Not Everyone LOVES a Parade...

This entry should be read at some points like the book, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,"  you’ll see when.

Last weekend, I talked my parents into participating in a parade in Des Moines.  It was  just a mile route, close to home, mild weather predicted on a Saturday afternoon.  What could possibly go wrong?  The company I work for has had a presence in Des Moines WA since 1947, when our main building was constructed.  The group decided to echo the era of our origins and dress in 50s style, have a couple of vintage cars for some residents to ride in and make it an event.

First stop was every thrift store in my zip code to find 50s styling threads to mix and match.  If you’re going to dress 50s, you’re going to need polka dots, and polka dots require cat-eye glasses, which then require stick-on rhinestones.  Capris and cardigans, then need chunky jewelry, net scarves and fabulous leopard print bags.   The piece de resistance was a $2 tube of bright red lipstick to complete the look.  Attempts at winged eyeliner were less than successful, and had to be scrapped.  With a boss outfit true to the decade down to my bobby socks, and filling a backpack with phone, chargers and speakers to give us 50s tunes to groove to as we strolled down the street, I was ready to rock and roll, daddy-o.  What’s that about best laid plans?

 

The first issue was getting coordinated and to the staging areas for the parade, 2 hours before the start.  Vintage cars heat up quickly even in the shade and aren’t equipped with modern-day cooling systems to prevent overheating.  When the parade started and we had about 12 folks walking in front of the cars so that we didn’t get exhaust fumes… that means the cars were running at 2-3 mph behind the people.

If you take a car from the 50s out in 80 degree weather and run it at 3 mph for any length of time, it’s going to form vapor lock (carburetor overheating). If it forms vapor lock, the engine shuts down to prevent the engine from overheating.  When the engine shuts down, you have no power to steer OR brake.  When you have no power to steer or brake, mom’s eyes get as wide as saucers and she looks like she wants to bail.  When mom gets a startled look, dad is oblivious – as are the passengers waving from the cars.  

I’m off on the side of the road trying to get the music system to work; no luck.  Mom comes by and lets me know she’s in neutral, car off and has no control.  SLIGHT sense of panic here – just a little bit.  I shuffle up to dad’s car and let him know mom’s predicament. 

He says, "And what can I do about it NOW?" 

Me:“Nothing, just letting you know she’s probably going to pull off before we head up the next hill.” 

The rest of the parade went great - candy was distributed, waves were given, whoops and hollers were received and my partner in crime didn't even hit on the Seafair pirates.

So, I now have one irritated parent, one slightly panicked parent and four aging residents to handle. Our banner is resisting the slight wind and a backpack full of sound equipment that doesn’t work getting progressively heavier...  Happy camper? NOT SO MUCH.

When we get to the end of the parade, both cars are overheated, not running and Dad is ready to post FOR SALE – CHEAP signs on both windshields. As I cross the street to connect with the parents, get the Wesley passengers home and devise a recovery plan, my LEAST favorite aspect of the parade is barreling down the street towards me.   

The pirates in the Moby Duck come blasting their cannon in my general direction.  Some history about me and Seafair Pirates… NOT A FAN.  They scared the crap out of me dragging their swords at age 2 and the sticker they gave me DID NOT make it better.  A staunch hater of loud noises and even more so in my general proximity caused a 3-minute cussing jag to make a sailor blush. And I’m standing next to a retired Methodist pastor.  He has a new view of my colorful personality complete with vivid vocabulary. Bless you, Uncle Butch – a whole ‘nother story there. 

Once we got the cars and tempers cooled down, running rough, blowing smoke and proceeded gingerly back home, parked them and adjourned to Black Angus for some well-deserved libations and cow flesh.  It took 2 weak gin and tonics and a rib eye steak to mellow Dad’s mood.  Needless to say, the folks are not eager to participate in a parade again any time soon. 

Cemetery Management - the little things one never consides

After successfully extracting a brilliant colleague from the cemetery staff to fill my open desk space, I had cause to reflect on how her skills adequately transfer to the work we now do in home health and hospice management.  A step back in the food chain, if you will.  But I digress.

Because knowing the importance of documentation maintenance from decades in the past to know who has paid for what plot, is buried where, how deep, in what kind of container and the marital status of all previously deceased inhabitants. 

Dealing with an irate family member who believes that with a staff of 12, each and every one of 40,000 grave sites should be meticulously manicured on a daily basis.  This requires a level of compassion, diplomacy and unflappability that will make dealing with the effects of dementia a walk in the park.

Dead people don't complain.  But their live relatives will find any reason to be dissatisfied.  The fact that a plane flew over during the service and they couldn't hear the readings.  The fact that there is dirt and grass and they had to walk in heels over uneven ground to reach the graveside service.  The fact that names or dates are wrong on markers when the proofs must be signed and checked for accuracy before production commences.  The fact that dad's second wife is buried next to their mother while dad is still living - despite the fact that he owns the plots. 

No matter when someone dies, no one is ready to deal with the logistics.  There are unresolved conflicts,

A Bird in Hand... and Another on the Wing

 

A family of sparrows made a nest outside my parent’s deck door entrance to their home. Decades ago, my grandfather had a mechanic’s shop and put an upside-down coffee can under the eaves for a returning family of sparrows to have a dry and supportive space to build their nest. It’s fun to imagine that this family is a distant descendant of those sparrows that followed my mom to her current home.

She discovered the nest last week while watering a hanging plant and has been feeding and chatting with the mother bird and really enjoying the presence of nature in her midst. Yesterday she was observing the fledgling birds venturing from the nest and attempting to fly for the first time. Her excitement at watching this little miracle occupied most of the day.

On my way to visit my parents, my own fledgling called on the phone. He is moving from a stressful home environment to a new “nest” of his own. He ventured to California as a very young 17yo college student and has been a proud CA resident for the last 11 years.  His friend group planned for years to rent a home together with five individuals. The application process and move process was grueling. He moved to San Diego with no job arranged and found frustration and need to borrow money from roommates complicated his relationships to the point he needed to move out after repaying his debts. Hmm. Didn’t mom caution about both circumstances? Yes, but mom is mom. THIS time, he is moving to a new location, closer to work, retaining a secure job and moving in with two unknown roommates as their third to balance the costs. Taking mom’s suggestions, wow. The difference a challenging year makes. So my own fledgling needed a pep talk and reminded him to stay optimistic, hydrated and well fed during his moving process.

While visiting with my parents, there was a flutter of noise behind my chair. One of the baby birds had inadvertently entered the house while the slide was open and become disoriented.  It decided to try to fly through the window and found a solid obstacle. Mom started to go for it with her bare hands, I grabbed a soft towel so the human scent would not ostracize the bird, the towel would cushion against injury, and hold any soiling caused by the adventure. It perched on the windowsill with a very perplexed “Help me get out!” look. Gently grasping the bird with the towel between my palms, I marveled at the miracle.

Having a wee bird cupped in one’s hands is a powerful feeling of power and powerlessness. Too much pressure could injure it; too little and it could fall. Just snug enough to feel it quaking with the new sensation. What a rush!

The bird was set in a plant outside to recover. It hopped down to meet mama, was promptly fussed over/at, and flew away. The purpose of parenting is to hold snugly, but loosely so that the wings can be tested, and flight achieved.