The House That Tex Built (part 1)

Back in 1954, Grampy built a small house in the Mojave Desert—isolated as all get-out, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. This was his dream home and his dream location. Never mind that he had a city-bred wife who hated the country and three school age hooligan boys who would find more mischief in the sandy hills of the Antelope Valley than their mother could ever have imagined.

Bernie and Tex in the Knotty Pine living room 1954

He built it with love, entirely by hand and all by himself. It was a project he could be proud of. Bernie (his wife) was just thankful and relieved that he included an indoor outhouse. There were two small bedrooms, a kitchen so miniscule you could spread out your arms and touch two walls, a dining room, one serviceable bathroom and a nice sized living room with a large wet-bar, rock fireplace and knotty pine paneling all around. Tex finished the outside of the tiny house with pink paint and white gingerbread trim. He put up astronaut wallpaper in the bedroom the three boys shared and built-in cabinets in the master bedroom. The kitchen was tastefully finished with green and pink linoleum tiles. But the knotty pine living room was Tex's piece de resistance with the large wood bar, rustic rock fireplace and hammered steel switchplates and wall decorations he made himself during his lunch hours at the sheet metal plant he worked at. It was truly a house of the 50's and one I'd proudly pin to my Pinterest boards.

Hand made switchplates are throughout the house

The family lived there for 9 years...a goodly amount of time for those three boys to wreak havoc on the desert wildlife, continually frighten their mother with countless snakes and spiders, shoot a bushel of crows with their BB guns and long enough for Bernie to crack (I'm talking certifiable nervous breakdown), threaten D-I-V-O-R-C-E and insist they move back into town. So Tex reluctantly sold the gingerbread house, packed up all their belongings, and moved the whole kit and kaboodle back into the city.

But oh, those years in the desert were the halcyon days of Grampy's life. During that time, he built up a good-sized chicken ranch and managed to compile so much salvage lumber he could easily have built another two houses with it. He was in his element there, with no noisy and nosy neighbors to interfere, and only his own honery brood to fuss and holler at —which he did at the top of his lungs.

Tex always pined for that little house in the desert and was never the same after they left. He always lived in some house in some town, with neighbors he hated, the rest of his days and even now. And being 88 years old, he's not likely going to be moving to an isolated spot in the middle of nowhere again.

And that little house? I like to think it always pined for Tex as well. None of the owners over the ensuing years could have loved it and cared for it the way he did. We know they didn't because, as adults, Mike and I would drive down that dusty road once in a blue moon to take a look at it. It gently and steadily fell into a state of disrepair. Oh that sad little, once happy house. But time marches on and houses and humans alike get old and tired. Their roofs get windblown, joints get creaky, and their floors fall in. 

But sometimes I sit and listen to Grampy as he recounts his time in the 50's - building and living in that little house in the desert. He seems almost happy, and surprisingly young again. Well maybe that's the most we can expect in our old age—memories and smiles, and someone to share them with.

Adventures in Dementia

Grampy in 2002. I like this photo

Grampy's mind has been failing for quite awhile now. When he had the quadruple by-pass in 1997 the doctor showed us an MRI image of his brain. “See all those spotty things? Those are calcium deposits on his brain. Those will only get worse” he said as he looked at us with pity. Then, shaking his head, “If he'll quit smoking right now, he could have another 10 years left”. The joke's on you, doc. Grampy didn't quit smoking till 2004 and here we are 14 years after the by-pass and he's still 'ornry and vertical.

But his mind is failing. He can't remember how to work the TV remote when all he as to do is push “Power On” and “Power Off”. He'll swear up and down that Mike didn't take him shopping the day before and Mike has to show him the receipt for his groceries that is in his wallet. He can't remember who any of his great-grandchildren are anymore and has to ask “Now which one are you? Who do you belong to?” and I can tell he's wondering if they are imposters cause he's never seen them before. He looked me up and down the other day and said “Cathy. When did you get fat?” “Well Dad,” I sighed “I've always been fat.” He gave me his stink-eye and brushed me away, muttering something about smart-ass kids...

This is what Grampy's brain looks like...psychedelic!

Mike is very patient with his dad. He sees him several times a week and talks to him every day. But I can tell it hurts him as his dad is more cranky, more insulting and more disagreeable with his son than he's ever been. I guess that's what dementia does. Amplifies the irritability. So I suggested we take Grampy to the doctor and get medical confirmation on what ails him. I thought that maybe a firm diagnosis and some medical support would help Mike not to take it so personally when his dad cusses at him because Mike has arranged his medicines in his pill case and there's “too damn many pills and what are you doing to me?!”

