The Great Grandpa Capers

There’s a scene in the Romantic Comedy “You’ve Got Mail” where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are trying to guess what the “152” stands for in a mystery man’s screen name.

 “Mr. 152 Felony indictments…152 insights into my soul…He’s a hundred and fifty-two years old…He’s had one hundred and fifty-two moles removed, so now he’s got one hundred fifty-two pock marks on his face…”

Their random guessing using such vague clues mirrors the way my mom and I guess at what my grandpa’s trying to say, do, eat.  What are his motives?  What is he thinking?  If he is carrying around a bottle of ranch dressing, what is he really thinking?  It’s white, it’s from the fridge.  He probably wants a glass of milk.  Sometimes our guesses are practical; food?  relocation?  water?  bathroom?  Sometimes they’re dramatic; Are you mad? In pain? Trying to tell me you hate me?  But more often than not, we find ourselves (and our wild imaginations) creating a story that helps us with how he is behaving.    Whether as an explanation or self medicating with laughter, our versions are interpretations of my grandpa – based on years of (grand)daughterhood.

And so, as a twist away from the norm (because what is really normal these days) I give you Bob’s thoughts on the events of Wednesday, October 25th as interpreted by my mother and myself.

*BOOM*CRASH*BAM*
“Shit.  That had to have woken the dead.  Annnnnnnnnnd there’s blood.”  The right side of Bob’s body felt like it was made of cast iron, hot and heavy, weighing down his right leg, his words, his vision, his thoughts.

“Bob?!  Are you okay?” Destiny’s voice was tiny, faraway, hiding underneath the pain of the fall.

“Yes.” Bob grumbled.

“Did you fall?” He could hear her pressed against his bedroom door.

“Leave me alone.” He thought, collecting himself from the floor and trying to wipe the blood from his arm.  “NO.” He hollered back.  He was not going to let her see this mess.

The stairs creaked as she headed back down.  Bob slid through the door and hurried to the bathroom, locking the latch behind him.  As the water ran over his cuts he imagined Destiny finding the blood covered bedroom.  “Served her right.” He thought,  “Served them all right.  Why won’t they just leave him be?”  Sometimes, if he thought hard enough, he remembered why they were there.  Sometimes he couldn’t.  His left hand rubbed his bald head, the very thing he was trying to remember impeading his ability to do just that.

After 35 minutes his clothes were button, zipped and belted.

“Bob, let me see where you cut yourself!” Destiny pleaded as he entered the hallway.

He waved her away. “I’m fine.  I’m fine.” he thought, and stumbled past her.  “What a mess.  Are you hungry?  Do you want a cigar?  Time for bed?  I’m 85 – not 5.” he grumbled under his breath.

He could hear her on the phone.  Probably calling that man in the suits that keeps trying to sell him things.  He always comes over and sits in the blue chair and talks about options and choices and care.  “I don’t want to buy any of that.” Bob thought to himself.  “Gosh.” He said aloud.

He stumbled past the ground floor bathroom, then paused.  The wood floor was creaking as Destiny came down the hallway.

“Oh Bo-” He cut her off, locking the bathroom door in her face.

“I’ll just shave while I’m waiting for her to forget that I’m in here.” He thought, scooping up his razor and a can of shaving cream.  He pressed on the lid of the can.  Nothing happened.

*KNOCK*KNOCK*KNOCK*

“She’s gonna break down my door!” He thought.  “One minute!” He called, looking down at the can in his hand.  “What’s this?” He thought, and rattled the silver tube near his ear, pressing on the lid.  White foam spilled onto the counter.

“Bob!  Please!  Are you okay?!” She was worried, he could tell.  But she should just leave him alone.  He was doing just fine.

The foam continued to spill.  On the mirror, the counter, the bathmat.  Filling the sink, coating the toilet.

“Bob!  I want to make sure you’re okay!  Please!” She called.

“Leave me alone!” He mumbled, spreading the white foam around.  He scratched his 5 o’clock shadow.  “I need to shave.” He thought, surveying the damage and spreading the cream with his fingertips.

“Bob?  Bob?” *KNOCK*KNOCK*KNOCK*

“Yes?” He poked his head out of the door.

“Are you alright?” Destiny asked, examining the visible parts of his body as quickly as she could.

