Park It

For those of you who haven’t ever read the disclaimer at the top of my blog page, please do so. If you indeed are easily offended you can do one of two things, don’t read this, or get a thicker skin. Stop taking everything so seriously even though this blog may contain some serious topics. With that said, proceed at your own risk, despite the fact that reading really doesn’t involve any risk at all when you think about it.

I own a “Handicapped Parking Sticker,” although it doesn’t stick to anything. Today they’re called “Disabled Parking Placards.” What the hell the difference is certainly beats the shit out of me. I have always been of the mind that handicapped describes my affliction accurately. I am not “disabled,” like a car that is temporarily broken down on the side of the road. Nor am I “physically challenged;” I have enough challenges in my life. I don’t know why people just didn’t leave well enough alone. No, they had to go and get all politically correct. Is it politically correct to call them assholes with way too much time on their hands? Aren’t there enough other more important causes they could devote their time to? I would also guess that none of these well meaning ying-yangs that insist on using these euphemisms are handicapped themselves, unless you consider their misguided intentions.

I never asked for anyone to represent me anywhere at any time. I have never benefited from any form of legislation that’s been passed concerning the handicapped. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried on numerous occasions to see if I could take advantage of all the wonderful things put forth legislatively to no avail. I must not be the right kind of handicapped. The one thing that I cannot be denied due to my physical condition is a “Handicapped Parking Sticker.” My leg has been cut off. This is a permanent condition. Contrary to what Social Security Disability seems to think, it will not grow back.

Some of you may be asking yourselves why I didn’t just get a “Handicapped License Plate?” Well selves, ask no more. There are two main reasons. First, vehicles with handicapped plates seem to be the worst drivers. I took note of this phenomenon early on after attaining handicapped status. I didn’t want other driver’s to “motherfucker” me as I did to those driver’s possessing handicapped tags when they neglected to adhere to the rules of the road. After witnessing the constant and flagrant violations by handicapped tagged vehicles, I opted for the sticker.

Second, I had difficulty adjusting to my new handicapped status. To me, “handicapped” meant breathing tubes, para-, or quadriplegic, blind, and the folks who “had it really bad.” I did not want to include myself with that group. I didn’t want to go around advertising I had some sort of affliction serious enough to warrant a handicapped tag. With a sticker, it would always be there if I ever needed it.

And when the need did arise, I invariably parked in a space next to someone who was in a really bad way, making me feel very guilty I had the nerve to park there with only a severed leg. How dare I! For many years that’s exactly how it went. If there were two handicapped spots available, I’d park in one, and the other would have someone being unloaded from a van using a motorized wheelchair, sometimes wearing a bib; shame on me. Every now and again a centenarian with a pacemaker or something would park next to me, forcing me to explain what entitled me to park there since I was not old nor wheelchair bound. That was it, they were the two groups that used handicapped spots. Not some twenty (and later thirty) something who walks with a slight limp. And then everything changed.

By the time I became a fortysomething, handicapped parking permits were being handed out like strip club promotional flyers. Everybody was getting them. They were like smartphones. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever envision handicapped parking placards to be the next “must have” in order to keep up with those assholes the Jones’.

These schmucks parade around with their handicapped placards dangling from their rearview mirrors like some badge of honor, even though it clearly states on both sides of the permit “REMOVE BEFORE DRIVING VEHICLE.” I guess all the energy it would take to bring it down from above the visor and then put it back again is too exhausting. Why should they have to follows the instructions, they’re handicapped for Christ’s sake! I think I may know why the hanging and removing of the placard may be too taxing.

No longer am I joined in the handicapped spaces by wheelchair bound individuals or the geriatric crowd. People of all ages, but mainly one size began showing up in droves, and they were parking their droves in handicapped spots. They had back problems, heart issues, diabetes, bad backs, knee replacements, strained scrotums, gout, bad hair transplants. You name it these folks “suffered” from it. So bad in fact, that walking became nearly impossible, unless it meant walking around the mall, walking through Wal-Mart, walking the entire length of South Beach. As long as there was a handicapped spot available, they were able to resume some semblance of a normal life. Thank goodness!

