I'LL SHOW YOU A REAL GOOD TIME

 4267

My father had been displaying a great degree of lethargy during what turned out to be the last couple of years of his life; content to just sit in his recliner, and look out at the birds on the pond behind his mobile home. Once, when I was visiting in his home one day, daddy and I had jumped on his and mama's bicycles, and pedaled around the mobile home park. 

The closest I came to being overtly concerned about his mental acuity occurred that day. Several times during the course of our ride, my father would coast off the pavement, and into the grass. There was simply no common reason for him doing so. I recall saying something like, "Daddy, what's going on?" (and) "Stay on the street. You're gonna fall over, if you keep running into the grass."

However, it was only after my father fell, and hit his head on the dining room table, and I found him in bed the next afternoon that I took it on myself to insist he go to the emergency room.

As a result of a CT scan or MRI, as the case may be, it was determined that daddy had sustained a major stroke. He was transferred to the 7th floor of the local hospital; a floor primarily dedicated to the treatment of stroke victims. 

My father did a couple of things which were completely out of character for him; during the 8-10 days he was in residence there.  

He would get out of bed, and walk down the hallway, and occasionally the nurses would find him in other patients' rooms. As a result, the decision was made to immobilize daddy in his bed. Oh, they didn't shackle him with wrist and ankle cuffs. No, the decision was made to confine him to a, for lack of a better term, bed tent. Once, when I came up to visit, I recall finding him lying inside this weird fabric enclosure which had been zipped up, and buckled to his mattress.

The doctors and clinicians did an admirable job of intervening for my dad, and I had few, if any complaints about his treatment. One day, after I had been chatting with my father, a female speech therapist walked into the room, along with one of my dad's nurses.

"Mr. McDonald, we're going to put you in a wheelchair, and roll you into my office."

I suppose daddy nodded, and having been helped into a wheelchair, the nurse pushed him twenty feet down the hallway, turned the corner, and into a small office.

"Okay, Mr. McDonald. I'd like you to repeat these syllables and words as I say them to you."

As my mother and I looked on, he did a fairly admirable job of correctly pronouncing the syllables and words. Now, when the speech evaluation was nearing its conclusion, daddy did the second thing which I previously inferred was out of character.

He looked directly into the eyes of the speech therapist, grinned a slightly crooked little grin, and said...

"Honey, I want you to come see me when I get outta here. I'll show you a real good time!"

I almost fell out of my chair! However, to everyone's credit, neither I, nor mama, nor the therapist expressed surprise, nor did the second and third of the foregoing parties respond. 

But now, for no particular reason, I felt constrained to say something humorous. It had to do with daddy's and the therapist' respective ages, and his marital status. (But, I will spare you my exact words). Of course, we all realized my father's cognitive wherewithal was significantly challenged, and we "marked it off" for what it was. 

Daddy was released, went home, but found himself in a nursing home shortly thereafter. He lived just three more months.

Even in the midst of calamity, one has to appreciate those occasional humorous moments which serve to break up the difficulties of life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4266

(I wrote this several years ago, and it was published in a couple of newspapers. It commemorates both Memorial Day and D-Day)

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

They gave their tomorrows for our today.

By William McDonald, PhD

All reactions:

1Tom Hogan

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

 4265

As I was pedaling yesterday, and reached the end of a residential street that parallels Spirit Lake Road, with an entrance and exit connecting it to the latter, I was preparing to cross said latter onto a sidewalk.

Suddenly, two large dogs charged me from the next to last yard facing this particular street. In the midst of the melee, I noticed that the gate latch had been flipped open, apparently as the result of one of the canine’s purposeful decision to lift it into the open position.

One dog was obviously part St. Bernard. The other was a non-descript large white dog. They attempted to encircle me while baring their teeth, and barking ferociously. Screaming at them, I yelled words like, “Go home!” and “Get outta here!” I’m sorry to say they paid me little or no mind.

Now I picked up my bicycle, and swung it in an arch in an attempt to deter them from their mission to “bite the tar” out of me. Looking into the large yard from whence “Fito” and “Max” came, I hoped to see their owner rush out of the front door. (I was certainly making enough noise)! Much to my disappointment, I didn’t see anyone in the midst of rushing to my aid.

By this time, I was much more exasperated than afraid. I decided to do the only thing left for me to do. All that remained for me to do was to “Get the h_ _ _ outta Dodge.”

I knew better than mount my bicycle, as it would have left me vulnerable to the two large dogs, and they might well have attempted to sever my feet from the pedals upon which they rested. However, it was soon apparent that possibility didn’t exist since, as I began to push the bicycle, I realized in the commotion, I had done something to restrict the movement of the back tire.

As I began to quickly push the bicycle towards the two lane highway, the dogs had obviously not yet discontinued their quest to make life generally miserable for me. Noticing a foot long piece of aluminum on the road, I picked it up and flung it at the St. Bernard. It landed about five feet from him, but seemed to deter him for a moment.

At this stage, it was apparent I was almost “home free,” as the dogs seemed unwilling to leave the vicinity of the yard from whence they came.

Another dubious chapter in my nocturnal “comings and goings.” Once again, I was safe and sound, and none the worse for wear; although for a few moments the eventual outcome was far from certain.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

THE DILL PICKLE CONSPIRACY

 4264

Recently I was at Dollar Tree, and noticed they had just what I was looking for that I wasn't looking for in their cooler unit.

Right there in front of me was a selection of Jimmy Dean sausage, egg and cheese croissants. I eat them all the time. However, prior to this, I had purchased my croissants at Aldi's. Noticing the price, ($1.25 each) I realized they were comparable to Aldi's, though they appeared to be slightly smaller. I decided to try them. I purchased a couple.