Mike organizes Grampy's pills...

So off to Dr. Marsha we go. She's not a real doctor. She's a Nurse Practitioner. But Grampy likes her, she's got blonde hair and blue eyes and he calls her a doctor and thinks she's “real purdy” — and she's the only medical professional he doesn't yell at so we have opted for peace over diploma. Marsha likes Grampy too. Mike's taken him to see her about 6 times now for various and sundry ailments and he's always on his best behavior so she thinks he's a sweet old man. We were ushered into an exam room and a cute, young African-American nurse came in and took his vitals. Grampy was asking her about “that other colored nurse that works here”....she finished up without a word while I stood there in embarrassment. I was really hoping she'd deck him. But no. Finally (fake Dr.) Marsha showed up. We brought up the problem of loss of memory and how he recently called us saying he'd woken up that morning in his recliner and couldn't remember where he'd been for the last two days at all and how that very morning he didn't remember we have a dog although I've taken the puppy over there three times to visit him. She looked at Grampy with affection then at us with skepticism. She said she was going to do some “tests” and sent us out of the room. We stood right outside the door so we could hear everything she said. She proceeded to ask Grampy a list of questions like “What is the year? Who is the president? What are your children's names?, etc.” It took five minutes. I guess she sent us out of the room so we wouldn't answer for him. I don't know. Then she called us back in and read the checklist and his rating on her computer. “Yes, your dad has mild memory loss”, she said. “He thought the year was 1912. Ha ha ha. I'm giving you a prescription for more pills. No wait... two prescriptions for two more pills.” Then she proceeded to further patronize us by reminding us to check on him regularly, glanced at her watch and was clearly finished with us.

So we are on our own with Grampy. We'll do some research. I'll google. We'll ask around and find out how other caretakers handle their aging parents. We'll listen as Grampy complains about two more pills he's supposed to take and Mike will take the blame for countless other things, like why it's Tuesday today when he thought it was Tuesday yesterday. And I'd better start exercising and eating healthy cause Lord knows by the time I need it, the available medical help will only be less effective and more ignorant.

Oh Marsha, Marsha, Marsha....You don't know Grampy. You're just a pill pusher with a checklist. And truth be told, you're really not all that pretty.

How Much is That Doggie in the Window?

Grampy called me on Friday night to tell me he was getting a puppy. A Jack Russell terrier no less. He was supposed to be inheriting Alice, the neighbor lady's dog, Suzy. Alice keeps falling and her kids said one more fall and they would banish her to a nursing home. It's been three months and Alice is still sitting in her recliner, still complaining about her hip and I guess Grampy got tired of waiting for her to break it.

Grampy's never had a puppy before. They are jumpy, they bite, they eat shoes, they poop and pee everywhere. They are high maintenance and it's all Grampy can do to make sure he makes it to the toilet himself on time, let alone take a puppy outside every 5 minutes.

Mike and I high-tailed it over there bright and early the following morning for a “Puppy-vention”. We talked to him about the down-side of puppies and begged him to let us take him to the SPCA and pick out an older dog, a mellower dog, a house-broken dog, a dog on its last leg—like him. Grampy listened in silence, a blank stare on his face. I began to wonder if he even remembered he was getting a puppy. We preached the Voice of Reason to him—and Mike's a great preacher. He gets passionate and loud. It's in his DNA. He stood up and waved his arms for greater effect when he got to the “How are you going to have the physical stamina to house-break a puppy, dad!?” part. And at that precise moment there was a timid knock on the front door, followed by an old lady standing there with a puppy in her arms.

Grampy's new love....2 month old "Missy"

Opening the door and grinning from ear to ear, Grampy exclaimed “There's my little Missy!” (he'd already picked out a name). He took the dog, cradling her in his arms and began talking to her, crooning to her, practically salivating over her. The delivery lady was the neighbor lady on the other side of his trailer. Not Alice with the hip...no this was Barbara with the chihuahua named “Mister”. Barbara just moved in a few weeks ago and evidently she and Grampy are already fast friends. He'd told me about her when she first moved in. Word in the predominately female trailer park is that Grampy is an eligible single male and she'd brought him home baked cookies lickety split upon her arrival. “Oh” I said “You are two-timing Alice. Does Alice know about the new girlfriend?” “No” he simply stated. “Well is Barbara pretty?” I asked. “Well” he pondered “She's fat but she's not bad to look at.” Grampy is not a mincer of words; he tells it like it is. Then he went on to talk about Mister the chihuahua, ad nauseum. I wonder if these poor women know that Grampy only loves them for their dogs?