I noticed that there seemed to be a trait many of these incapacitated individuals shared; they were fat. I don’t mean overweight, I mean fucking fat. Where I felt a certain amount of shame for having to use a handicapped placard, these folks relish the idea. They convinced some doctor that all their ills could be remedied if they only had a handicapped parking sticker.

Did the doctor’s tell them they wouldn’t have needed knee replacement surgery had they lost weight; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them they wouldn’t have such back problems if they only lost some weight; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them their diabetes was brought about by their poor diet; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them their heart problems stem from lugging around virtually another person; nope. The doctor’s give them who knows how many prescriptions, signed the form for the handicapped placard, and sends the fat shits on their way. Ironic that these individuals are the one’s who need exercise, yet the only exercise they’d get would be walking to and fro if they had to park further away. The only handicap they really have is the inability to keep food out of their mouths.

Okay, so some obesity is hereditary. But read the facts and figures. Look at how fat people tax the health care system. And now they want preferential parking. How could I possibly be so inconsiderate by losing a limb and not yielding to these poor souls when it comes to parking?

For years I was so self-conscious about my artificial limb that I used to keep the apparatus covered with fake skin and a knee brace. However, I got sick of having to explain to some insensitive, self-righteous douchebag who’d call me out for parking in a handicapped spot. Short of putting a stump up their ass, I tried to be pleasant about it, or if they persisted, I’d tell them to mind their own fucking business.
Today, after coming to grips with my appearance, I leave the mechanism exposed. That way I don’t have to explain myself any longer. Nevertheless, I still get the stink-eye from those who feel they are more entitled to the space than I.

Unfortunately, fat folks tend to feel much better about themselves. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge. An obese female in a shorts and belly shirt is most definitely a handicap.

Between My Ears

There is so much news of great import that could be addressed in this week’s blog! I couldn’t possibly limit myself to just one thing.

BP, after thirty-one years and ninety-odd days, has finally come up with a way to stem the flow of oil from the haphazardly constructed, profit above all else, devil-may-care well in the Gulf of Mexico. Besides being an ecological catastrophe and total public relations nightmare of epic proportions, don’t you get the impression that the BP folks want a pat on the back for their little engineering triumph?

You say you don’t understand the thirty-one year reference? Well, that’s because a similar oil platform accident happened back in 1979, so I figured BP and the rest of the oil companies had thirty-one years to find a satisfactory solution should a similar problem ever arise. Well one did, and they didn’t; fuck R&D when there’s money to be made and people to be exploited.

I could talk about the new Three Musketeers, with “One for One and Me for Me” being the revamped mantra. After all the hoopla and non-stop promoting by the Miami Heat, anything short of a NBA championship should be considered a total failure; except when considering the bottom line.

Showing that a little information can be dangerous in the wrong hands; Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack decides to go off half-cocked and asks USDA employee Shirley Sherrod to turn in her resignation because of an edited YouTube video posted by conservatives. It seems that those folks from the far right wanted to paint Ms. Sherrod in an unfavorable racial light. So they left out a very important segment of dialogue. A knee-jerk White House reaction has left several folks with egg on their faces. Whoops! Can you say “jerk-off” Mr. Vilsack? I bet you can.

Unemployment is still high, and Congress is mulling over stopping additional emergency unemployment benefits due to what it would do to our government’s already staggering debt. Odd, Congress doesn’t seem to mind dumping millions each month into an unwinable two-front war.

Home run production is down in Major League Baseball. Journalists rejoice and point to the elimination of steroids due to the tough stance by the Commissioner’s office. I say home runs are down because pitching is up. Just like the economy, pitching and hitting are cyclical. Open your history books sportswriters.

Now for something really earth-shattering! Since the first of June, we here in Florida are in what’s commonly referred to as “Hurricane Season.” Local newscasts gets great pleasure out of telling us this each night. The fear mongers can’t seem to overemphasize enough the importance of hurricane preparedness. They continually remind us to keep our guard up; a severe storm could be lurking just around the corner.