Bob slid through the door and stumbled down the hall, smiling to himself as he heard Destiny discovering the foam mess.

It would be another hour before Destiny was free from the foam fiasco to check on Bob.  She found him sitting silently in the family room, proudly smiling in his alone-ness.

*a few hours later*

Bob stretched his legs out on the couch, pleased with the water he had poured on the kitchen floor, that distracted Destiny for the remainder of her stay.  As he did, he noticed a man fiddling with the locks on the door leading to the garage.

Bob stumbled to the kitchen.  His daughter and the brunette caretaker, Heather, were chatting at the kitchen table.  “What is this man doing?” He tried to say, but his words blended together.  He pointed furiously at the door.

“Lunch?” Heather asked cheerily.

Bob shook his head and turned the kitchen door knob back and forth.

“We are having them all changed to the same key, dad.” His daughter said calmly, as though she were expecting this to happen for years.

“Why!?” He wanted to scream.  What were they doing to him?  Why won’t they just leave his house alone!?  Every day they are taking something out, putting something in.  People are always here.  Always coming and going and smiling and cooking and helping and cleaning.

He stood in the kitchen, watching the man change knobs and locks and keys from hand to hand until Heather took him out to the porch, and convinced him to have a cigar.  She was always trying to change his mind about this that or the other thing.  When she wasn’t looking he tried the knob.  It wouldn’t turn.  He hurried to the kitchen and tried the knob there.  It wouldn’t turn.  The red key-chain wasn’t hanging from the door anymore.  He was trapped.  His mind became a blur.  Heather was saying something about keeping him safe.  That he needed to wait for her to go anywhere.  That he was too sneaky.  Sneaky?  He just wanted to go on a walk.  Alone.  He tried to door again then sat fiercely on the couch, waiting for Heather to leave.

She was mopping in the small room outside near the washer and dryer.  He had just enough time to remove the screen from the window.  “Where was it I wanted to go?” He thought to himself as he pulled on the screen.  He couldn’t remember.  To buy cigars?  The grocery?  The screen came lose with ease.  His hands felt along the frame for sharp parts.  Not finding any, he began to lift himself into the window, just as Heather came around the corner.

“BOB!” She shouted.  “What are you doing!?”

He jumped, and hit his head on the window frame.  “I just have a bit farther.  And then I can get where I’m going.” He thought to himself, tightening his grip on the sill as Heather pulled on his waist.  “Where am I going?” He thought.  He clung to the brick, pieces falling under the pressure of his nails.  “The park?  The store?  To get a shave?” He thought, holding tighter.  She was saying things about coming down.  Trying to change his mind.  He couldn’t tell how long he’d been clinging there, but the next thing he knew, the man with all of the suits that tried to sell him things was helping Heather pull him down from the window.

“We need you to stay here.” He was saying, wrinkles around his eyes.  He was more friendly than the last time he saw him, but Bob knew he was nasty.  What sort of man would try to lock a grown man in his house and then try to sell him things.

Heather was soothing. “Now Bob, I don’t need you running off.  We like you here.  If you want to go somewhere, well I’ll just go with you!” She smiled.  She was always smiling.  It rarely helped but it was nice.

Bob pouted.  “I hate this.” He thought, crossing his leg and breaking eye contact with the man in the suit.  He found that if he looked away, his granddaughter or one of his children normally filled in the missing parts.  “When did they get so good at reading my mind?” He thought, staring out the window.

He drifted out, dreaming of snow and Labrador Retrievers and some sort of ginger bread cake.

“Grandpa….hey….hey it’s me.”

Mary was leaning over him with her hand on his arm, her brow furrowed.

“I heard you had a hard day.” She laughed, sitting on the edge of the cushion near his shoulder.

“Humph.” He grunted, coming out of the haze.

“I’m going to make you dinner now.” She said, as she always said when she came over.

Bob sat up and looked at his watch.  “Just about time for the 6 o’clock news.” He thought, as he watched Mary grab the remote and change the channel to PBS.  She was getting the hang of it.

“So…how about lamb.” She was saying, covering his toes with the blue afgan.

“Humph.” Bob replied again, scratching his head.  His eyes wandered over towards the window, where he had tried to escape earlier.

“No.” She said matter of factly.  “No windows, no shaving cream.  Nothing.  You’re staying right here.  Like it or not, we love you and you are going to stay right here and eat the lamb I make you and….and….like it!”