The quickest way to a man's heart...a plate of cookies

Grampy took Missy outside to do “potty” and at that point, Mike turned a questioning, dare I say accusatory, gaze onto Barbara who had settled herself into a recliner. She was non-plussed and beaming with pride just to have been a part of this special moment. “He's lonely” she offered as an explanation for butting into his business and spearheading the whole dog acquisition movement. “Yeah well he has a huge family that wants to love him and spend time with him but they are rejected at every try. It's his own fault.” I didn't say that but I was thinking it. I've always been resentful of the amount of love Grampy gives his dogs while his human family gets none of it.

Grampy and the puppy came back into the house, whereupon he gave us a 5 minute description of Missy's first “doodie”. The size, the color, the consistency, the exact location on the grass... like she was a canine astronaut making her first lunar landing. Criminy Christmas, he wouldn't stop talking about it. He was proud as a chicken farmer whose hen laid a four yolk egg. Barbara was excited, encouraging him on. I began looking for the nearest exit. Mike and I could clearly see the intervention was an epic fail. So with our tails tucked between our legs we edged our way to the door, and with one last word of advice from Mike-- “Dad, just don't feed her people food!” we left.

Next morning Mike showed up on Grampy's doorstep to make sure all was OK. He found the old man in the living room eating his breakfast; the puppy sitting on his lap eating scrambled eggs.

Sigh. Raising your parents is a thankless job.

The Egg-tervention

Grampy is a hoarder. A food hoarder. No. I'm serious as a heart attack. His kitchen and spare room look like a Doomsday Prepper has settled in and lives there. From non-perishable food to water and cleaning supplies, he is sure 'nuff prepped. And yes, God help us all, he even owns a firearm. Luckily Mike found and confiscated all his bullets and had the firing pin removed, but he can still shake his shotgun at his cranky neighbor and we've been called twice now by the manager of the trailer park, threatening to toss him out on his sorry hiney....but I digress.

His freezer boasts 20 packages of hot dogs and even more packages of bologna. Old mayonnaise jars full of beef stew and some other unrecognizable entree are stacked neatly on the top rack while the bottom rack holds mostly bags and bags of english muffins and bacon.

But the hoarding substance that worries us the most is his aresenal of eggs. He called me a month ago complaining that he needed to get to the store because they had a sale on eggs and he's getting low. Grampy eats four eggs on english muffins every morning. Sometimes he throws some fried bologna and processed cheese on the whole mess. Or he scrambles them with bacon and hashbrowns, or makes an omelet. He does love him some eggs. Now the fact that he's going on 88 years old and has eaten like that for most of his adult life should give the American Heart Association pause. At the very least they should re-think the whole cholesterol scam and get off our meat and cheese-eating butts. Again...I digress.

Mike arranged them in order of expiration

So Grampy calls me....needing eggs, right? I go on over. Far be it from me to deny the man one of the few pleasures he has left in life...eating too much fat and cholesterol-ridden food. I find him firmly ensconced in front of the TV finishing his 12^th cup of coffee of the morning and I shout “Hi Dad. I'm going for your eggs!” He nods at me as I grab the coupons off his kitchen table and on the way out the door he hollers at me with instructions to get 8 dozen...the limit on eggs for 99 cents. I halt in my tracks and back up to the kitchen. “What?” I say “8 DOZEN?” That's (and I quickly do the math on my fingers) 96 eggs for crying out loud! Why in the world do you need that many eggs all at one time? It's not like the stores are closing down tomorrow!” He's clearly disgusted with me and simply states “Because they're ON SALE! And the sale ends Tuesday!” At that I reach over to his refrigerator and pull open the door, saying “Do you even have room in here for 8 dozen...what the heck?!” Much to my amazement there were 12 dozen eggs in there already (see photo above), neatly stacked along the right side of the fridge and patiently awaiting their fate. “Dad! You have 12 dozen in here already! I can't even do the math for how many eggs that is and you want to add 8 dozen MORE?!” He was non-plussed, gave me his most sincere stink-eye, repeated slowly “THEY. ARE. ON. SALE!”....and wandered off down the hall muttering to “mama” about not being able to drive anymore and what the hell is he supposed to do when all he wants are a few eggs. “Mama” of course, is his late wife, my mother in law, with whom he holds an ongoing conversation all day. Mostly they talk about their dead dog, Mugsy, and the lousy weather but I have many memories of their lively shouting matches when she was still alive and I think he enjoys her more now that she's passed...she doesn't talk back. But again, I digress. As I headed toward the door to go shopping, I could feel the sting of her own post-mortem disapproval aimed at me, so I did the only thing I could. I called my husband, Grampy's son and passed it off on him.