I wasn’t here to personally witness the devastation of Hurricane Andrew that hit in August of 1992. I did get to see a sample of the aftermath that October, and it wasn’t pretty. However, I got a taste of what a hurricane wrought in the summer of 1999, when Irene dumped many inches of rain on the area. The flood waters made their way to the last step before my front door.

2005 was a very busy hurricane season indeed. Katrina gave us a scare, Rita was intense, and Wilma did some serious damage. For both Rita and Wilma, we were without power for extended periods of time. Traffic lights were down for miles, making already horrible driving conditions (mostly due to the drivers and their inability to understand the intricacies of a four way stop) worse. All the shingles were blown off the roof, and both our cars sustained damage. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of having to deal with that kind of natural disaster anytime soon. So my wife and I prepared for the next big one.

We never have less than three cases of bottled water in the house at any given time. We dropped six-hundred dollars on a generator (never been used). We bought multiple five gallon gas cans. We bought fuel stabilizer. We bought hurricane shutters. We did not have our house wired to a generator system to the tune of about fifteen grand, that was a little over the top for me.

My guess is, if you have the money you do that sort of thing, why not. However, I picture the people who don’t have that kind of cash laying around but incur that expense anyway, are the same type of folks who would’ve put a bomb shelter in their back yard during the fifties. More power to ‘em.

Each year the news media give us a guesstimate of how many named storms we’ll have that season. Their accuracy leaves something to be desired. Granted, there may be named storms, but they float harmlessly off into the North Atlantic, unable to wreak havoc on the populace.

If a tropical disturbance that may become a tropical depression that has the potential to be a tropical storm and then perhaps a hurricane is on an anticipated track for South Florida, we stayed glued to our televisions like zombies waiting to see if this low pressure system gains strength, and the projected path will encompass our local area. The lead time is normally a week, leaving plenty of time for one to prepare.

I know the adage says “better safe than sorry.” I also know there is a segment of the population down here who refuse to heed any preparedness instructions. They have been lulled into a false sense of security since we haven’t had any hurricane activity in five years.

These are the people projected into living rooms around the country, making the rest of us look like douche bags to the nation. They stampede supermarkets. They get into fistfights over a place in line at the gas station. They keep little or no canned goods on hand, thinking instead that they’ll just “eat out,” blissfully unaware that if they are without power restaurants will be also.

When I lived in New Jersey, we never had a “hurricane season,” even though if a hurricane were to hit Jersey, it would be during the same months as in Florida. When winter came, we were never warned it was “blizzard season.” From what I can tell, a blizzard can be almost as devastating.

Roads become impassable; that’s similar to a hurricane. Trees fall during a blizzard, same with a hurricane. Power goes out, but after a blizzard, it never seemed as long as after a hurricane. Plus, with a blizzard, unless you have a fireplace, you freeze your ass off during and after a blizzard; unless of course you’ve prepared for a blizzard by buying a kerosene space heater. So the major difference is, as far as I can tell, is that buildings can get blown over in a hurricane, not so much with a blizzard. Also the flooding is immediate with a hurricane, while with a blizzard, the temperature has to go up drastically, or you wait for the spring thaw.

Each year since 2006 I have been tempted to sell my generator and gas cans. I know if I do, that will be the year a Category 5 (the most severe) decides to visit South Florida. So for the time being, my wife and I remain in the dwindling percentage of the population who are prepared if a hurricane hits. You won’t see us on TV.

Master of All He Surveyed

As was George Steinbrenner a paradox, my feelings about him were as well. I have lauded him and cursed him, sometimes within the same breath. Words that spring to mind when asked about him would depend entirely on the year. Loathing, hate, revile, admire, respect, honorable, dishonorable, magnanimous, generous, spiteful, bombastic, compassionate, cantankerous, gracious, determined…you see what I mean. At any given time, depending on the topic, any of these words I may use to describe my feelings about George Steinbrenner.