“When did she get so fierce?” Bob thought and turned toward her laughing.  “They were all starting to sound a lot like Nancy.  Bob this and Bob that.  Wipe your feet, wipe your mouth, close the door, sit down.”

She smiled.  “I’ll be in the kitchen cooking if you need me.”

He sat up and looked at his watch again, it was 6:15.

“I know.” She said, patting his arm, “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” She held 10 fingers up to his face, “TEN MINUTES and I’ll change the channel.”

“Good.”  He thought.  “I won’t need to cause any more distractions for the evening.”  He settled back on the couch and let the jumble of words from the TV set pour over his ears.  Words like “Dow, Afghanistan, Kardasian” rolled around his brain as he closed his eyes.  “Good.” He thought.

 

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My Stocks Are Going Up

“Soooo uhhh….” he laughed a bit, as he always does when he feels uncomfortable.

“Soooooo.” I mimicked, “Soooooo I started my new job today.”

“Oooooh.” He replied, the end of his response going up an octave in unison with his eyebrows.  “What…uh…what is it that you are….that is happening?”

“Well, I’m teaching!” I summed up to keep it simple.

“Are your stocks up?” He asked.

“Well….” I pondered the question, looking for a translation.  When I couldn’t think of one, I decided to interpret it as though he were just being poetic.  “Well I suppose I would say yes.  I’m much more stable than I was before and my future is looking positive.  I’d invest in me.”

He laughed as I broke into a smile.

“Were they good kids?” He asked standing and bumping his head on the chandelier.  As the tumor grows and the dementia progresses Grandpa has started losing certain functions like speech, spatial reasoning, and his shoes.  He’s been stumbling around like a drunkard, bumping into the door frames and tripping over his untied shoelaces.  Heather also caught him eating Noxema, though I can’t say I blame him.  It really looks like whipped dream heaven in a cute little single-serving blue jar.

“Sure…the kids are pretty good.” I was making my first attempt at breading a porkchop.  I knew it involved rubbing the meat in butter and could only assume the next step was lathering on the bread crumbs.

“Are you making it?” He asked sincerely. “The…the stuff.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

Laughing I told him that yes, I was making money.

“It’s a big kid job.” He determined.

“Yep!” I was pleased, “My first big kid job.”

“Well, at least you got the chance to take a chance.” He concluded.

“HaHa!  I’ll say!” I patted him on the back.  “Now what do you think?” I dangled my sadly breaded pork chop in the air for his approval.

“Ohhhhh WOW!” He drooled, eyes soaking in the vision of my soggy bread job.  He is always so flattering.  You’d think I was Bobby Flay.

He watched as I shoved the pork chop into the oven to bake.  “Whatchoo getchoo whatchoo whatchoo eh?” He said, peering over my shoulder.

“HaHa.  Pardon?” I turned to look at him.

“Where’s the pairway?” He asked leaning back on the counter.

“Ummm…” I paused, “Yea…I don’t know what you mean.”

“The pairway.”

“In Springfield?  That’s where the school is.”

“No.” He gave me an exasperated sigh and careened violently off into the darkness like a drunken sailor, only to reappear again in a few minutes with the remote control.  “The PAIRWAY.” He put it on the counter.

Laughing I glanced at the clock.  Time for the News.

Back in the family room, as I snuggled into the side chair and watched Grandpa awkwardly arrange himself behind his TV tray, he ordered me to “raise the controls”.

“You want to volume up?” I asked.

“What?” He asked me, as though I were the one speaking in my own version of pig latin.

“The VOLUME!” I said distinctly, “Do you want it LOUDER!”

“Oh this is what you mean!” He stood and went to the TV, adjusting the volume manually with ease.  He gave me a curt nod, pleased with his display of manliness in my time of need, then lopped back down behind his TV tray.

“Sure.  Good.  Thank you so much!” I nodded my approval.

“Bob Saget.” He replied, throwing his hat onto the coffee table and tucking the pairway into his shirt pocket.

 

Apples

My Grandpa threw down a puzzle piece he had been trying to connect for 5 minutes and looked up at his new TV set.  The news blared at a volume level of 49, “Thousands of Apple Employees gathered today at 1 Infinite Loop, the Apple Headquarters, to honor the former Apple CEO, Steve Jobs who passed away 2 weeks ago….”

