Dedicated to my father
Dr. James A. MacInnis
5 April 1922 - 15 January 2008
On a cold November day in 2004, my old Cairn terrier, Mr. Jake, and I traveled to the town of my birth to spend two weeks with my elderly father while my home was undergoing some very necessary repairs. My husband stayed in a hotel in the city, an hour from our home while our cats stayed on at the house, coming and going at will, being left food by the work crew who were so very kind to do that. Mr. Jake and I stayed with my father, as most kennels would not board the dog, given his advanced age; a standard for most reputable facilities of that sort Aside from that, given I am aging with spastic diplegic cerebral palsy, I felt more secure/safe in familiar surroundings when it came to moving about so it made sense for me to hang out with Dad rather than in a hotel room with a dog and my husband. Besides, my father hadn’t had a good dose of my wit and charm for some time; he was due.
I had concerns about Mr. Jake spending so much time in close quarters with an elderly gentleman who was cycling with confusion; Dad had been experiencing bouts of hydrocephalic-induced dementia – fluid on the brain interfering with proper neuron firing, compromising his full awareness/cognition. He seemed to do better in the morning and during or shortly after a meal. After a nap, he seemed to be a bit more confused. The old Cairn was experiencing bouts of canine cognitive disorder so both old boys were in the same boat as it were; it was going to be interesting to say the least. My only hope was that it wasn’t going to be dangerous – either for my father or for my dog. For my father, Mr. Jake posed a risk if Dad reached down to pet him and caught the wee beast unawares and a full set of canine teeth came down on my father’s straying hand. For the dog, as Dad shuffled about, I feared he might stumble into the tenacious one and fall. The little dude, being a curious fellow loved to follow people about, rather like Prince Philip, trotting a few paces behind his Queen. He wasn’t taught to do that specifically; he fell into it shortly after my husband and I adopted him and his dearly departed brother, Mr. Alex. It’s as though the dogs knew not to get to close to my feet. In fact, neither of them leaped up at me as they often did when greeting people. They waited for me to sit down before approaching me. Dogs DO think! Mr. Jake’s demeanor with me was transferred to his interaction with my father. The dog sensed that Dad couldn’t clearly ‘see’ him and the wee boy made no aggressive overtures at all; quite a feat for an obstreperous terrier.
Crossing the threshold at my childhood home, suitcases were deposited in my old room while the dog’s gear, bowls, food, biscuits, and toys were left in the kitchen. My younger brother soon arrived and we were discussing where to park the dog’s wicker basket; though he would sleep on my bed with his blanket, the basket would be where I’d instruct him to go when I was spending time with Dad. I didn’t want the basket in Dad’s way, so my brother suggested it be put in the living room, tucked out of the way under the piano bench. And so it was.
Off the living room was the TV room where Dad and my late mother spent most of their time. There would be banter back and forth, with the television humming away, sometimes watched, often not. It was just there! When my parents were fully on their own for most of their days, the television was their primary companion, as is often the case with elderly people whose adult children have busy lives of their own and don’t get to spend as much time as the could, or as they should with the aging father and mother. It would be in this space in the huge home of my growing up that I would spend the majority of my time with the man whose quiet demeanor was far more telling than he ever realized. I felt it was important for me to have an extended period, on my own with Dad as I may not get another opportunity before his situation reached the stage where he would not know or remember me at all.
Our first evening was about to begin. As was my habit, I had taken my shoes off shortly upon arriving; I did and do hate shoes but they’re a necessary evil, especially for someone in my situation who is limited with regard to choice of styles when it came to footwear. My closet would never be home to dozens and dozens of pairs of shoes. Instead, I morphed into a socks freak, having many pairs in a range of colors and textures; I like the fuzzy solid colored ones best – hunter green, purple, bright red, burgundy, and the ever-popular white, black and navy blue.
Dad’s caregiver came by 3 times a day to leave him with meals; on those occasions when she wasn’t needed my brothers and their wives would visit providing meals that they either prepared in their own kitchens and brought to Dad’s to heat n eat, or foods they prepared in Dad’s kitchen. Now, it was my turn. I had brought ingredients for several of my ‘signature’ dishes though my brother was concerned that Dad wouldn’t be able to eat them or perhaps wouldn’t eat them. In his dementia, he got a bit ‘bratty’/oppositional, but not too much ☺
Dad had decided he wanted a coffee. Perfect! I brought my coffee maker as I hated the instant ‘chemical’ tasting variety he enjoyed. I offered Dad a choice and he chose to have what I was having. Nice guy! He picked up his cup and turned to make his way to the TV room. I picked up my own to do the same, pausing to think about the path my socked feet would travel to get from kitchen, through the dining room, then part of the living room, into the TV room. Even at his advanced age, Dad’s walking still had an easy fluidity about it, while mine was still that of an awkward child, though my legs continued to take me where I needed to go, so all was well. Dad turned to ask if he might carry my cup. He remembered! I had braced myself for him possibly asking, as he did so many times before; sometimes catching me unawares, coming up behind me in his soft-soled shoes, just as I had picked up the full cup with a ‘let me carry that for you.’ – contents of the cup flying everywhere. I jokingly told him to announce himself if he was going to assist with carrying this or that because one of us was going to get seriously hurt otherwise. The point here is that on so many levels Dad didn’t notice my ‘different’ness. I was just me. The same would be so with my husband for all the years we were together. I may have been differently able, but I was still ME.
