2018.MAR.09 - FRIDAY
Yesterday (Thursday), Dad finally conceded to seek professional help with the rash that has been plaguing him for weeks, now. After having tried every home remedy and over-the-counter ointment imaginable, the original rash remained about the same, and was then joined by some nasty-looking blistery sores that oozed, and eventually began to burst and then those left painful sores. Given that Dad is diabetic, any kind of sores are not anything to be trifled with.
A friend of his suggested that it looked like shingles to him, and people I described it to, thought the same thing. What was different about it, was that he had not experienced any of the precursor conditions usually associated with shingles, nor did he have the typical pain that accompanies the viral outbreak.
He didn't want to go in immediately, but we agreed that we would get an early start and go in to the emergency room, this morning. I had also scheduled an appointment for him with a regular doctor at the clinic, with the earliest available appointment being on Wednesday next, however, we agreed that this condition should not wait another week without attention.
At the appointed time (about 20 minutes earlier than usual), we set off on a trip that neither of us was relishing.
The last time we had gone to the ER for treatment, we waited more than four hours before anyone even looked at him. On that occasion, though, it was fully understandable to us that Dad's eraser-in-the-ear took a backseat to diabetic comas and bleeding wounds ....
Nevertheless, I expected today's experience to be little different since again, he was not bleeding or cyanotic.
I was a few minutes early, and caught him in the middle of breakfast: a large bowl of cereal. "Do your cats drink milk?" he wondered.
"They like it, but I don't give it to them very often, and then, not very much. My dogs get more milk than the cats do."
He proceeded to tell me that the milk he had had stored in the freezer for a few months, tasted 'flat'. "I used it to make pudding and it was alright, but it tastes like that separated milk we used to get."
"Like skim milk?"
"Yeah." and hence he described the machine used to separate fresh milk from the cream.
"When frozen milk thaws," I informed him, "the water part thaws first, so if you don't shake it up, then the water part comes out first, and the heavier part stays in the bottom of the container."
- I know this because my 80 year old General Motors Frigidaire freezes everything whenever I neglect to defrost it once a week.
"So the next half should be really good, then?"
"Yep. It's heavier and a little sweet."
"Yep. It's heavier and a little sweet."
Rolling on down the hill, I opt for the most direct route, straight through instead of heading to the main road. As we pass the house of a recently deceased neighbor, I tell Dad that there was an obituary online now, and reminded him that the funeral will be held on Sunday, the 18th.
"Where was Wally born?"
"Oklahoma."
"Oklahoma."
"Okla-fornian, huh."
"If you say so."
We've got another warm day to look forward to; it's already 46 degrees at just nine o'clock.
"It's going to be a really nice day. Makes me want to start tilling the garden."
"I'm thinking about planting some squash" he says. "I can't believe they want sixty cents a pound for squash."
- I love growing squash, and especially pumpkins. The bodacious leaves and elegant vines add so much ambiance - and shade - to my treeless yard, and pumpkins are my favorite decorative item for Fall. Halloween is the only holiday I still celebrate with gusto.
- Last year, I hadn't planted anything at all, as I had intended to be at home less. My plan didn't exactly come together, so it was a dreary Halloween, made all the more so by the absence of pumpkins
- I intend to plant some things this year - whether I do any traveling, or not. Maybe I'll set up an automatic watering system like so many of my neighbors have now.
"I have seeds if you want some."
"Do ya? Those last acorn squash I bought weren't very good. I got a little one sitting on my counter that's been there for over a week, and it still isn't ripe."
"This time of year? It's more likely too ripe. The skin should be shiny and black."
"It isn't. The last one I bought - it was just a little bitty one - and the seeds inside weren't even all the way formed. It was really hard."
"It was picked too soon, and has been stored all winter. It's never going to be ripe." (And I have one just like it on the counter in my kitchen. It's destined to be dogfood.)
Rolling stop at the highway, and we're southbound. The sky is almost white, but with a faint bluish tinge. There are no clouds defined. It isn't dark enough to be considered overcast ... I ponder the descriptor and all I can think of is "a whiter shade of pale." (Great! Now that tune is stuck in my head - but I don't remember all the lyrics, so the chorus just keeps repeating.... "hm hm hm just ghosting" ... hm hm hm ... turned a WHITER shade of Paaaale ...." Fortunately (?) then my brain got impatient with the annoying skips, and seguay'ed itself into "Stairway to Heaven" - which is a much more tolerable earworm. At least, I know most of the words.)