Never to be upstaged, in typical Steinbrenner fashion, he died yesterday on the day of Major League Baseball’s showcase of talent; the All-Star game. His team was in first place of its division. A mix of home grown talent, players acquired through trades, and pricey free agents, have melded together to make a patented Yankee run at securing the American League pennant. Nothing could be viler in my sports world than another World Series appearance. If that team from the Bronx does indeed secure the flag, it is due to what George Steinbrenner created, and will endure as long as a member or members of his family own the team. For this George Steinbrenner is to be lauded and commended…hated, detested, and abhorred; oops, there I go again.

As a Mets fan, I am not jealous of the Yankees success. I wish the Mets brass and ownership were as shrewd and driven as Steinbrenner. Though I must say; I find many Yankee “fans” nauseating. It’s as if they are personally responsible for the team’s achievements. This group of “fans” swear they have been loyal since the days of Babe Ruth. Some of them will attest after having consumed enough alcohol, to having seen Ruth play though they may have been born in 1980. This phenomenon George Steinbrenner is also responsible for. Good for him, the sly bastard.

Yes sir, Steinbrenner was one sharp individual. His Dad was wealthy, but not rich by any means. His father, after graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), ran a shipping enterprise that was started by his grandfather which managed traffic through the Great Lakes. It provided the family with all the amenities a successfully maintained business is expected to. However, George received no allowance. Instead, he was given chickens as a form of payment for the duties assigned by his father. Inventive George, instead of selling the chickens for his spending money, started an egg selling business. He was so successful, when he left to attend military school; he gave the business to his sisters. This business acumen would serve both George and his father well one day.

Steinbrenner was an avid sportsman, running track and playing football while at Williams College, a very prestigious small private institution. After a stint in the military, Steinbrenner went on to receive his master’s degree at Ohio State University (I refuse to use “The”…). There, he assisted legendary taskmaster and football coach, Woody Hayes. Steinbrenner briefly served as an asistant coach at Purdue and Northwestern. The sports bug had bitten George.

Against his father’s wishes, Steinbrenner bought the Cleveland Pipers franchise of the fledgling ABL. He also hired the first black head coach in professional sports. I bet you didn’t know that. The minor league basketball team promptly collapsed after two years. Rather than file for bankruptcy, Steinbrenner paid off his investors the $25 million they had coming to them. It took several years.

When his father’s shipping business radically declined, George stepped in to save it. He convinced investors on his plans for the future of the company, renamed it American Shipping, brought his father out of retirement to help run things, and both men became quite wealthy. His father owed George a debt of thanks, but one never came.

Undaunted by his failed basketball enterprise, Steinbrenner made a play to buy the Cleveland Indians. When that was unsuccessful, in 1973, a consortium headed by him and Mike Burke, bought The New York Yankees for the tidy sum of $8.8 million dollars. The rest they say is history.

Players could now become free agents due to the perseverance of Curt Flood, Andy Messersmith, and Dave McNally. Steibrenner had the vision to seize this opportunity as to where Major League Baseball was heading. The days of sole ownership were numbered. After eighty-eight years of relegating players to subservience, owners reaping huge profits while crying poverty, while the men who put the asses in the seats made whatever the owners felt like paying them; the jig was up. Steinbrenner, for all intents and purposes said, “Okay fellas, put on your big boy pants, there’s a new Sheriff in town, he wants to win, and he’s got a lot-o-money to spend.” With that money Steinbrenner signed some of the biggest names in baseball, and he reaped the fruits of their labors. However, for every Reggie Jackson there was a Dave Justice. For every Jim “Catfish” Hunter, there was an Ed Whitson. But Steinbrenner didn’t care.

Baseball had finally been declared a business by the Supreme Court of the United States, and George ran his team just like his shipping business. If you didn’t perform, you were fired and replaced by someone who would; to George’s specifications. You’ve got to spend money to make money, and make money he did. That baseball team investment of $8.8 million dollars is now worth well over $1 billion. The New York Yankees have the highest value of any professional sports franchise. Fuck the Cowboys. As an added sweetener, the YES network that broadcasts all Yankee game is also owned by Steinbrenner. When combined with the Yankees, that package now has a price tag of over $3 billion.