Eating breakfast, Grampy explains why he needs more eggs.

Mike is Grampy's warden as well as his savior. Without his son, Mike, Grampy would be in a world of hurt. Heck, Grampy would be in a nursing home griping at the indifferent staff and tripping innocent little old ladies walking down the hallways in their blue robes and frizzled pink hair. Mike is made of sterner stuff than I am and immediately asked me to hand the phone to his dad. He patiently explained to his dad about the expiration dates on egg cartons and told Tex there would be no more eggs until he ate most of what he already had. Grampy hung up the phone crest-fallen. Defeated. It broke my heart. I left the house and came back an hour later with four dozen eggs...a compromise, a peace offering, a gesture of my affection. (shhh....don't tell Mike) He was asleep in his recliner. An almost-empty plate of scrambled eggs on his lap, a bit of egg-goo stuck to his bottom lip and a smile of pure bliss on his face.

Who am I to stand between an old man and his love of breakfast?

Coffee, Tea or Grampy?

You can say a lotta things about Grampy but you can't say he doesn't love his cuppa joe. He makes a fresh pot of Folgers first thing every morning and drinks the whole pot. After he's done, he makes another pot. And proceeds this way througout the day until 9pm at night when he finishes his last cup with a bowl of popcorn and a good western on TV. He told me that a few years ago the doctor told him to cut down on his coffee consumption—that he was drinking too much caffeine. “But you haven't, have you?” I noticed as he drained his cup. He gave me a wink and said “I just make it real weak so there's not much caffeine in there at all anymore. That way I can still drink a lot” He was rather proud of his ingeniousness I could tell. “But do you actually LIKE it that weak? It looks like weak tea to me”, I said. “Hell no I don't like it!” he shouted over his shoulder as he put another pot on. Subject closed. Move on, Cathy, move on....

That brought pictures to my mind of Grampy in his pj's sitting at his kitchen table at the crack of dawn cradling the coffeemaker, gulping down cup after cup of hot coffee-water and keeping track on a notepad sitting on the table next to him—which might not be too far from the truth except there isn't a clear space at his kitchen table for anything, let alone a coffeemaker. He has organized piles of—well let's call a spade a spade and the crap on his table we'll just call crap. Bills that have been paid are all in one pile. Bills that haven't been paid are in another. Receipts for groceries are in yet another pile. Receipts for Wienerschnitzel stand tall and proud in their own pile. He even rinses out used Der Weinerschnitzel napkins and sets them out on the table to dry so he can use them again. Mailers, flyers, junk mail...nothing is discarded, nothing is overlooked. He was opening a letter from some Indian Organization asking for money one day. (Feather, not Dot) Cursing, he said he wasn't going to send them any more money. “I've sent them three dollars, five times now and they keep sending me letters asking for More!” he complained “Do they want blood from a turnip?” I tried to explain non-profit organizations, fundraising and computer mailing lists to him and failed. Finally I just said “Dad you know how Santa has a Naughty list and a Nice list? Well so do the American Indians and you, my friend, are on their Nice list.” He put the letter and the 4x6 photo of poor little barefoot and crying Indian children back into the envelope and placed it neatly in the “Letters Begging For More of My Damn Money” pile on the table. “Dad why don't you just throw it away?” I wondered out loud. He silently shook his head at my ignorance and went back to his recliner to finish his Top Ramen. Hand to God. I kid you not.

What Would Tex Ritter Do?

Grampy telling me what happens next...

I went over to Grampy's trailer park tonight to check up on him. He had minor surgery on his feet a week and a half ago and I go over to make sure he's taking his medicine then I soak his feet in epsom salts and change his bandages. While his feet are soaking we watch Spaghetti Westerns on the TV. He's seen every western movie out there half a dozen times and feels it his duty to let me know what I've missed and what will happen next. “Don't think that red headed woman is going to be OK” he'll say to me, narrowing his eyes at me to make sure I understand the gravity of the situation. “She'll get shot dead once they get the horses around that big rock.” Then, sure enough, BAM she get's shot. “Happens every time” he says, shaking his head.