"Time changes this weekend." he reminds me. Some people complain about the switch back from Daylight Savings Time, but Dad and I like to think of it as one more sign that spring is near. He is often wont to say that it gives his spirits a lift once he can notice the days getting longer, and he feels like "We're gonna make it through another winter." I'm ready for that. Always.
"I wonder if Wally's wife will stay in Cherry Creek?"
" I think she might. She has put a lot into that little house and yard."
- The house is among the oldest residences still standing in Cherry Creek, though its true age is belied by a fairly recent application of vinyl siding, and aluminum frame windows.
- Before then-bachelor Wally bought the house, it had belonged to my grandmother. My grandfather - Dad's father - died in that house. I visited there once several years after that, and was amused to observe that virtually nothing about the interior had changed since Grandma lived there with her third husband, in the 1980's. The paint was the same; even the drapes were the same ones I remembered Mom putting up, when they were getting ready to lease the house as an office for a little mining start-up that didn't last more than a year or two. When I commented about that, the occupant had replied, "Well, I like them, so why would I change them?"
- A recent photo of the newly deceased showed those same deer-in-the-forest graphic curtains behind him. They certainly have held up well!
"I think she likes it here. Maybe it will depend upon whether her ex decides to make a nuisance of himself .... Or maybe she'll stay around just to bug him." (That's my dark side sense of humor working overtime.)
We talked a little bit about life insurance and pensions, and the cost of living in Cherry Creek, as compared to most other places.
"It really isn't easy to live alone out here - especially for a woman."
The rest of the ride was quiet; there's nothing stirring in McGill before nine AM, and just a bit of traffic between there and Ely.
I drop Dad off at the entrance to ER and park the car at the nearest handicap space along the sidewalk on the south side of the building.
There's no one else in the waiting area, and he's already seated at the admissions window when I come in. I can hear him describing his symptoms: "It started with a rash," he rubs his thigh. "I thought it was a bug bite at first. And then it spread up here ..... and then it started working it's way down ... and then it turned into some like water blisters ....
"What's your date of birth, Arthur?"
"It started with a rash .... "
"July 17, 1930." I say very loudly.
OK, she's got his file (which is pretty much empty, except for the report from last time we were in here; when he had a pencil eraser stuck in his ear). His regular doctors are all in Elko. He has an appointment with a DO here, next Wednesday.
I translate her questions - not because she's difficult to understand, but that he doesn't hear women's voices very clearly, and she's sitting about two feet back from the hole in the glass. I have the habit of dropping my voice an octave or two, and ramping up the volume a couple of decibels in order to be heard. Sometimes, it sounds like shouting - and then, I suspect he's trying to read my lips and/or guess at what it is I am trying to say.
An orderly in scrubs comes around around with a wrist band.
"You're going to brand me?"
"Yes, I am branding you."
I don't think of my father as being exactly "a cut up" - but I have seen his sense of humor come to the surface in other situations like this.
We're told to have a seat, and I take that as an opportunity to "check out the facilities", leaving my jacket on the bench next to Dad. As I'm washing my hands, I can hear him through the door, saying something about "my daughter", and then a reassuring-sounding female voice.
By the time I come out, they have disappeared down a corridor. An attendant comes from the office area and pressed the combination on the key pad to allow me to follow. I'm directed by hand signal from a woman behind the high counter, into a curtained cubicle with a wide sliding glass door. Dad's leaning against the roller bed, as two nurses ask him pretty much the same question he had answered TWICE in the admitting area - about what has brought him here today?
Unbuckling his belt and sliding the trousers down to reveal the source of his discomfort, he sits back on the bed.
"Shingles!" they both note in unison, looking at the angry red rash on his thigh.
I think we're both relieved to hear their confident, uncomplicated diagnosis.
"I'll have to tell Ray that he was right." He makes that sideways smirk, as if he's not pleased to have to do that - but I understand that he's just being funny.
"Yep."
They help him out of his clothes and into a hospital gown, ask about his medical history and prescriptions.
"Are we scaring you?" teases the other.
"It's not you that he's scared of," I quip. "It's the bill!"
The doctor's an average-size fellow wearing large black-frame glasses. He's maybe in his mid- to late 40's, with square jaw, high-and-tight ginger crop, and serious expression that all combine to say, "military" to me.