The next morning, I threw one in the microwave, touched 2 minutes, and cut the unit off after 1 minute, 18 seconds (my preferred cooking time for all my croissants). I was out of pickles, but I retrieved my breakfast, and lavished the croissant with mustard, the only other additive I historically use on this particular food product.

I bit into the croissant and discovered it tasted better than those I had bought at Aldi's, except for my lack of dill pickles, of course. I decided to remedy this situation the next day, as I needed to restock a few things anyway. Driving up to Aldi's, I walked to the second aisle, rear and look at I may, there wasn't a run of the mill dill to be found. Oh, there were kosher dills, bread and butter pickles (whatever that is), and one or two other non-descript pickles. I figured they were just out of them.

I continued to eat my Jimmy Dean croissants without pickles for the next couple of days 'til I decided it was just about time for a Pizza Hut Supreme, thick crust, Pan Pizza. I placed my order, and in the 10-15 minutes before it was due to be piping hot, and ready to eat I drove over to the nearby Publix Supermarket. Walking to the third aisle, rear I found... roughly the same selection of pickles which the previous grocery store offered. Not a run of the mill dill to be had!

Now I began to think there was a conspiracy. Perhaps someone had decided to do the unthinkable... deny me my opportunity for culinary pleasure by rounding up all the dill pickles in the central Florida area! 

The Run of the Mill Dill Conspiracy

Yep. No doubt about it. For the briefest few seconds, I was sure of it...

And then I thought...

Nah

There's the "There was a bomb in the World Trade Centers" conspiracy, and there was the "Mr. Rogers was once a Navy Seal" conspiracy, and there is a "Stolen U.S. Presidential Election" conspiracy, but a "Run of the Mill Dill" conspiracy?

That is just simply too far fetched to believe!

Afterward

I found a jar of dill pickles at Dollar General today. So much for my conspiracy theories.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A ROAD RACE AT "0 DARK THIRTY"

 4263

Just when I thought, “Well, I’m too old to have any more ‘strange and wonderful’ experiences in the wee hours, (though at 75 I have continued to pedal 10 miles a day), I experienced another “situation” before daylight today.

I began my 10 mile bike trek at 4:20am on 5-15-24, and figured I would finish around 540am. Well, so I pedal 600 yards from my home to State Road 540, turn right, and I find myself in the parking lot of CVS about 5 minutes later. As I round the left side of the store, and glance to my left, I notice a twenty something guy and girl sitting on the curb. I inadvertently blind them with my bike lights, and notice they have some non-descript jivy song playing on their smart phone. In the meantime, a garbage truck arrives, and has to wait for me to pedal out of his way.

I continue my trek crossing Spirit Lake Road, and climb an incline onto the sidewalk. After pedaling another couple of miles on this sidewalk, I find myself in the parking lot of the church my wife and I used to attend, and where I counseled literally thousands of men, women, boys and girls over the course of 15 years. After six or eight minutes, I make my way back from whence I came.

Crossing a normally busy four lane road, (but the lack thereof this time of the morning), I approach a small street on which I delivered literally tons of UPS packages “in my day.” Turning right I pedal about a quarter mile, and turn left into a large county park that I have frequented numerous times in the past.

After around twenty minutes, I leave the park through the same gate I had originally navigated. Five minutes later, the wooly buggers came out. (Well, a singular wooly bugger).

I am pedaling back towards my home, and figure I will be there in approximately twelve or fourteen minutes, when…

I pull over to do something my wife has instructed me not to do. I lean over and pull up one of those cheap temporary signs that people insist on planting next to the road. This one boasted an open house somewhere in the neighborhood. And since it was a weekday, I figured the home owner had placed it there the past weekend, and never retrieved it; (as is so often the case).

As I drop the sign on the ground, I notice a guy pedaling a bike across the street. The very second the sign hits the ground, the fellow yells, “Hey!” And with that, I return his greeting with the same word with which he greeted me.

At this point, Mr. ? turns his bicycle towards yours truly, and begins to pedal, as if he intended to rendezvous with me.

And I think, “Uhmmm, I don’t think so” (and) “I have absolutely no idea what your agenda is” (and) “But, I have no plans of entertaining your whims at 515am on this street corner.”

And now, I decide, “I’m outta here” and I begin to pedal down the sidewalk at a good clip. However, by now, Mr. ? is crossing the roadway, and following me down the sidewalk, perhaps 100 feet behind me. I decide to cross the same road he has just crossed, and select a residential street. And now, my bicycle is traveling faster than it has ever traveled in its inanimate life. I simply am not interested in making this guy’s acquaintance. I realize that he could, for all I know, be mentally ill, and/or have a gun on his person.

I feel the slightest chill of fear run up my spine, and I look behind me. I see his bike light. He has crossed the road again, and is following me down the residential street!!! I reach the end of the street, and turn right. Twenty feet later, I turn right again down a parallel residential street. Having ridden another fifty feet, I look behind me. Nothing. And another fifty feet. I look behind me. Nothing. There is no sign of Mr. ? I decide he has given up the chase. The further I pedal, the more my conclusion is substantiated. I have lost him, and whatever agenda he happened to be carrying around in his proverbial bosom.

And although I had apparently outpaced and out distanced the fellow, I continued to look behind me for several more blocks. (So much like the car which once pulled over 50 yards ahead of me, as I was pedaling down a local sidewalk in the dark. When this situation occurred, I immediately crossed four lanes to the parallel sidewalk. (And again, their agenda may have been as innocent as I hope Mr.?’s agenda was). But I just won’t. I just can’t say “Why not? It would be fun to do a ‘meet and greet.’”

You’d never know it from my choice of time and venue, but my will to live is just too strong for that sort of shenanigan.

by Bill McDonald, PhD