Episode 2. Valentines Day

2018.FEB.14 - Wednesday

I don't usually look forward to the weekly shopping ordeal, but this week seemed slightly different. Since I started the blog last week, I had actually begun to look forward to the trip. I hoped that Dad would come up with some amusing 'Art-ism' or witty quip. I even thought of a couple of 'topics' that might boost the conversation.

Dad isn't feeling very spry. Lately, his arthritic hips have been giving him trouble, and it seems painful for him to get up from any sitting position. My low Jeep seats seem especially problematic this morning ... I ask if he wants to take his cane, just in case, but he declines. 

I have asked him several times if he wants to go to the doctor about this? "Noooo! I have arthritis medicine that's supposed to take care of it. It's just arthritis. Nothing they can do about it." A very stubborn and stoic man is my father. (I'm so glad I did not inherit THAT gene.)

We had had pizza with a couple of friends in Cherry Creek the evening before, and the atmosphere had been rather tense between the two of them. They had once been 'A Couple', but that had not worked out, and they're still trying to be friends. 

• Good friends are mighty hard to come by, out here, and especially after 'a certain age'.) 

If he had noticed the strain, Dad made no indication. I sneaked the woman a sympathetic expression, and later she remarked enthusiastically, "I'm so glad you're here!" 

Now, we're in the car waiting for the mail carrier to deposit something into the big metal mailbox in the long bank of metal mailboxes, before we take off for town. He can't wait to get on the highway to start the discussion: "She is such a nice gal. If those two could just get along, they'd be really good for each other."

"Yes, they would. But they won't." I shake my head. "She says she'd like to live here -- just not with him."

"Well, she could live with me!"

I'm a little surprised to hear this coming from him. "Well, that might be good, too! I really like her."  

• Can't help chuckling a bit, as my mind chases that thought to the place where my 88 year old father steals the lover of his 80 year old best friend .... I think there's a movie plot in there somewhere. Both guys are certainly grumpy enough.

Once on the pavement, I step on the gas a bit to get out of the way of the garbage truck behind us. Wednesday mornings, I could set my calendar by them. 

I had just read an article on Facebook about an elk in Utah that was being pursued by a helicopter. According to the clip, the animal had "leaped" unexpectedly, caught the rotor with it's antlers, and crashed the aircraft. Dad had seen that on TV .... He thought it was a pretty freaky thing. 

"I wish mustangs had horns," I muse. 

• Helicopters and wild horses; never far from my mind, but now my heart is heavier than ever, knowing the wild horses in our own backyard are being stampeded and taken to possible oblivion.

"There are some hikers trapped up on Mount Hood ..."

OK. We're not going to talk about wild horses this morning.

He goes on to explain, "It must've rained on top of the snow and now it's so icy they can't get out. They have enough food for a couple of days, so they're prob'ly gonna be OK until they can figure out how to get the rest of them out."

At the main highway, I kick it up to seventy-four and leave the garbage truck that's been trailing us for the last eight miles far in the distance. 

• Passing by Schellbourne station is a sad moment, considering the utterly vicious vandalism that has befallen that old institution in the two years or so since it was last - briefly- occupied. The motel room doors are wide open, windows broken, and in the old barroom, the famous Pony Express Trail mural has been painted over ... for what 'reason' would be anybody's guess. 

• We don't talk about it anymore. It's like passing through a bad neighborhood: just get through there as quickly as possible, and try not to run over some dumbass from Idaho who's playing "Beat The Clock" by rushing to exit the rest area from a dead stop, in the apparent hope of getting ahead of oncoming seventy mile an hour traffic. This is 'the norm'. As an object lesson, sometimes I stay hot and pass them before they get to the end of the northbound turning lane.

An NHP trooper has somebody pulled over in the northbound lane, just as we're approaching the second passing lane, southbound. 

"This is not a good time to be a cop," Dad remarks, quoting an outrageously high number of police officers that have been killed in the line of duty, this year - and which I do not now recall.

He starts telling me about a TV program he had just watched, about "ghost guns" - which come as a kit, can be assembled in a relatively short time: "They even come with taps and drills," he says shaking his head. "Anybody can order them, and you can get them in just about any kind of gun you can imagine. Glocks or Lugers ..."

I ponder this information, shaking my head. "Wow!"

"I'm sure they must be pretty expensive," he goes on. (With Dad, it always comes down to the budget). "A Luger will run about $600." 