- No need to extrapolate on that point: Dad and I both live our solitary lives, each of which would be almost completely devoid of human contact without one another ... And, in my case, the internet; in his, TV and telephone.
"I like that shirt." It's a light gray pullover knit, with short zipper at the neck. "No bulgy buttons."
"I like it, too. No buttons to fool with. No pockets. It's nice to sleep in. Keeps my shoulders warm."
I decide not to ask the obvious next question: "Did you sleep in it last night?"
The rest of the ride was quiet; there's nothing stirring in McGill before nine AM, and just a bit of traffic between there and Ely.
I drop Dad off at the entrance to ER and park the car at the nearest handicap space along the sidewalk on the south side of the building.
There's no one else in the waiting area, and he's already seated at the admissions window when I come in. I can hear him describing his symptoms: "It started with a rash," he rubs his thigh. "I thought it was a bug bite at first. And then it spread up here ..... and then it started working it's way down ... and then it turned into some like water blisters ....
"What's your date of birth, Arthur?"
"It started with a rash .... "
"July 17, 1930." I say very loudly.
OK, she's got his file (which is pretty much empty, except for the report from last time we were in here; when he had a pencil eraser stuck in his ear). His regular doctors are all in Elko. He has an appointment with a DO here, next Wednesday.
I translate her questions - not because she's difficult to understand, but that he doesn't hear women's voices very clearly, and she's sitting about two feet back from the hole in the glass. I have the habit of dropping my voice an octave or two, and ramping up the volume a couple of decibels in order to be heard. Sometimes, it sounds like shouting - and then, I suspect he's trying to read my lips and/or guess at what it is I am trying to say.
An orderly in scrubs comes around around with a wrist band.
"You're going to brand me?"
"Yes, I am branding you."
I don't think of my father as being exactly "a cut up" - but I have seen his sense of humor come to the surface in other situations like this.
We're told to have a seat, and I take that as an opportunity to "check out the facilities", leaving my jacket on the bench next to Dad. As I'm washing my hands, I can hear him through the door, saying something about "my daughter", and then a reassuring-sounding female voice.
By the time I come out, they have disappeared down a corridor. An attendant comes from the office area and pressed the combination on the key pad to allow me to follow. I'm directed by hand signal from a woman behind the high counter, into a curtained cubicle with a wide sliding glass door. Dad's leaning against the roller bed, as two nurses ask him pretty much the same question he had answered TWICE in the admitting area - about what has brought him here today?
Unbuckling his belt and sliding the trousers down to reveal the source of his discomfort, he sits back on the bed.
"Shingles!" they both note in unison, looking at the angry red rash on his thigh.
I think we're both relieved to hear their confident, uncomplicated diagnosis.
"I'll have to tell Ray that he was right." He makes that sideways smirk, as if he's not pleased to have to do that - but I understand that he's just being funny.
"Yep."
They help him out of his clothes and into a hospital gown, ask about his medical history and prescriptions.
- (Note to self: "Bring that list along, when we come back in on Wednesday.")
"Are we scaring you?" teases the other.
"It's not you that he's scared of," I quip. "It's the bill!"
Things are moving along smoothly, and much faster than they had on our previous visit.
The attendants deftly set up an IV, take several vials of blood, do an EKG, and then whisk him away in a wheelchair for chest x-rays and an ultrasound to check for blood clots.
The last two things took more than half an hour. I draped my jacket over my knees and sat there quietly in the cubicle. Just thinking. One of the nurses came in and offered to get me a blanket.
With all that out of the way, we wait. And wait.
The attendants deftly set up an IV, take several vials of blood, do an EKG, and then whisk him away in a wheelchair for chest x-rays and an ultrasound to check for blood clots.
The last two things took more than half an hour. I draped my jacket over my knees and sat there quietly in the cubicle. Just thinking. One of the nurses came in and offered to get me a blanket.
With all that out of the way, we wait. And wait.
Waiting ...........
- EMT's arrive with a patient from Baker, and that naturally takes priority over the old man resting quietly in the next cubicle.
So we wait another fifteen minutes. A nurse comes in - presumably to assure us that we have not been forgotten. Then the doctor pokes his head in to tell us that the tests are back, and the wound care specialist will be along shortly.