Steinbrenner saw pay TV coming and he invested. Just like he saw that the anti-trust exemption wasn’t going to pertain to baseball forever. Those owners who weren’t willing to open their checkbooks and play by the new rules sold out. George just said “Too bad.” He probably said something a little more colorful than that.

Just like his shipping business, at the Yankees George surrounded himself with the best and the brightest. He was just as notorious for overpaying his employees as he was for making “unreasonable demands. However, it was never anything more than he asked of himself. He was notoriously loyal to those who were loyal to the Yankees save Yogi Berra, and that fence has been mended.

He believed in second chances. Just ask Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry, and Dale Berra. He believed in giving some of his good fortune to those who weren’t fortunate at all, and if you were fortunate, he gave you more so others could give more.

Steinbrenner built a new building on the University of Florida campus that now bears his name. He never played in a band, but sang in the glee club. He never went to the University of Florida, but Florida was his primary state of residence. That’s all the connection Steinbrenner needed to make life a little better for others.
Each year Steinbrenner allowed the Florida State High School Baseball Finals to be played at Steinbrenner Field (formerly Legends Field) the Yankees training and minor league facility. He didn’t charge the state a dime.

He had his personal secretary with the Yankees scour the papers daily for someone in need that had nowhere else to turn. Steinbrenner then would step forward –anonymously if he could get away with it- and offer financial assistance.
In homage to his father, George built a brand new baseball stadium and facility on the campus of MIT. His father’s response? “That’s the only way you’d ever get onto the MIT campus.”

Steinbrenner saved the family business, made his father wealthier than he ever imagined, and built a tribute to him on the campus of his father’s alma mater. Yet, whatever George did was never good enough for his father. A close personal friend of Steinbrenner’s said that George would have traded all of his championship rings just to hear his father say “I love you.” Steinbrenner lived the life he did because of, and due to, his father. The elder Steinbrenner taught him a toughness that never allowed for second best, but for some reason even being the very best wasn’t enough.

My fiercest resentment toward Steinbrenner perhaps mirrors Steinbrenner the man. I was not a Yankee fan, but I was a devout fan of Reggie Jackson. I went to nearly thirty games at Yankee Stadium each year Reggie played in pinstripes. At the end of his contract, and two World Championships, and a World Series performance for the ages, under his belt; Steinbrenner let Reggie go the way he came, via free agency. Reggie went from working for one of the strictest most difficult owner’s, to one of the nicest in Gene Autry (yes, the cowboy), owner of the California Angels. I vowed I’d never go back to Yankee Stadium except for Reggie’s first game there in an Angel uniform.

True to my promise, I was in attendance that night with my now ex-wife. Reggie did not disappoint. He hit a home run in the rain off Yankee ace Ron Guidry. As Reggie rounded the bases to thunderous applause; I stood on my seat and chanted at the top of my lungs, “Steinbrenner Sucks!” Like a rising tide, the chant was duplicated throughout the ballpark (Reggie makes mention of this in his biography). Still standing, I turned to Steinbrenner’s suite to give him the middle finger salute only to find Steinbrenner was not in attendance that evening. The Boss had the foresight to not be there that night, a big enough man to silently admit he made a mistake, and a wise enough man not to be shown up by someone lesser than he.

Years later, as my toddler son and I drove past Yankee Stadium on one of our many trips to Shea Stadium to see our beloved Mets, Cory asked me,

“Who plays there?” I replied “The Yankees.”

“How come we never go there to see them?” he continued.

“Because a bad man owns them” I said sternly.

Steinbrenner changed the game I loved, and as I saw it then, not for the better. He deprived me of witnessing my favorite player work his magic on baseball’s most hallowed ground. My pettiness came from a lack of understanding a man that couldn’t be understood by what you read in the press. I commend the man I know of now. May he rest in peace; he’s done the game of baseball a great service. Many have offered their thanks in and outside the realm of baseball. Too bad his father missed the boat. No pun intended.