• Unlike everyone else in my family, I am not a lover of firearms.

We drive the rest of the short distance to McGill in silence, not even imagining the events that were about to unfold on the other side of the continent, in Florida.

• As many times as I have passed through McGill, the short gauntlet through my old hometown rarely fails to evoke a sentimental nostalgia for me. We pass by the house we lived in for seven years -- the longest I've lived anywhere in one place, until my latest incarnation in Cherry Creek (where I have somehow been anchored for going on 14 years). I attended third through eighth grade in McGill, and lived there until my junior year of high school. It was a very good place to grow up, though I might not have appreciated just HOW good, at the time. There was a saying among kids back then, "If you live in McGill, at least you can go to Ely. If you live in Ely, there's nowhere to go."
  
  (The unspoken exception was in the summertime, when sneaking into the McGill pool at night, to go skinny dipping, was a popular teen adventure. )

I have a fairly long list of stops to make, today: Landfill, Assessor, Bank, Senior Citizens Center, Thrift Store (optional), and the standard 3 stops: Ridley's, Bath, and the Texaco.

Landfill conversation: 

Me: "This operation has been in the local news, lately."

He: "Oh?"

Me: "Yeah, Well, it's all about ALL of Ely city government. They're broke, and trying to figure out what to cut. Salaries and benefits -- whether to cut back city workers, or start at the top and work down. They want to close the recycling center." I figured that last part would get him going ... he's been more perturbed with the landfill than usual lately, since he got a notice that he is going to have to start paying the fee, whether he utilizes the facility or not.

He: "Yeah, well THIS place, they could turn it over to some private enterprise and cut a lot of the costs." 

On the way back out, he points to a plethora of heavy equipment parked next to the office. "LOOK at all this stuff! There's about a million dollars worth of equipment just sitting here. It's so stupid!"

Pressing on to the County Assessor's office down by the railroad depot in East Ely ... Here, I had to make a tough call; whether to take the shorter route through residential territory, or drive two or three 'extra' blocks up to the main drag and then back down again. I opted for stop signs, knowing that was going to bug the old duff. It was a no-win situation. To my surprise, he said nothing about my choice, and came inside while I took care of my taxation issue where once again, I had to explain to the clerk that my deed needs to be worded differently. She says that I need to hire an attorney to do that. "But ... It's YOUR mistake!"  

Faced with such an implausible scenario, she stops and looks me in the eyes, "What? What is the problem?"

"It needs to be 'Diane Ruggles AND Arla Ruggles'. Not DIANE & ARLA Ruggles. We are not ... a ... unit. We are completely separate entities. Do you see what I mean?"

Oh. She informs me that it was done that way because there isn't room for it the other way on the card. No problem! She starts typing.

"If you could put my name first, that would be a good thing. Diane is deceased."

"You're Arla?"

I nod, biting back the impulse to blurt, "Yeah. I'm not the dead one."

Done and done. I'd like to think the actual Deed is fixed, but I suppose that would be asking too much. At least they'll be mailing documents to me from now on, instead of to a ghost.

On to the bank, to assure them that it was, indeed, myself who changed the email address on my online checking account. I'm not happy about this situation, but it is what it is.

• I love my little hometown bank! I get the most personal service I've ever had from a bank. One of the supervisors was a classmate. She takes care of everything.

Onward to the Seniors' Center to pick up my usual and we're done. The director there was my sister's classmate, and her sister was in my class. She's very amiable to me. I wish I could convince the old man to stop here for lunch once in a while, but he seems averse to the idea. I don't push the issue.

Dad decides to come into the thrift store with me, for a change. While I am grabbing bedding (there are never enough blankets when you have three dogs), he finds the jeans rack in the men's section, and waits for me to dig out some gently worn Wranglers in his size. (I take him at his word, as to what size he wears.)  My sister would not be caught dead in a place like this, but Dad and I both appreciate a bargain.

The best thing about Ridley's - in fact one of the few things we find pleasant about the whole grocery store experience, is that Dad almost always runs into people that know him .... THEY have to recognize him first, unless they are familiar to me, because he cannot see anyone until they are very very close to his face. 