After a while, a chubby jovial guy walks in with a kit that's fairly bulging with bandages and ointments. He chatters merrily while examining Dad's legs.
Both legs are wrapped, first with pink Calamine lotion-infused cotton gauze bandage, and then an outer layer of synthetic self-adhesive bandage in fluorescent green. He happily explains that when this stuff is marketed as 'vet wrap', it's very cheap, but in this application it's called something else, which makes it many times more expensive. He chuckles. Dad and I grimace.
- I have used the stuff on my dog, Ruby, when she has had one of her many calamitous wrecks, and I can tell you that I do not consider it cheap ... I can only imagine how much it's going to add to the bill. (Thank goodness, I am not the one who's going to have to pay for it.)
- One of the nurses makes a funny comment about his fancy leg wraps, and he in turn quips: "I feel like a racehorse."
The specialist tells us that the bandages should stay on until we come back for the next appointment, on Wednesday, explaining that they might feel very tight, as the swelling increases, and that restriction would force the infection to go up into the body, and be expelled from there. We need to make an appointment with the physical therapy lab, downstairs. "There are three of us down there, and any one of us can do what you need, next time."
While Dad's waiting for his final release, I go looking for the "wound care" department - which is part of the physical therapy unit; though one of the ladies at the admitting desk did not know that little detail, until a more experienced tech explains it, and gives me good directions: "Go around that corner, and down the stairs."
So I go back up the stairs and tell the nurse at the counter that we need a prescription for Dad's physical therapy next week. She turns to the doctor, who is seated at the next station, and relays what I have just said - and which he probably already heard.
Dad's finally getting dressed, and is ready to bust out of there ... but first: a stop at the nearest restroom.
- Have you ever noticed how, when people have been doing a certain job for a really long time, they sort of expect everyone else to know stuff?
So I go back up the stairs and tell the nurse at the counter that we need a prescription for Dad's physical therapy next week. She turns to the doctor, who is seated at the next station, and relays what I have just said - and which he probably already heard.
Dad's finally getting dressed, and is ready to bust out of there ... but first: a stop at the nearest restroom.
Out the door, in the door, up the long, long corridor to the pharmacy, we go. Once there, we're told that it will be 30 minutes before they can fill his order. I suggest to Dad that he take a seat, and I'll go around and bring the Jeep up to the front door. Rather than go back down the corridor, I take the external route, enjoying the blast of fresh air as I'm walking down to get the car.
By the time I get back, he's standing outside the front door. "What's up?"
"They didn't have enough of one of the medicines, so we'll have to go to Ridley's."
Don't you know by now, just how much we 'love' Ridley's Market ...
"Episode 5.1: Shingles All The Way (Part Two)"
By the time I get back, he's standing outside the front door. "What's up?"
"They didn't have enough of one of the medicines, so we'll have to go to Ridley's."
Don't you know by now, just how much we 'love' Ridley's Market ...
"Episode 5.1: Shingles All The Way (Part Two)"
At Ridley's, the tiny Malaysian pharmacist approaches the window, "Oh. I think I have seen you before, yes?"
- She certainly has SEEN us, either shopping for OTC vitamins, or possibly recalling our expressions of consternation from last week, when we had tried to get her attention to ask for information about rashes and remedies ....
- But no, he has never had a prescription refilled here.
He usually gets them in Elko, or my sister mails them from there.
- OK. Who does NOT see this as a deliberate tactic to get us to spend a few bucks in the grocery store while killing time? Dad and I just look at each other with a snicker.
Typical run, but I have a list of ingredients for potato salad that I am making for the memorial on Sunday. Picking up a jar of mayo, I start down the north end of the store, bearing south along condiments aisle.
At the corner, I encounter a woman that we both know from Bank of America, when that institution lived here in this store, before BoA was bought by Washington Federal (and subsequently moved into a separate building down Great Basin Blvd). The lady works in the court house, now.
She and I exchange pleasant greetings, as I signal to her that Dad is coming along behind me. (She always asks about him whenever I happen to see her out.) He pushes his cart slowly around a rack, "It's Lori ... ," I let him know who he's talking to, while reminding her that he can't see her well enough to recognize her.
She greets him warmly. "Hey, Art! How are you doing? It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you," he says .... "Or it would be, if I could see you."
I wave at them both as I head off in search of the other things I'll need: mustard, pickles ....