Father Time's Watch is Fast

At the risk of bumming some people out, this blog is meant to be cathartic. I am writing this because I need to rather than want to. I’ll understand if I don’t have any hits on my blog this week.

My maternal grandfather was a vibrant man. Even in advanced age he was always busy with one project or another. His mind was sharp, and he able to convey his ideas and viewpoints –no matter how antiquated or absurd- clearly. Sometimes too much so for those who disagreed. He was always grand company regardless. Then one day he had a heart attack, but that was the least of his worries.

His wife of sixty-two years, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, had been institutionalized six months earlier. She passed shortly thereafter. Their relationship was one only because they happened to have a piece of paper that said so. My grandmother had become something alien to the rest of the family. While most of us summarily dismissed her senility, my grandfather held on to memories of what once was so tightly, he only put her away out of fear she may cause bodily harm to herself, or worse yet, to him. Little did he know the damage had already been done.

My first wife and I were away on vacation in Barbados. Two days after we’d left, “Pop” walked to the end of the driveway to retrieve the days mail, just like he had done for all of his retired life. He became short of breath, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He drove himself to the Immediate Medical Care Center the next town over. The doctor determined he’d be better off in a hospital where he could undergo a battery of tests to find out the precise cause, and exactly how much harm had occurred. This was the first time he’d ever been admitted to a hospital in his ninety-two years on the planet.

No one bothered to notify my soon-to-be-ex-wife or myself. No one wanted to disturb our vacation because they assumed my grandfather would be fine in a few days. We were told of the news immediately upon our return six days later. That afternoon we went to visit him not bothering to unpack.

We found him in good spirits. He was sitting up, and his demeanor was jovial. He wanted to know all the details of our trip. He was confident he’d be home in no time. Five days later we visited him again.

Doctors had found his body was riddled with several different forms of cancer. This time when we saw him he was heavily sedated and semi-conscious. This is what they commonly refer to as “making one comfortable.” He was unable to even acknowledge our prescience. He died in his sleep two days later. It’s different with my Dad.

Like many sons, when I was young I worshipped the ground my father walked on. Any time he spent with me alone was precious. Whether he was telling me his stories of sailing the world as a teenager with Standard Oil, or taking me on clandestine rides on his motorcycle (my grandparents disapproved), or on the rare occasion of going to a ballgame (football or baseball), each moment I valued as if it were gold. And then my parents divorced.

I resented both parents, but my mother more than my father for a while. My mother found it necessary to abase my Dad at every opportunity, saving the most damning denunciations for after I returned from visiting him in Ohio. Without fail I’d return from one of these bi-annual excursions in tears, inconsolable for having left him. I begged to come live with him. He said he wouldn’t be able to take proper care of me. In my adult years, I knew that was horseshit.

In 1968, he decided to remarry. I was devastated. He took on a whole new pre-made family and I became in my mind, Wade-who? I still felt the same about him, but I no longer thought it reciprocal. When I turned eighteen I was convinced this was true.

A disagreement over college funding caused a rift so severe; I didn’t speak to my father by choice for the next seven years. Occasionally, I sent off derogatory missives written while in an altered state, and I was cordial at two family funerals, but that was about as far as it went. My first wife insisted that he and the rest of my extended family be invited to our wedding against my protestations. Subconsciously, I set out to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. Regrettably, I think I succeeded. If you consider snorting cocaine off the roof of my car in front of him enough to cause an estranged parent to feel anxiety. Now that my first wife had opened the lines –no pun intended- of communication, a trip to Utah to see my father was planned.

My hair in a ratstail, sunglasses even at night, all my clothing black, including requisite leather motorcycle jacket, my ear pierced multiple times, and an earcuff for good measure, made quite a picture for him to absorb. Most graciously he kept his opinions to himself. And when a patron at a local supermarket pointed at me and declared “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT GUY!” My father came to my defense chastising the individual for being so uncouth. We shared beers at a local bar. We laughed again just like we used to. I felt sad of the seven years I could have with him, even if it was only a part of him. I was looking forward to his next trip east to visit us after the impending baby was born. My father came sooner than he expected.