My Grandpa looked over at me, “Well that doesn’t make sense.” He said matter of factly.

“What doesn’t?” I asked.

He scratched his head and turned back to the TV.  “A CEO of Apples.  Does he eat…own…all of them?  Or just…just…one flavor?”

Old Dogs, New Tricks

I was running late and my Grandpa hadn’t answered the phone any of the 14 times that I had called.  This either meant he was out, asleep, critically injured, or completely ignoring the phone ringing.  The last time I was late he had attempted to bake a pork chop and ended up setting the oven to the cleaning cycle.  I scrambled for my keys and burst into the kitchen.

Nothing burned.  Nothing broken.  Nothing missing.  No pork chops.

I rounded the corner to the living room and found him snug in his “dinner chair”, the TV tray pulled up in front of him.  I sighed as I patted him on the shoulder.

“Hey.” I smiled with relief.

“Oh hey!  Good.  Good, good, good.  You can do this.” He stood up, putting down what appeared to be a bowl of Granny Smith apples covered in chocolate sauce.  Apparently he had constructed his own dinner, thankfully without burning the house down. He patted my back, probably leaving a good brown smudge between my shoulder blades.

I wiggled around, trying to check my shirt. “You want me to change the channel to the news?” I asked, not wanting to make him go through the charade of telling me what he needed.

“Yes.”  He nodded curtly.

I looked for the remote control on the coffee table and under the newspaper.  Not finding it, I used the buttons on the front of the TV, pounding down until I got to PBS. “There!” Is said, as I turned back around to face him.

“How did you do that?” He asked.  He knelt down at eye level with the buttons on the TV and ran his finger over them gently.

“You want me to make you something good?” I asked, gesturing at the chocolately mess on the TV tray, and attempting to change the subject.  Re-teaching my grandpa how to work the T.V. has been a never ending battle as of late.  As the saying goes, you can’t teach an old dog his old tricks.  Or something like that.

He nodded, looking sadly at his unbalanced meal.

“How about I put some milk in this for you?” I laughed, holding up a glass of chocolate sauce.

“I don’t like that stuff.” He said defiantly.

“I’m sure you don’t!  That’s because you’re supposed to put milk in it Grandpa.  You’re just drinking chocolate sauce.  And it’s sugar FREE chocolate sauce, which is even worse.”  I crinkled my nose and he laughed in agreement.

I shook my head at the full glass of brown sludge and headed back to the kitchen, noticing the chocolate fingerprint trail along the way.  After wiping off the handles of the fridge, I looked inside and rustled around the Tupperware containers of salad, potatoes, soup.

Grandpa’s head popped over my left shoulder, eyes wide with anticipation.

“What are we making?  Hmmmmm?”

I jumped back surprised.  “HaHa!  You scared me Grandpa!” I laughed, slapping his arm and turning back to the fridge, “I don’t know yet.  Probably meat, and a vegetable.  That sound good?…Grandpa?  What kind of vegetable—”  I looked back.  He was already gone.  Laughing quietly to myself, I pulled out some steak, a “Just For One” packet of corn, and the fixings for some salad.

“Excuse me.” He was back.

“Yea?” I said, not looking up.

“Well…I can’t make this thing cooperate.  It won’t…cooperate.  How do you cooperate it?”

I glanced the hunk of black and white plastic my Grandpa was waving around in the air and squinted.  “What IS that Grandpa?”

“It’s for the living room.  I use it to cooperate.  Can you help me?”  He sounded sad, having to admit defeat.

“Yea…sure.”  I took it from him and immediately started laughing.  “Oh my god, Grandpa!  What did you do to it?!” I was holding the remote control to his TV, which looked as though it had been used to stir a pot of mashed potatoes and then was sprinkled with bread crumbs for good measure.  I can only assume he had intended bake it on the oven cleaning setting for dinner if I hadn’t showed up.

“I used it.” He said matter of factly.

“Clearly,” I mumbled, “But for what?”

Using the tips of my finger, so as to try for only minimal contact with the strange white crusty stuff on his remote, I adjusted the volume.

“I’M GOING TO CLEAN THIS!” I shouted over the TV, wiggling the dirty side in front of his face.

“Well, ok.” He replied, leaning around me to catch the report of the Dow.