Dad's encounter with Lori has been brief, and he's catching up to me as I stand contemplating the mustard. I prefer brown, but yellow is essential for potato salad. I comment as to the purpose of the items in my cart, and he instructs me to put them into his. "That way, we will both have contributed to the event." OK. No argument there.
A dozen eggs, onions, celery, and ... oh, yeah. potatoes. That takes care of the potato salad, but other things keep jumping into my shopping cart.
He initials the electronic pad that states he has read and understands his patient's rights. (Which, of course, he has not and does not.) Then he signs the pad again - full signature. We know it's consent, but aren't entirely sure what we are consenting to.
He wants to know how much each of the prescriptions cost? I read the package upside down thru the glass while the lady enters the numbers into her computer ... "One is $33-something, and the other is 56-something. It's about $100 for both,"
He takes out his credit card and hands it to me to insert into the proper slot.
"Do you have Part D?" asks the lady behind the glass.
"Yes, but I don't think I have that card with me." We delve into his wallet, which is outfitted with a series of clear-window folders - a filing system, of sorts. And he's right; there is no Part D card in any of them.
"Just bring it in with you the next time you come, and I will put it."
I push the card into the slot, wait for authorization, and tell him when to sign. The pharmacist tells me that I could go ahead and sign it.
"Oh, no Ma'am! He likes to sign for himself."
"I'll have to look for that Part D when I get home. I don't keep it with me. I don't need it in Elko."
At the corner, I encounter a woman that we both know from Bank of America, when that institution lived here in this store, before BoA was bought by Washington Federal (and subsequently moved into a separate building down Great Basin Blvd). The lady works in the court house, now.
She and I exchange pleasant greetings, as I signal to her that Dad is coming along behind me. (She always asks about him whenever I happen to see her out.) He pushes his cart slowly around a rack, "It's Lori ... ," I let him know who he's talking to, while reminding her that he can't see her well enough to recognize her.
She greets him warmly. "Hey, Art! How are you doing? It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you," he says .... "Or it would be, if I could see you."
I wave at them both as I head off in search of the other things I'll need: mustard, pickles ....
Dad's encounter with Lori has been brief, and he's catching up to me as I stand contemplating the mustard. I prefer brown, but yellow is essential for potato salad. I comment as to the purpose of the items in my cart, and he instructs me to put them into his. "That way, we will both have contributed to the event." OK. No argument there.
A dozen eggs, onions, celery, and ... oh, yeah. potatoes. That takes care of the potato salad, but other things keep jumping into my shopping cart.
- Although we intended this to be a quick interventionary shopping tour, I have managed to spend nearly $50, and Dad racks up about the same. We knew the half hour diversion had been a set-up.
Back at the store pharmacy, the druggist has the old man's order ready and instructs us to go to the next window. (Again, that thing about expectations ...)
He initials the electronic pad that states he has read and understands his patient's rights. (Which, of course, he has not and does not.) Then he signs the pad again - full signature. We know it's consent, but aren't entirely sure what we are consenting to.
He wants to know how much each of the prescriptions cost? I read the package upside down thru the glass while the lady enters the numbers into her computer ... "One is $33-something, and the other is 56-something. It's about $100 for both,"
He takes out his credit card and hands it to me to insert into the proper slot.
"Do you have Part D?" asks the lady behind the glass.
"Yes, but I don't think I have that card with me." We delve into his wallet, which is outfitted with a series of clear-window folders - a filing system, of sorts. And he's right; there is no Part D card in any of them.
"Just bring it in with you the next time you come, and I will put it."
I push the card into the slot, wait for authorization, and tell him when to sign. The pharmacist tells me that I could go ahead and sign it.
"Oh, no Ma'am! He likes to sign for himself."
"I'll have to look for that Part D when I get home. I don't keep it with me. I don't need it in Elko."
By the time we get out of there, we're both starving. I suggest we try the 'new' drive-in down by the thrift store: Hunter's. He says that's OK.
I turn left onto Campton Street, bypassing traffic lights and traffic, cruise past the cemetery, "Do you want to pay your landfill bill while we're down this way?"
"Not really."
I'm good with that, and turn right then right again, back onto Aultman Street, and toward McGill.
"Drive through, or go in?"
"I don't care. You're the driver."
Dad orders his burger and I go for the chicken sandwich. He wants cola, and I require coffee for the long drive home.