I had had my now infamous motorcycle accident that I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs. When I came out of my coma, my father’s face was the first one I saw. I thought to myself: Didn’t I just visit him? I must be in some serious shit if my Dad is here. My ex tells me she couldn’t have gotten through that period without all his help and comfort. He was a bigger man than I for sure.

After I got divorced, my son Cory and I made another trip to Utah followed by several subsequent trips to Ohio once my Dad relocated there again Cory more frequently than I). He didn’t chide me when he observed my drinking had become a serious issue. Ten more points for him on the better man side of the chalkboard. When it came time for my father to have part of a lung removed, I stepped up to the plate like he did for me.

I flew to Ohio, spending my days at the hospital watching the NCAA Basketball Tournament at his bedside. In my heart I loved my Dad all over again. In my mind, I was mending my side of the fence.

In 2001, I again traveled to Ohio. I noticed changes in my father. He smelled of the funk. I cane to find out he developed an aversion to bathing regularly. In addition, he wore the same clothes for consecutive days. He was smoking again. He drank a little more. During this visit, we spent our days with my childhood friend Tom Rowlands, watching his daughter play in a high school softball tournament. Tom didn’t notice anything different about my Dad and he hadn’t seen him in at least ten years. Funny disease Alzheimer’s.

When my father and stepmother came to Florida for Cory’s high school graduation, I saw he had changed again and not for the better. He became disoriented now and then. He was a tad forgetful. He couldn’t remember details of stories he had told a hundred times. He repeated himself in short spans of time. I was worried.

In 2004, my wife Helen, Cory, and I spent Christmas in Ohio. It was the first Christmas I’d spent with my father in thirty years. Alzheimer’s was sinking it’s mentally debilitating claws into him. Instead of worried, I was now sad. A return visit the following year saw more signs of this dreadful disease. I’d gotten my father back before it was too late, and now he was leaving me again.

In 2005, he made his last unaccompanied trip anywhere. He came to Florida to see his former derelict son graduate from college Magna Cum Laude. He was in attendance to hear the President of the University and former ex-Lieutenant Governor of Florida, hail the son’s accomplishments to a crowd of four thousand. My Dad didn’t recall anyone I’d introduced him to. When it came time for him to leave; he had trouble navigating through the Airport. I had to wait until I knew he got on the plane okay.

Cory, Helen, and I made plans to spend another Christmas in Ohio before the ravages of Alzheimer’s completely took any memory of us, or ours of the Dad we knew. My stepmother, and my father’s wife of forty-two years Charlene, told us if we were going to come at all, we’d better do it before the holiday season arrived; my Dad was that far gone.

We only had the means for Cory and I to make the trip. When we arrived my father was suspect about letting us in the house; a preview of things to come. That first night while smoking cigarettes in the garage, my father made his confession; “I know I have a son “Wade” and a grandson “Cory” but you and the young man in the living room aren’t them as I know them.” Tears were shed by all parties involved. When it came time for Cory and I to leave, we wondered if this would be the last time we’d see him alive.

Last week I received an emotional call from Charlene. The time had come where she could no longer take care of my father at home. She was nearly disconsolate. Her guilt overwhelmed her. I tried my best to assure her she was doing the right thing. She had held on eighteen months longer than anyone should have. She had done all she could and then some. Like my grandmother, my father was sucking out the lifeforce of their caregiver. In the next week or two, my father is going to be institutionalized.

He sometimes kinda-sorta recognizes my voice when I call. He sleeps most of the day. He can’t remember anything immediately after you say it. Everything frustrates him, sometimes to the point of violence. We will be making another trip to Ohio soon; the next to last one. I don’t anticipate my father dying anytime soon, but I am sure he won’t know who any of us are if we wait too long. After that, who knows? All I know is I’m finally at peace with my Dad.

Thanks for letting me do this. I’m not in the financial position to take up space on a psychiatrist’s coach for the amount of time it took me to write this. So please, don’t anyone who reads this send me a bill.