I hate to report that the remote was a tough fix.  I always wondered why it cost so much to rent the remotes and cable boxes, but if all Grandpas make a practice of sticking their channel changing devices into vats of mashed potatoes, it all makes sense now.  I scrubbed it clean the best I could, trying to shake the water out from under the buttons and crossing my fingers that it wouldn’t ruin the controls.

“Can you show me how you…how you…that thing…” He was back behind my shoulder, pointing down at the remote in the drying rack.

I glanced behind me at the steak on the stove.  It had a few more minutes.  “Sure, come on!” I sighed.

I sat him down in front of the TV.  “You like this channel.” I pointed at the 1 and the 6 on the remote. “SIXTEEN!” I said loudly, moving my finger over the buttons.  “ONE – SIX!”

“Sixteen…” he mumbled, running his fingers over the keypad.  He sat up, “Good!  I think…”

I headed back to the kitchen, flipping the slightly over seared steak and popping the veggies in the microwave.

“Can you…I’m sorry…can you help again?” He was back in the doorway.

“Sure…whatcha need Grandpa?” I turned slightly as I was putting plates into the dishwasher.  He was silent.

Turning around, I saw the remote in his hands, held out like an offering to me.

I took him back in the living room, bringing along his bowl of salad with extra ranch dressing.  “ONE – SIX.” I said twice.  “ONE — SIX!”

He repeated after me a few times then asked, “And what comes next?”

“SEVEN.” I said.

“Seven?” He asked, pointing at the 3 on the remote.

“No SEVEN.” I pointed back at the 7.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’m understanding.” He shook his head.

“Here,” I said, grabbing a notepad. I scribbled PBS 1 – 6 and CNN 7 on the front of the page in block letters.  “Use this.  Match the picture to the remote.”  He looked at the picture and found a 1 and a 6 on his remote.

“Good!” I patted him on the back.  “If you need anything, just come get me.”

I hurried into the kitchen, already smelling the burnt edges of the steak.  As I tried to salvage his dinner, cutting off the burned fat and removing the chunks of bone to help him navigate the meat, he appeared in the doorway again.

“You okay Grandpa?” I asked, glancing at the clock.  It wasn’t quite 6:30 yet, so he couldn’t need the channel changed again.

He nodded, and slipped into the chair at the table.

“Do you want to eat here?  At the table?” I asked.

“No…no.” He shook his head and repeated the word a few times, probably searching for any others.

“What can I help you with?” I sat down along side of him, his dinner in my hand.

“Is that for me?” He asked, pointing at the plate.

“Yep!” I replied, “And this too!” I held up the big glass of chocolate milk.

“Well thanks!” He took the plate from me, “Would you mind staying?” He added.

“Sure.  How long do you want me to stay?  I don’t have any plans.  I can stay as long as you want.”  That was a lie, but my friends would understand.

“Not long.  I like to be alone.  I like to be alone probably soon.  Just remain long enough to change the thing I watch.”  He disappeared into the living room, and I followed after, laughing.  I’m his channel changing slave I guess.

He settled down into his chair, tripping on his shoe laces and placing his food shakily on his tray.  “Oh here!”

“Whatcha got Grandpa?” I asked, leaning forward.

“I still can’t make this work.” He reached over to the side table next to the couch, collected his things and turned back toward me.  In his out stretched hand was his bowl of salad, the remote stuck snuggly in the middle of the extra ranch dressing.

He’s down, like the economy

There are three things my grandpa does EVERY day, if possible.

1)   Ride his bike – It could be pushing 90 degrees and sure as the corn is high, he will pedal somewhere.  If there is snow?  Rain?  Sleet?  Hail?  He wears a hat, of course.
Additionally, he is ridiculously obsessed with where/when/how I ride my own bike.  He believes that bike riding is the only thing that has kept him alive for his 85 years of life, and I don’t really think that he is wrong.  However that does not mean that everyone else (my friends, family, co-workers, boyfriend, and cashiers at the supermarket included) has to ride their bike every day or THEY will die.  But you can’t argue with the man.  As established before, he is crotchety, old, set in his ways, and sometimes, though rarely, quite grumpy.  Especially if you try to mess with his bike riding.

