Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. The 13th of October passed without a thought of it. F’book (The “F” can be whatever you want) “Memories” reminded me today. As I waded through memories, a 2025 Trump-Netanyahu meeting rolled by. The world would be a much better place if not for those soulless men.

A 2018 post featured a side-by-side infant shot of grandson and his 12-year-older sibling.

A ten-year-old post highlighted Jesus saving me when I ran out of gas.

2014 memories included two posts on a work event called “Kronos in the Cloud,” where we set up a “museum” of cool cloud exhibits, and held “The Art of Selling the Kronos Cloud” storyteller competition. We used to be cool.

In 2011, I must have been on another KronosWorks (customer conference) flight for this gem: ‘Flight delayed by tail damaged by bird. No word on bird. Short delay, so pilot says, “We’re gonna fly this thing like we stole it.” I love Southwest.’

While I was perusing F’book Memories, I noticed that one can “Hide People” or “Hide Dates.” I thought about this one for a second, but moved on. I imagine the memories of certain people or dates may be painful for some, but I don’t have any that I’d block them. For example, if I blocked October 13, I’d miss the recollection of memories that deliver valuable lessons.

October 13, 2010

Live a little
Seated at the small, square “Table 8,” dead center to the stage across the hardwood dance floor, my backdrop was a blur of seniors swinging across it while I chatted with the birthday boy, his friend Dickie Greene and Dick’s next generation lookalike, Doug. The boys were quizzing me on the kids, the job, and the Joyce, so I obliged them by stringing out a story of a recent visit to Tiffany’s that didn’t end quite the way their interested faces expected. Somewhere in the chat session, I learned Dad doesn’t get out of the house much at all, and that the ratio of women to men at “the Villages” is 2 to 1. I did notice many groups of 2 or 3 women sitting on the sidelines together, just waiting for someone from the thinning herd to ask them to dance.

As I trimmed an oriental chicken salad to the porcelain, I noticed a blond woman standing on the left side of the balcony above the stage. She immediately reminded me of Dad’s widow, Caroline, but without my glasses, she was a distant silhouette at best. Crunching lettuce and oriental noodles, I glanced just barely to my left and saw Dad’s focus move up to the balcony. Almost immediately and quickly, the blond woman moved to her right and back, out of sight.

“Dad, did you see that woman up on the balcony?”
“Yeah, but she disappeared.”
“Did she remind you of Caroline?”
“Ya.”

Dad’s eyes scanned the floor and the outskirts most of the evening, and he once commented about another blond, a tall one, “She’s well preserved.” After dinner and the show, which included a young kid and his band playing originals and covers by Hank Williams Sr. and Ernest Tubb Jr., we sauntered… Well, actually, Dad does sort of an old man shuffle that he mocked just a few years ago. Whatever. I’ve lost a step or two, um, too. We sat on a park bench and listened to another band playing up on the gazebo bandstand that’s the center of the town square.

“Dad, you really seem to enjoy yourself when we get out down here,” I suggested. “I could do without it,” was the terse reply. I re-tried the angle of how all the great “stories” of our lives that we tell usually involve people. “Dad, that’s why we’re here.” Leo Sr. responded that he has no desire to meet another woman. I understood, but it kills me to see him doing very little “living” in the late years of his life here. I tried once more, “Dad, as long as you’re alive… Live.” He looked at me for a few seconds and then simply said, “Ya.”

A year later showed a sad, accelerated decline.

 

October 13, 2010

Tin Man Maintenance
Dad turned 78 yesterday. For his birthday, he choked on his food and vomited a little shrimp scampi on his undercooked filet mignon. “No, thank you. We don’t want a doggie bag,” I said to Joan, the unknowing waitress. In the past few months I’ve heard conflicting stories about the old guy from my two brothers. One has Dad as a cancer-stricken semi-invalid in a wheelchair and the other paints a dance floor dervish spinning on his own two wheels. The truth, of course, does not reside on either end of the story spectrum…

Dad’s wife Caroline passed in 2007, and since then he hasn’t found much to keep living for. His ties to family are threadbare. “I’ve always been a loner,” he says. Our conversations rarely stray from sports and other stuff you might talk to your barber about. I usually go with family stuff, and while he “loves” his family, I’m not sure he ever really learned to embrace it. He loved Caroline though, and she really understood and accepted him as is. Looking at an old passport of hers, I said, “She was beautiful.” After a few long seconds, Dad cleared his throat and responded, “Yeah, she was.”

When I arrived, Dad had just woken from a frequent nap and was very groggy. As he spoke, he lost his train of thought on several occasions, but after a few hours, and especially during days two and three, the fog had lifted. I thought of ways he could keep his mind somewhat stimulated in the absence of humans. He claimed to like doing crossword puzzles when he was younger, so I got him a couple of crossword paperbacks. I’m dubious he’ll open either, but I hope I’m wrong.

Our bodies are made up of muscles attached to bones, and Dad does very little to exercise any of them except the ones controlling his TV remote. It’s all he wants to do, which is fine, but just a little work of body and mind could greatly improve his quality of life. For his atrophied muscles, I suggested walking to pick up his mail, about 200 yards from his door. He claimed he’d be on the verge of collapse after such an attempt, so I said try shorter distances and work up to it. “Do two houses and back, then three houses and back, until you can get to the mail center and back.” He gave me a look indicating he wondered why I bothered suggesting such things.

Well, life is just better if you live it, so I’ll do what I can to make the oil can squeak out a few drops now and then to help flex his mind and creaky joints. Even if broken, he’s still got a heart.