• Grocery shopping is an exhausting ordeal for me, but I have developed a strategy that's less frustrating: When Dad makes his usual stop at the restroom, I kick it into gear and dash around the store filling my list from those departments that he isn't inclined to venture into. By the time he comes out, I have gathered what I need, and have my eyes free to read labels and locate items he isn't able to identify.
• I dislike the local store immensely - but it's our only real option in this county, so I try to spend as little time there as possible.
  
  I could shop for both of us in half the time (or less) than it takes with Dad along - but this is where MOST of his socializing occurs, and it's important for him to keep moving - even if it seems to me like slo-mo to the slow-mo x3.

True to standard, in the produce section, Dad is approached by an attractive older woman with permanently rendered eyebrows. She recognizes him from when her husband had worked for him at Taylor (Mine).

• He told me later that he didn't remember ever meeting her before, but he remembered her husband very well. "He was a really good cat skinner." (eg. dozer operator)

The lady asks if he still lives in Cherry Creek, and upon confirmation of that, she replies, "That's GOOD! Do you live there alone?" 

"Yes."

I was standing less than ten feet away, trying not to eavesdrop, but being available in the event I might be needed ... he doesn't hear well (especially women's voices). When the lady pauses for breath, Dad squints and seems to be scanning the area: "My daughter is around here, somewhere .... "

I wave. "Hello!"

He introduces me as his youngest daughter. No names -- he probably doesn't remember hers. 

We exchange pleasantries, and she asks me if I remember her from when my family lived at Schellbourne? "Um ... No. I was in second grade then."

A man hails my dad from beside the bananas. "You'll have to get closer," I encourage him. "He can't see who you are." (and I have no clue either.) 

They make introductions -- another mining connection. It's a brief interlude, but long enough for the friendly lady to disconnect and move on.

Checkout involves a little strategy, as I try to time it so I'm done by the time he needs me to come and help with the credit card process. The checkers know us, and the drill, by now, so if I'm at another check-stand they'll wave me over to do it, or once in a while the clerk will be able to handle it without my sasistance.

Finally finished with our least favorite activity, we head back in the direction from whence we came.

There is the obligatory fuel stop at the Texaco. The pump, as usual, refuses to spit out a receipt. I report to my boss: "Twenty dollars. $2.60 a gallon."

Bath Lumber is our last stop in Ely, and as with the grocery store, Dad nearly always encounters someone he knows. Usually someone that has worked for him in the past. 

• The staff at Bath Lumber are very kind to us, as they patiently guide Dad around, reading labels, and "showing him" merchandise he is interested in. Some of them know us well enough to give me that knowing look of amusement, as he invariably reacts when they tell him the price of things. "Whew! I used to get these by the  hundreds and they cost ____ a pound". 
  
• Yes, he still remembers how much he spent on screws in 1985.

An hour later, as we were heading back toward McGill and our usual stop at Bradley's Market for his wine, meat, and frozen dinners, I mention the friendly widow with tattooed eyebrows. Dad says, "Yeah. I could tell there was SOMETHING there. They were so ... They really stood out!"

And he starts telling me about that cat skinner that had been that lady's husband: "He was really good .... but he was REALLY afraid of ice."

"Ice?"

For half of the 15 minute journey to McGill, I am regaled with the hazards of operating a D-9 in icy conditions. "Once it starts to slide, there is nothing you can do. If that thing flips over, it's going to land right on ya. Run right over ya." Graphic images flood my mind. The rest of the ride is pretty quiet.

In McGill, we stop at Bradley's Market. It's more a matter of ritual than of need. We agreed long ago that we want to support businesses in McGill as much as possible. If there were an operating gas station there, we'd probably go to Ely less often. Bradley's has a nicer selection of produce, and often those prices are a little bit lower than Ridley's (most other prices are a little higher). Dad likes their meat counter and frozen foods. It's a lot easier for him to navigate than the bigger store, and -- just like the other -- we're apt to run into familiar people. The clerks are very nice to us, too. The steeply-slanting parking situation is a bit of a challenge for an old man with arthritis, and he usually remarks about " .... Why they built this town on a hill ... ?"

Home stretch. Hurrah! ... "Those clouds look like they might be holding snow. We really need some!"

"Yeah, we do."

He's usually wide awake all the way back to Cherry Creek, but this day he dozes off until we're nearly to the turn-off. Dad hasn't been sleeping well, and the pain in his lower back is wearing him down.

I don't know how many more times Dad and I will be taking this long and arduous journey together. I guess we'll just keep getting on down the road for as long as he will let me drive.

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