2)   Play bridge – Lately he has been complaining that people at bridge don’t like other people at bridge.  I’m beginning to wonder if the people they don’t like are him.  He forgets a lot of things; where his keys are, my name, my mom’s name, how to read a clock, the year, the succession of the three meals in a day, where he keeps his cigars, what goes in the refrigerator, and what must certainly does not, etc.  It is doubtful to me that he can remember terms like dealing, auctioning, bidding, pass, double, diamonds.  Ironically, under “skills required” for the Wikipedia page on Bridge, the first skills is memory.

3)   Watches the news – Three times.  Every day at 6 o’clock (or shortly thereafter) my grandpa sits down to watch the PBS news station.  (It’s channel 16 ‘round these parts but sometimes it takes a few minutes to remember if it’s 19, 61, 14 or 16 – and, quite frankly, how to get the danged TV to change to that station.)  Well, like many 30 minute news briefs, they are repetitious.  The PBS news program plays at 6:00, 6:30 and 7:00.  And although they may vary in name (PBS news hour, Nightly Business Report, etc) they are all relatively, if not exactly, identical.
This Wednesday, while watching the biographical introduction of Texas governor, Rick Perry, my grandpa decided to have a one-on-one about politics and of course, the economy.  Of course the news was on at the maximum level, causing static and ear ringing.  My grandpa was shouting over the noise, insisting that his ears worked just fine.

“My brother wants to come back.  Don’t you think?” he yelled at me, lying back down after taking a sip of coffee.

“I didn’t know your brother left.  Where is he?” I asked, wondering what old Uncle Lee was up to.

“Washington D.C., of course.” He said, pointing to Barack Obama giving a speech in rural Iowa on TV.

“The President?” I laughed, “Obama isn’t your brother, Grandpa.”

“Oh yes he is!  He is everyone’s brother.  We picked him.  Well I didn’t, but all the others did.  Gosh.  I don’t know why!  It’s not like he is doing anything but talking.”

I stayed quiet.  We don’t always see eye to eye on politics, and by not always I mean practically never.

“Do you have opinions on all this stuff?” he asked, suspiciously eyeing me and my silent demeanor.  Secretly I think he knows that I (gasp) subscribe to a liberal agenda.  But publicly, we just don’t talk about that.

“I don’t know much about economics.  I know about social stuff but not economics.” I answered, quite truthfully.

He leaned back and put his arms behind his head, quite satisfied with my answer, “That’s alright.  You’re a woman so it’s not as important for your future.”

I laughed nervously and continued to dust the book shelves as the news anchor announced that the market rose again and was at it’s highest level since 2009, whatever that all means.  My grandpa jumped up and cheered, clapping his hands above his head in excitement.

“The Dow recently went up 429 points,” the anchor added over my grandpa’s cheers, “It’s been touch and go these past few weeks.  We waited to see if it would go down, and it did.  Then we waited to see if it would go up, and it did that too.”

My grandpa gave another little cheer and turned toward me as he settled back in his seat.  “It’s just been going all over the place.” He said, parroting the news anchor, “Just up and down, up and down, up and down.” He moved his finger back and forth, into the air and back to the ground, looking more like John Travolta than my grandpa.  I laughed.

“You know,” he shouted at me over the commercials, “There is one thing that I think this bad economic downturn is helping.  They have always been letting lots of those guys…those Mexican guys, into the US.” He said, using his vague pronouns like always.  “They are letting them come over.  You know what I mean?  Those guys, you see them all the time banging on the roofs and things.  Boy they are doing real well.  I never see one of them unemployed.  They are just hard workers.  I bet if everyone were to act like Mexicans they wouldn’t be laid off left and right.  Mexicans would never shred private documents.  Mexicans would never be late to work.  Mexicans.  We could all learn a little from those guys.”

“You think so?” I asked him, trying to remain as neutral as possible.

“Yea, I really do.  They shouldn’t say ‘work like a dog’ they should say ‘work like a Mexican.’”  He paused and then looked over at me.  “Well you know what I mean.  Work…work hard.”

“I know what you mean, gramps.”

He changed the subject.  “I’m going to Florida with your mom.”  His smile was big.

“You mean Columbus?” I asked him, knowing that he had a date set to visit his brother who lived near the capitol on Friday.

“Yea,” he said, disappointed, “Columbus.  That will be Fridee, of course.  I guess it’s probably not as nice as Florida, but it will be ok.”