tomatoes from my favorite little garden stand. Grandpa had given me a fair amount of ribbing for the fancy title I put on our dinner and gruffly said that I must have made it up because he had never heard of anything like that before. I replied, with no shyness, that I had indeed made it up and that I thought it was delicious.Grandpa, for all his service to the world and "easy-going-ness" is not very complimentary about much of anything. I guess that in 86 years you've seen enough that you're not very easily impressed and you've done enough work of your own that you're not going to gush over anybody else's job well done. I've learned to accept, "Right" as a sign that I've done something as expected and have now stopped waiting for him to say thank you for much. Although I know he appreciates my efforts as house wife for two, it has been made clear that he is not going to express it verbally.
So last night we were eating our Mediterranean Chicken Pasta on the back patio (not so unusual) when Grandpa scooted the bowl over and helped himself to seconds. The only other times that this has happened (over about 50 meals together now) are when I made biscuits and gravy and scalloped potatoes (both culinary hits for Grandpa's taste as far as I could tell). So last night, when he took seconds of the chicken I thought we had reason to celebrate. "You must have liked this Mediterranean Pasta OK if you're going back for seconds Grandpa!" I happily exclaimed, feeling pretty good about myself. "Naw," he replied, "I just have to put something in my belly to fill me up." I think my face must have fallen EXACTLY like he expected because the Old Grump started cracking up.
The laughter that ensued was the same laughter that bubbled out when he told me about his late wife's experience with the dishwasher and regular dish soap (a foamy explosion to say the least). He grinned and laughed and grinned some more with a mischievousness I hadn't seen since he drove a motorized cart in donuts in the grocery store.
At first, I was shocked thinking that he was taking joy in saying my dinner was just "something to fill me up" and then I realized he was laughing because he was teasing me and I had totally fallen for it. I realized that my frantic hustle and bustle must look pretty silly to him sometimes, even if it is the very effort that gets food on the table at meal time. In all my efforts to be a well put-together domestic goddess I must look like a puppy dog doing unsolicited tricks for treats and trying desperately to impress her "master." This realization gave me pause to consider Clinton's perspective a little more and what it must be like for him now; back in his own home but not able to live the life he's had in this home for the last 45+ years.
I think that it must, ironically, be hard on him to have so much be done for him. Even if he was a "kept man" whose wife cleaned, cooked, washed and ironed, he still used to have an important role in the household. As an ex-mechanic and shop teacher, Clinton could be counted on to fix just about anything. He could grill meat, tend to the garden, and keep the car going in tip-top shape. Now, through no fault of his own other than continuing to live, Clinton is confounded by the remote control for the TV, exhausted by a walk out to his shed, unfamiliar with half of the items in the garage, and now, after all that, confronted with new-fangled hippie food instead of good-old fashioned meat and potatoes like he's used to. It makes my enthusiastic bustle seem sweet...and a little silly perhaps.
There is a sacrifice of not just independence but of self determination that comes with age. We're taught to be strong and independent in our youth; to not need help and to take care of our things. Clinton moved out west from Nebraska to Oregon during the dust bowl days of the great depression. He was used to making do with whatever they had and just getting by. As a young adult he was drafted into service and was a tank driver in Patton's army. In the war, he likewise made do with what he had, completed his service, and returned home to open his service station only a few miles away from where we live now. Today, despite Clinton's impaired state, still holds these lessons of "making do" and independent strength dear. Although no one probably likes doing their laundry, there's something that gets taken away when you no longer have the choice because you just can't lift the detergent anymore. This cannot be an easy adjustment to make.
Beyond the laundry, decreased mental and physical capabilities surrender your control over the food in your kitchen and on your table, the chores around the house that do or don't get completed, and even the condition of your toenails which, sadly, may be out of your reach no longer how long they get. Despite a whole history of successful independence, Clinton is a prisoner of his age and stuck watching me bustle around him in busy circles doing all the things that he would probably like to be able to do for himself...all the while, waiting for compliments and gratitude.
Perhaps, then, I should not be surprised when I get far more attitude than gratitude. While Clinton has surrendered to however it is that I'm going to do things I must remember that it was maybe not an easy surrender. I will remember that while Clinton will dutifully take his pills and momentarily forget his frustration with trying to understand what they all are and what they are for, he doesn't like it. I will remember that even as he swallows he's still trying to understand why his multi-vitamin comes in a different bottle than what he's used to and what that other bottle the pharmacist gave him is for (it's a muscle relaxer that he doesn't need anymore but the pharmacist filled the prescription anyway). He will play along because he doesn't have a choice but it's perhaps a bit much to expect him to be gleeful about it, even if the service and the food ARE great.
In all honesty, Clinton did like my Mediterranean Chicken Pasta and he does like having me around. Regardless of this affection and gratitude, I guess it's OK that Clinton is not going to fall over himself to show it. Perhaps, that would be a little too close to admitting that he needs the help. Looking at it in this light, I'm much more excited to serve pot-roast and potatoes...at least one night this week.
Wow. I teared up reading this. I am going through the same thing with both my parents, although my sister is bearing the brunt of the everyday stuff. And my Dad is the same way. But like you, I realize even though he doesn't show his gratitude in normal ways, somewhere, way deep down, he is ok with things.
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