"Twenty seventy-seven." Wonder how much it would have been if we'd had to pay for the fries?
We do the standard wallet snoop: "That's a five. That's a ten."
"I'm sure I had a twenty in here."
"There's one." He pulls it out and dives back in for a one dollar bill, which he locates without further assistance.
I stand at the counter, expecting to receive our order within a couple of minutes, while Dad ambles over to a tiny table near the center of the room. A young guy comes up next to the server behind the counter, asking what size coffee?
She repeats back to me: "What size coffee did you want?"
"Hm ... What size did we pay for?" (Ya know ... ?)
The woman who took our order comes out from behind the counter carrying Dad's drink over to him. I find the condiments tray and feel rewarded to discover they have raw sugar. A couple of those packets should do it. There is no creamer; either liquid or powder (If they only had powder, I would do without). I conducted a thorough search, and then went across the room to investigate the other station. NO creamer. (Sheez.) So I go back to the counter and ask if I can get some cream? Kid pulls out a small carton of Half-N-Half. "Say when ... "
"Just a splash ... that's good." One might have expected the order to be up by now, but there's no indication to that effect, so I grab a handful of brown napkins and sit down at the table across from Dad. .... We sit there for about twenty minutes, during which a person who appears to be the authority figure here, has small conversations with other employees, and then drives away in a big white pickup.
When our food finally arrives, Dad's enormous hamburger is explanation enough, as to why it took so long to cook. His sandwich comes complete with one tiny packet of mustard and a little plastic container of something that might be mayonnaise. The server also thoughtfully provides us with a bottle of ketchup, two little plastic tubs of sauce, and more brown napkins. I ask for ranch dressing, which she heads off to retrieve.
"What's this?" I peruse the orange sauce that I know to be a mixture of mayo, mustard, and ketchup. "Oh. It's'Arctic Circle sauce. We used to call it something else ... something barf sauce'.
"It looks like barf." he agrees [with teenager me].
"Yeah. That's why we called it that."
My menu selection turns out to be a humongous pile of shaved chicken with a flavorless slice of provolone on a big roll. When I pick it up, water runs out in a stream, leaving a milky puddle in the bottom of my waxed paper-lined plastic basket. I squeeze it like a sponge to drain off the swampy fluid, and take a big bite. It's about as flavorless as a sponge, but by this time we are so hungry, and so ready to be on our way, we choke our way through the provisions without talking, except when he asked me, "How much did I pay for this?"
The free fries -- REAL ones, deep-fried to a nice dark brown -- might have been the saving grace of the meal, but they are so heavily dosed with sea salt they need to be slathered with ranch dressing to cut the sting - or rinsed off with a hose. We ate them anyway.
I turn left onto Campton Street, bypassing traffic lights and traffic, cruise past the cemetery, "Do you want to pay your landfill bill while we're down this way?"
"Not really."
I'm good with that, and turn right then right again, back onto Aultman Street, and toward McGill.
"Drive through, or go in?"
"I don't care. You're the driver."
- I'm thinking, "Let's just get our stuff and go." I am tired - I know Dad must be exhausted, and he has already complained that the bandages are too tight, so walking around more might be a challenge; plus my dogs have been alone all day, and they'll be worrying if their dinner is going to be late.
"What do you want, Dad?" "
"Hm. Just a burger."There's no speaker at this point, and nobody behind us, so I don't feel too badly about idling a while ... I can't seem to locate BURGERS on the menu, so I drive around the back, bypassing the drive-up order window, and swing wide to pull into a diagonal space beneath the awning that's supported by gigantic brown cement pillars which remain as permanent reminders of the old Arctic Circle drive-in that used to be housed here --- before any of the several other businesses that have tried and failed in this location.
"Why didn't they paint the lines straight, so you could just pull in from either direction?" he wonders - rhetorically.Burgers are very prominently announced on the indoor menu - one choice: 1/2 pound. We're told that it's "Free Fries Friday", so French fries come free with every order. That's cool.
Dad orders his burger and I go for the chicken sandwich. He wants cola, and I require coffee for the long drive home.
"Twenty seventy-seven." Wonder how much it would have been if we'd had to pay for the fries?
We do the standard wallet snoop: "That's a five. That's a ten."
"I'm sure I had a twenty in here."
"There's one." He pulls it out and dives back in for a one dollar bill, which he locates without further assistance.
