My dad is 87 years old and beginning to forget things.  He can’t do crossword puzzles anymore and that makes me really sad.  From my earliest days, I remember dad getting out the crossword from the Wisconsin State Journal at night after supper.  He would take a pen out of his front shirt pocket and click it into action.  A pen!  No pencil for my dad, which proved his great intelligence to me.  A 4.0 in his younger days at the university didn’t impress me as much as brandishing a ball point pen and confidently filling in all the little boxes on the paper.   He could work through a puzzle in no time.  I liked sitting there watching him, probably because it got me out of clearing the table or doing the dishes.  But, the smell of the farm on his clothes and the twinkle in his eye and his mastery of words made a complete image of him in my memory.  Sometimes he’d ask me an easy one and sometimes I’d get one right, but I knew I was no match.

In his later years, his daily pleasure was sitting at the breakfast table doing the crossword with his morning coffee.  Sometimes when I called him, our phone conversations revolved around the puzzle and what the hard clues were.  It was something we could talk about together.  What once was a daily pleasure has now become a frustration.

When we visited him in the hospital awhile ago, I noticed he had tried to do the puzzle, in ink of course.  It was on the chair and caught my eye because I had just done that very one the night before.  It also got my attention because it was full of mistakes.  The words going across were appropriate, but inaccurate, which made the words going down senseless.  Honestly, the idea that he might be mixing up his medications, or the fact that he sometimes gets disoriented when out driving, doesn’t bother me as much as the reality that he can’t do crossword puzzles anymore.

I’m 50 years old, and I still can’t get up the nerve to do the daily crossword with a ball point pen.

Somebody left two raw hamburger patties in the trunk of our car for a week. ( I say” Somebody” because as a mother I must protect the identity and innocence of my youngest son.)  Anyway,  “Somebody” went to a Brewer baseball game and loaded up the cooler with all the makings for a great tailgate party: brats, burgers, onions, tomatoes, ketchup, mustard, sour kraut.   He packed matches, a spatula, paper towels, a small grill – the complete package.  Off he went, down I-94 to Milwaukee and a Friday night at the ballpark.

The car pulled into the driveway late Saturday night, after a fun weekend with friends.  Of course, church was the next morning and then he was off to work for the rest of the day.  The car was due to be at the garage bright and early Monday morning for some repairs.  Unfortunately, the part that needed to be ordered didn’t come in until Friday….and the guy at the garage didn’t get to it until the following Monday….

When we went to pick up the car Monday afternoon, I noticed all the windows were rolled down, which I thought was kind of strange. However, it was a nice warm day so I just dropped off my husband and went on my way, happy to finally be getting the car back after a week.  Evidently, when my hubby got in to drive the car home, he was lambasted with a stench that brought out the green undertones of his skin.  He fought the overwhelming urge to throw up and settled with coughing and gagging all the way home.

What happens when two raw hamburger patties sit in the trunk of a car for ten days, you ask?  Well, when you open the trunk, a swarm of flies engulf your head.  You reel back on your heels because the fumes are so toxic.  When you foolishly open the mini cooler, you are greeted by a mass of slimy slithering maggots.  Yes, maggots.  The leftover onions and tomatoes are swimming in a lethal juice covered with green mold.   The sour kraut is in a bag that has ballooned because of the deadly gas being produced within.  You put on a pair of gloves, take the cooler and all it’s contaminated contents and put it in a black garbage bag, drive to a dumpster behind a gas station on the other side of town after dark, throw it in, and then run for your life.  That night, you have bad dreams.

We aired out the car for a week, driving everywhere with the windows down and the trunk lid up.  Somebody bought four air fresheners – new car smell.  Ha!  They didn’t stand a chance.  I hope Somebody learned his lesson from all of this.  Like, “Unpack the car as soon as you get home or else you might end up with a trunk full of maggots”.  Or, “Don’t become an auto mechanic because you might have to fix a car that smells like rotting meat”.

My husband bought me a bicycle last Christmas.  He also bought himself one, with visions of us riding off into the countryside sunset together.  The beautiful new bikes have been sitting in the basement all winter.  The wheels were fastened into a plastic thingy (I don’t know bike lingo yet) so we could pedal away the snowy days while watching television.  I did that once…..or twice.   No, once.

Now that the days are finally longer and warmer, it’s time to bring the bikes upstairs, clip on the helmet and take off.  It’s true that you never forget how to ride a bike.  I hop on and maneuver around the driveway nicely, shifting gears and gripping the brakes.  There is only one problem.   We live on a hill.

No matter if we go north, south, or east, it’s a downhill ride.  (We don’t go west.)  I love flying past the houses in our neighborhood on my cool new bike.  I feel sporty and athletic, which is a new sensation for me.   As I race along I shout over to my husband, “Thanks so much for getting these bikes, honey!  This is so much fun!”  He is beaming.

We coast along for several blocks before leveling off.  Then we pedal along the river pathway, soaking in the sights, smells and sounds of nature.   It is glorious.  And totally flat.  We stop after a while to take our water bottles out of our cool new water bottle holders and take a few sips.  I love this new thing we can do together, I love my husband, I love my bike.

Perhaps being caught up in the exhilarating feel of the wind in my face outweighed common sense.  But realizing the only way home was to climb a mountain made me want to cry.  My honey wouldn’t consider going back by himself  and bringing the car down to pick me up.  I made it one-half of a block before my thighs began to burn.  From now on, I’ve gotta remember: what goes down, must come up.