longer live the life you've lived for nearly a century.  It's also the shits to watch your father slowly shrink before your eyes.  Dad worked on family farms in his preteens; was a block layer in his teens and 20's carrying 100-pound bags of cement two at a time; and a city employee sweeping the main street with a push broom until the town could afford a mechanized street sweeper.  He had muscles that when flexed could repel pocket knives and break twine.  I blamed him for my inability to get a date in high school because all the boys in my class were afraid of his physique.  That physique was maintained until about a decade ago, around the time that Mom passed.  It's the shits to now be stronger and taller than my dad; to be able to lift his 171-pound frame after he has fallen yet again.  This may be one of those times when remembering the past is better than living in the present and hoping for the future.  

I guess I should be thankful for Covid-19 because it has allowed me to continue teaching virtually while caring for Dad.  He is not much of a talker except for making observations about his surroundings.  Occasionally we talk about serious topics like family members and townspeople who have contracted the virus and about the other viruses he has lived through.  Dad is, however, a thinker.  He sits on the four season porch he built and stares at the streets and the sidewalks he maintained for decades, knowing that he must now rely on others to do the heavy lifting. 

It's the shits to get old if all we have are regrets.  Dad only managed a fourth-grade education but can do algebra and trigonometry in the form of building and repairing.  Sitting on that porch, he solves the problems aging presents.  Not able to open his jugs of Sunny D with his hands, he keeps a wrench by the refrigerator.  Not able to hold the catheters he must prepare numerous times a day, he built a wooden holder.  Not able to always control his bowels, he built a wooden, beveled tray to hold between his legs. Fortunately we found a commode to replace that last invention.  I wish I could teach my students to problem-solve the way he does, but that will never happen because most people can't live in the silence that allows the brain to thrive.  

It has been nearly four years since I posted to this blog, and since it would require several "moments" for me to review the last 46 months, I will just focus on today as I have tried to do for the last 16 years. Cancer taught me that.  I hope one good thing that emerges from the COVID-19 pandemic is that more people are focusing on each today, finding hope, solace, peace, and gentleness.  As always, I find all of these while walking.  

One change that has occurred in the last four years is that I now live amidst the Iowa Great Lakes.  Yes, for you non-native-haters, Iowa has lakes and even a chain of lakes, albeit smaller than its larger namesake.  Today was a gift of sunshine and warm winds so I donned my hiking boots and headed for the lakes.  As I walked along the south shore of West Lake Okoboji, I  drank-in the sunshine as its path along the lake's surface followed me no matter which direction I went.  The ducks bobbed gently on the waves, happy to be free of obstructive docks and boats.  The south wind brought some much-needed color to my pale, quarantined cheeks.  I try to not always look toward the distant horizon but vary my gaze to the near-distance, the near, and the at-my-feet.  It was the latter that disturbed me most as I saw a glass beer bottle, aluminum beer cans oddly crushed yet still unopened, plastic water bottles and cups, napkins, the plastic top to a fast-food drink cup, and what looked to be a yellow planer-board.  Using the planer-board as a carrier, I put the other pieces of trash atop it.  Within minutes I could pile on no more for each time I bent down to pick up a new piece of trash, the other pieces fell to the ground.  A scene from Aquaman flashed through my mind.  This lake, finally free of the summer tourists, belched ashore all the human irreverence it had borne and could stomach no more.  Carrying the trash like a school kid carries a lunch tray, I headed for home seeing more trash as I went.  Looking remorsefully at my full tray.  I promised to return tomorrow equipped with garbage and recycling bags to remove the embarrassment of cigarette boxes and soda bottles for they, unlike the humans who discarded them, know the sand, the rocks, and the grass is not where they belong.