I stand at the counter, expecting to receive our order within a couple of minutes, while Dad ambles over to a tiny table near the center of the room. A young guy comes up next to the server behind the counter, asking what size coffee?
She repeats back to me: "What size coffee did you want?"
"Hm ... What size did we pay for?" (Ya know ... ?)
The woman who took our order comes out from behind the counter carrying Dad's drink over to him. I find the condiments tray and feel rewarded to discover they have raw sugar. A couple of those packets should do it. There is no creamer; either liquid or powder (If they only had powder, I would do without). I conducted a thorough search, and then went across the room to investigate the other station. NO creamer. (Sheez.) So I go back to the counter and ask if I can get some cream? Kid pulls out a small carton of Half-N-Half. "Say when ... "
"Just a splash ... that's good." One might have expected the order to be up by now, but there's no indication to that effect, so I grab a handful of brown napkins and sit down at the table across from Dad. .... We sit there for about twenty minutes, during which a person who appears to be the authority figure here, has small conversations with other employees, and then drives away in a big white pickup.
When our food finally arrives, Dad's enormous hamburger is explanation enough, as to why it took so long to cook. His sandwich comes complete with one tiny packet of mustard and a little plastic container of something that might be mayonnaise. The server also thoughtfully provides us with a bottle of ketchup, two little plastic tubs of sauce, and more brown napkins. I ask for ranch dressing, which she heads off to retrieve.
"What's this?" I peruse the orange sauce that I know to be a mixture of mayo, mustard, and ketchup. "Oh. It's'Arctic Circle sauce. We used to call it something else ... something barf sauce'.
"It looks like barf." he agrees [with teenager me].
"Yeah. That's why we called it that."
My menu selection turns out to be a humongous pile of shaved chicken with a flavorless slice of provolone on a big roll. When I pick it up, water runs out in a stream, leaving a milky puddle in the bottom of my waxed paper-lined plastic basket. I squeeze it like a sponge to drain off the swampy fluid, and take a big bite. It's about as flavorless as a sponge, but by this time we are so hungry, and so ready to be on our way, we choke our way through the provisions without talking, except when he asked me, "How much did I pay for this?"
The free fries -- REAL ones, deep-fried to a nice dark brown -- might have been the saving grace of the meal, but they are so heavily dosed with sea salt they need to be slathered with ranch dressing to cut the sting - or rinsed off with a hose. We ate them anyway.
Even though there were only two or three other customers during the time that we were there, it took nearly an hour to get through our meal. I leave two dollars on the table ... Less than 15% is an insulting tip in most restaurant settings, but 10% seems generous for the quality of food and service we experienced today.
As we're pulling out onto Aultman Street, Dad comments that he doesn't see how that place is going to stay in business very long. I concur.
Last stop: The Texaco. "Nineteen! Two fifty three."
We're just about to the relay station between Ely and McGill when Dad again asks, ""What was the name of that place?"
"Where we ate? Hunters."
"Good French fries sure beat the other kind you usually get, now.
"Yeah."
"Toby and Julian used to make really good ones." (He's talking about "the 'Frosty Stand" in McGill, which was owned and operated by friends of our family, in the ''sixties and early 'seventies.) He goes on to describe the delicious characteristics of home-made fries.
"They probably didn't change the [cooking] oil very often. That gives them more flavor -- up to a point. We did them that way at Major's. There was a big old heavy cutter mounted on the wall. You just stuck in the potato, slam down on the lever, and get a basket full and dunk that into the deep fryer, They were really good!"
"The ones we just had were pretty good."
"They would have been really good, if they weren't so salty."
"Yeah. They were pretty salty."
"Sea salt."
"I thought it was. That place isn't going to be in business long."
"Bradley's?"
""I don't need to. D'you?"
"Nah. I don't think so."
We cruise on north through McGill, sadly noting the dilapidation that is overtaking the old Frosty Stand, along with every other abandoned business in downtown.
Finally back in Cherry Creek, I stop at the long bank of mailboxes, to find only a postcard style landfill bill with a rubber band around it, addressed to him. It shows an overdue balance. We'll take care of that, next time we're in town. I'm pretty sure he is still going to let me drive.
 |
| Road to Cherry Creek |
If you enjoy reading about our little adventures, and want to know when new pages are posted, please Like and Follow our Facebook Page: "Riding In The Car With Dad"
No comments:
Post a Comment