His Favorite Shows

He has a remote control but his TV is permanently tuned to 570   the Western Channel. With over 900 channels available on the satellite, he's scared spitless that if he changes the station he'll never find his way back to The Western Channel and that would be a complete disaster. He was wondering out loud if they had finally put some Chuck Norris shows on the Western Channel. “Dad” I said “That would go against everything that Roy Rogers and Gene Autrey stood and fought for. You are either a White Man or an Indian if you're on this channel. Black Belt Karate-Jujitsu Fighters would stand out like a yellow polka dot bikini on Miss Kitty. It just wouldn't work”. He seemed so disappointed that I took the remote and did the unthinkable. I changed the channel...and found Walker Texas Ranger on another channel—308. Lo and behold they were having a marathon of Walker Texas Ranger! I hit the jackpot. “Look, dad! There's Chuck Norris over here on 308! And it's ALL DAY!” Grampy looked real nervous when I did that. He moved to the edge of his seat and I saw a tiny bit of saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth as he looked, horrified at the new channel on the screen. His right eye began to twitch. Alarmed, I quickly turned the channel back to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on 570. The sight of Clint Eastwood quickly brought Grampy back around and I could almost feel his heart rate slowing down again as he settled back into his recliner, slowly exhaling.

I got up and made another pot of weak coffee and poured him a cup to distract him. Handing it to him, I steeled myself for a ranting diatribe of the Western Channel's one shortcoming...no Walker Texas Ranger. “What?” he said when I brought it up “Oh. Chuck Norris. Yeah I like him. I wonder if they have Walker Texas Ranger on the Western Channel yet”. “No” I simply sighed. “No dad, they don't.”

Pythagorean's Theroem and How It's Ruining My Life

Leah and Lorynne - Laughing at my ignorance, no doubt

We are getting a dog. This is such a monumental shock to me that just seeing it typed there on this page makes me want to give it its own paragraph.



It's all because of Pythagorean's Theorem. I was reading something on the internet and that pesky old Geometrical Nightmare popped onto the screen. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat, feeling the ghostly presence of Sister Angelino, my high school Geometry teacher, looking over my shoulder, tapping her ruler on her left palm and impatiently waiting for my answer to her question. “Mary Catherine, how do you find the sum of the side opposite the 60 degree angle?” Quiet Desperation. Silent cursing. Move on Sister Angelino. Move on to the next poor soul. I didn't know it then and I sure as heck don't know it now.

OK Google said it backwards. Very clever Google

At that moment, I happened to have three intelligent teenage girls in the room and I offered the question to them. “What is Pythagorean's Theorem?” If anyone knows, I figured, it would be a teenager. They are right in the thick of genuine academia...mingling with geometric and algebraic equations on a daily basis. They ignored me like a blind P.E. teacher asking them to take another lap. Then Leah (13) looked up. Leah is a Mathlete. Leah is Gifted and Talented. Truth be told, ALL my grandchildren are Gifted and Talented in diverse areas. Lorynne and Kate are smart as whips, and sing and play the piano like angels. Georgia also plays piano, and reads books well beyond her 8 years of age. All 4 boys are Lego Engineering Geniuses and can re-enact every light sabre fight in every Star Wars movie and every sword fight in every Pirates of the Caribbean movie combined. No small feat in itself.  Leah the mathlete finally put down her ipod and looked at me with tolerant affection... like I was a feeble granny asking if Spongebob lives in a treehouse in the desert. “Gram” she said, assuming the answer to my question was Common Knowledge, “Pythagorean's Theorem is A-squared + B-squared = C-squared.” Then she went back to her ipod and her youtube and her gum-popping, giggling cousins.
  
I was impressed, yet chagrined. Unh uh, no way, I quickly said to myself. That's a 5 cent answer to a $10 question. It can't be that easy and how would a pipsqueak 8^th grader know that? I didn't almost-but-never-really-learn Pythagorean's Theorem till sophomore year in High School. (Go away Sister Angelino). Well I'm no math whiz but I do know how to google. Sure enough. Leah was right. That's Pythagorean's Theorem in a nut shell. I read the whole page despite the intimidating charts and graphs and flowery math-language those brainiacs at Google like to impress us with.

Grampy and Suzy on Alice's Couch

And that's when it hit me. I'm getting a dog. “A-squared” = Grampy, adopting his friend Alice's dog. Alice is going into a nursing home and said he could have Suzy. Grampy loves Suzy more than he loves Chuck Norris but hold up there... “B-squared” = Grampy going into the hospital soon to have surgery. Gasp! He's 87 years old and despite what the capitalistic, medicare-gouging doctors say, will he ever “bounce back” from major surgery at his age? I was born at night but I wasn't born last night. He ain't never bouncing anywhere again. He'll be moving in with us. For good. That takes us to “C squared “= Grampy with nothing else to live for but Suzy and then there's me, unable to begrudge Grampy this dog he loves so much. To summarize: I'm getting a dog. A squared + B squared = C squared.

Math is non-negotiable. Resistance to the Nerd gods
of Geometry is futile. I need to stock up on dog toys.
Curse you Pythagorean.