My father did, from a doctor’s perspective, appreciate that I had needs and issues that would never be experienced by my siblings. There were times when he wore the Doctor hat more frequently than the Dad hat – though they were interchangeable. But for the two weeks I would be with him, he was Dad and I was Carla. Sitting in that well-worn chair of my youth, I sipped my coffee and had a cigarette; yes, I smoked back then. Nicotine, as it turned out, had an effect with me that was a bit of a surprise – it acted as a muscle relaxant – but that’s another story for another time – in fact, perhaps a full-fledged research paper. As an aside, I’ve long since quit smoking – cold turkey, I might add.
On our first night together, Dad’s evening meal was already set, and his caregiver invited me to share in it, which really wasn’t allowed – she was there to meet his needs, not those of others. Though I knew this, Dad insisted I be included. The next evening, I would be donning the chef’s hat. His care giver was a lovely woman and though she knew of me, and heard a lot about me, she’d not met me. She was in for a treat, to be sure. Mr. Jake took to her instantly which was very telling of her character. I recall one day-worker who was not such a nice person and Dad had her dismissed; she had been hired to care primarily for my mother, but was not terribly kind to their cat.
Dad was doing a bit of a walk-about and noticed the dog’s basket under the piano bench. He walked over to it, stuck the tip of his walking cane inside the basket and proceeded to drag it towards the TV room. He said the dog would be lonely left in the living room while we were out of his sight, so I picked up the basket it, brought it through to the TV room, asking Dad which would be the best location so that it was out of his way. We decided to put it beside my chair, since the dog and I were to forever be caught in a game of Me and My Shadow.
Dinner over, we were on our own. I made more coffee, carrying my own cup, uninterrupted from kitchen to TV room, with the dog falling into step behind me. Dad had already gone ahead so I had no worries about having to pay attention to an extra pair of feet moving about. If I were to list all the things I must pay attention to that are second-nature in my own space, no doubt people would be stunned. It would take a day or two to get acclimatized to my childhood home, but I’d get there.
Once seated in that familiar chair that was ‘my’ chair for so many years, I felt a stabbing pain in my foot, so I took off my sock to inspect the flat, pancake like appendage attached to my ankle. My foot was blue in spots. Dad noticed right away. Go figure. Removing the sock from my other foot, I noted the color; also blue. Dad immediately announced that my feet must be cold and that I needed warmer socks and he had just the ones that would do; he also asked if my heart hurt. Often, if I was having a hiccup with my heart there would be numbness in my fingers or toes and my feet would get a bit blue. I told him I had warm socks in my bag and I’d get them and that my heart was just fine. He was quite insistent that I wear the socks he was offering, so being a dutiful daughter while a guest in his home, I relented and waited for him to go through to his bedroom. I could hear him bumping along – the dog followed him, abandoning me for the guy who just moments before shared bits of his dinner. Follow that tall guy and there might be more snacks!
The issue with the foot was muscle stress caused by posturing myself in a way that allowed me to move about in a place though familiar to me needed to be reprogrammed with regard to my memories being jump-started. I was at the age where I preferred the security of my own home and people, family and friends came to me. An away visit unless it was going to be more than 3-4 days, was very stressful on spine and legs, so this extended visit with my father was going to be just fine though it would take a bit of getting reacquainted with the way of things as they once were. Falling down and going boom was not an option!
Dad returned to the TV room with creamy white wool socks; so soft, and soooooooo big!! He felt they’d be just the ticket to keep my feet warm while I sat around shoeless during my time with him. How right he was! I put them on, and my feet warmed up almost immediately, even though the socks were loose.
The evening went on and we had a lovely time, recalling this person or that person from years ago; we talked about the latest in treatment of neurological insults; Parkinson, stroke, cerebral palsy -- he asked about my heart, and my legs, my spine; he had solid recollections of events of the 50s, 60s and various medical things as they related to me specifically; clearly, he was wearing his doctor hat – he was comfortable in that part of his life and remembering.
