A blogger commented about our souvlaki and fries: “Interesting perspective on family dynamics and meal choices.” I wonder what he would quip about our incongruous hodge-podge of jam on French toast, Korean dumplings, and buttered peas.  “What a wonderful looking meal!” Dad kindly commented, and blew his wet nose into his dish towel/napkin/food catcher/bib.  “There were no buggers,” he rationalized when I brought him a new box of tissues.  Previous to this week, all the little personal items he needed for his daily comfort had accumulated on a small end table and on the floor—everything must be within his reach.  Eight dollars bought me a handy sturdy thrift-store shelf that vastly increased the items he can have with reach—books, Bible, gum, flosser-picks, tissues, hearing aid batteries, nail clippers, yellow legal pad, pens, reading glasses, check book, wallet—and reduce clutter.  Conversation turned to the lawn and yard.  Victor came with his air compressor, turned off the irrigation system, and blew out the lines.  This week will be the last mowing, mostly to vacuum up maple and sweetgum leaves.  “I almost went out to suck up all the leaves, but Lucille wouldn’t let me,” he pouted.  “I would have just ridden in my wheel chair and transferred to the mower.”  I was incredulous, and I asked, carefully, if he remembered the nearly impossible effort of getting him on and off the mower last spring, how I had to hoist and heave and shove and pull, how I hurt my back.  He did not remember.  But he remembers the distant past.  Struggling behind his walker, he announced to our company, “I have a vision Roger as an infant standing in his crib and gumming on the top rail.  You must have been teething.”  Not again, I reddened.  At least it wasn’t the washing-the-cloth-diapers and ironing-the-diapers-dry story again.  Mom diverted attention by inviting me to inspect the drawer full of new towels—church sister Marla had taken her to Kohls—the old towels were stained and worn thin.  Last week, church sister Barbara took Mom to a music store, and brought home a 1940s song book.  She bought the book of 104 songs for fondness of song #104, Cole Porter’s “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to,” and wanted to show me the moment I walked in the door from work.

It’s not that you’re fairer than a lot of girls just as pleasin’,
That I doff my hat as a worshipper at your shrine.
It’s not that you’re rarer than asparagus out of season.
No, my darling, this is the reason why you’ve got to be mine.
You’d be so nice to come home to.
You’d be so nice by the fire, while the breeze on high sang a lullaby.
You’d be all that I could desire.
Under stars, chilled by the winter, under an August moon, burning above,
You’d be so nice, you’d be paradise, to come home to and love.

Dad’s new organizational setup.