At one point, I got Dad a cocktail; his usual rum and coke. I had a scotch. Dad still smoked and I was watchful of the ash, as it grew from the tip of his cigarette. He let more cigarettes burn than he actually smoked. Intermittent naps peppered the evening, and a few times he woke, convinced he was still in medical school in Halifax, Nova Scotia, when something I said pulled him into the 60s, into the 70s, and so on, until he seemed fully ‘present’. At around midnight, that first night, I suggested we turn in. Dad didn’t want to go to bed but I was tired so I went upstairs, leaving him on his own. Once in my room, I thought I heard a door opening downstairs. Not thinking much about it, I gathered up soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, hair brush, and hair pin and was heading to the bathroom when I heard a door closing. That worried me. Thankfully I was still dressed so I went downstairs to investigate, having shut the dog in the bedroom, just in case. Once downstairs, I saw that all the lights were still on, but Dad was not in his bedroom, nor was he in the TV room. I went through to the kitchen and opened the kitchen door to the outside porch and down the steps, still wearing the heavy white socks Dad had given me hours earlier. No time for boots. Minutes lost could be a disaster. Just in time, I saw Dad turning the corner by the side of the house, heading towards the street. Was he lost in the 50s and heading to work at the ‘old hospital’? I had to stop him. It was snowing.
My youngest brother, Michael, was just minutes away, and another brother 15 minutes away; too long to wait -- anything could happen. Michael lived with Rheumatoid Arthritis and was taking heavy narcotics for pain and might already be well asleep. So, I had to act, and act quickly. I got down to the ground, snow chilling my feet through the white woolen socks. I called to my father --- “Dad, I’ve fallen and can’t reach the step”. He immediately turned around and came back to me; my plan worked. I was able to throw him back to that period in his memory when I was that clumsy 10 year old needing his help. He walked to the steps and put his hand on the railing and I reached for him to help him up the steps. What a turn-about – me helping him. Once in the kitchen, he noticed the socks, now soaking wet, and suggested I take them off and put on a dry pair. He was fully present with time and place once again -- a good sign. He went through to the TV room and sat in his chair, drink as he left it, as though nothing happened. In his mind, nothing potentially dangerous had just taken place. I knew he’d be fine while I went to my room to get dry socks. While still upstairs, I went to the laundry room and tossed the wet socks in the washing machine.
Though late, I decided to call my brother who was going to come to the house after I told him what happened; I pointed out that all was well and I’d see him in the morning --- I just wanted to report the event. As it turned out, this sort of thing was more frequent, and my brother who was charged with Dad’s daily affairs was in the process of executing another plan to ensure our father’s safety. A full time, live-in person, and locks on the doors out of his reach. It had to be done. It was time. The last phase of his journey wouldn’t be until a few years later.
I returned to the TV room, but not before pouring myself another scotch – damn, I needed it! I was a wreck. Thankfully, a calm wreck. I had years of experience with children with intellectual disability so was used to anything happening – rather like Murphy’s Law. Dad again commented about my feet and asked if they were warm enough; he was still fully present and ‘with it’, even noticing the changed socks. He didn’t, however, seem to remember that he’d been outside though recalled the white socks. Clearly, they had some significance for him. He told me the story of the socks; part of his cross country skiing attire from years earlier when he and Mom used to partake of that sport with family friends. There had also been much longer, very colorful socks that were either given away, worn out or tossed out. The feminine version of the socks, pairs once belonging to my mother, I now have and still do wear to this day; love them! But Dad’s creamy white woolen socks remained tucked in a drawer not used for years; that is, until they were slipped on my scrawny Triple-A size 9 feet! I was then and still am a little bit of a thing; long limbs and long hands and feet. Man-sized socks on tiny, feminine feet formed quite a visual. A memory was created during that evening with my father. The theme of that particular memory would be recreated a few more times during my visit with Dad as he ventured outside, lost in a fog and I had to rescue him; a couple of those occasions with the white socks on my similarly white feet, but the socks were smaller. After that first evening’s outing in the snow, the socks got a much-needed washing. The man-sized footwear that went into the washer, then into the dryer, came out sized to fit a considerably smaller foot. Oops!! They were WOOL. Wool shrinks. Did I not think? Did I not remember? Or did I deliberately reduce their size with the view to spiriting them away; as a reminder of that visit to my childhood home and time spent with Dad. I’m not telling, but I will say this – long after those two weeks spent with my father, with the first snowy evening’s misadventure, I still have the socks! They’ve been well worn --- in fact, one of them is starting to show signs of age – two holes. Should I find some wool to match and set a pair of small knitting needles into the body of the sock and repair the holes, or should I do what my father did all those years ago and tuck them away, as is – perhaps with a written story of the socks slipped into one? A reminder of the life of socks and the people who lived with them and in them, if only for a short time.
From Fred Hazel, retired editor of The Telegraph Journal (New Brunswick, Canada): “Just finished reading Socks n Sensibilities. Nothing I'd change in that. You continue to write with such clarity - and even in that personal description of an old man, I can still see your Dad as I remember him. Good work”.
I had concerns about Mr. Jake spending so much time in close quarters with an elderly gentleman who was cycling with confusion; Dad had been experiencing bouts of hydrocephalic-induced dementia – fluid on the brain interfering with proper neuron firing, compromising his full awareness/cognition. He seemed to do better in the morning and during or shortly after a meal. After a nap, he seemed to be a bit more confused. The old Cairn was experiencing bouts of canine cognitive disorder so both old boys were in the same boat as it were; it was going to be interesting to say the least. My only hope was that it wasn’t going to be dangerous – either for my father or for my dog. For my father, Mr. Jake posed a risk if Dad reached down to pet him and caught the wee beast unawares and a full set of canine teeth came down on my father’s straying hand. For the dog, as Dad shuffled about, I feared he might stumble into the tenacious one and fall. The little dude, being a curious fellow loved to follow people about, rather like Prince Philip, trotting a few paces behind his Queen. He wasn’t taught to do that specifically; he fell into it shortly after my husband and I adopted him and his dearly departed brother, Mr. Alex. It’s as though the dogs knew not to get to close to my feet. In fact, neither of them leaped up at me as they often did when greeting people. They waited for me to sit down before approaching me. Dogs DO think! Mr. Jake’s demeanor with me was transferred to his interaction with my father. The dog sensed that Dad couldn’t clearly ‘see’ him and the wee boy made no aggressive overtures at all; quite a feat for an obstreperous terrier.
Crossing the threshold at my childhood home, suitcases were deposited in my old room while the dog’s gear, bowls, food, biscuits, and toys were left in the kitchen. My younger brother soon arrived and we were discussing where to park the dog’s wicker basket; though he would sleep on my bed with his blanket, the basket would be where I’d instruct him to go when I was spending time with Dad. I didn’t want the basket in Dad’s way, so my brother suggested it be put in the living room, tucked out of the way under the piano bench. And so it was.
Off the living room was the TV room where Dad and my late mother spent most of their time. There would be banter back and forth, with the television humming away, sometimes watched, often not. It was just there! When my parents were fully on their own for most of their days, the television was their primary companion, as is often the case with elderly people whose adult children have busy lives of their own and don’t get to spend as much time as the could, or as they should with the aging father and mother. It would be in this space in the huge home of my growing up that I would spend the majority of my time with the man whose quiet demeanor was far more telling than he ever realized. I felt it was important for me to have an extended period, on my own with Dad as I may not get another opportunity before his situation reached the stage where he would not know or remember me at all.
Our first evening was about to begin. As was my habit, I had taken my shoes off shortly upon arriving; I did and do hate shoes but they’re a necessary evil, especially for someone in my situation who is limited with regard to choice of styles when it came to footwear. My closet would never be home to dozens and dozens of pairs of shoes. Instead, I morphed into a socks freak, having many pairs in a range of colors and textures; I like the fuzzy solid colored ones best – hunter green, purple, bright red, burgundy, and the ever-popular white, black and navy blue.
Dad’s caregiver came by 3 times a day to leave him with meals; on those occasions when she wasn’t needed my brothers and their wives would visit providing meals that they either prepared in their own kitchens and brought to Dad’s to heat n eat, or foods they prepared in Dad’s kitchen. Now, it was my turn. I had brought ingredients for several of my ‘signature’ dishes though my brother was concerned that Dad wouldn’t be able to eat them or perhaps wouldn’t eat them. In his dementia, he got a bit ‘bratty’/oppositional, but not too much ☺
Dad had decided he wanted a coffee. Perfect! I brought my coffee maker as I hated the instant ‘chemical’ tasting variety he enjoyed. I offered Dad a choice and he chose to have what I was having. Nice guy! He picked up his cup and turned to make his way to the TV room. I picked up my own to do the same, pausing to think about the path my socked feet would travel to get from kitchen, through the dining room, then part of the living room, into the TV room. Even at his advanced age, Dad’s walking still had an easy fluidity about it, while mine was still that of an awkward child, though my legs continued to take me where I needed to go, so all was well. Dad turned to ask if he might carry my cup. He remembered! I had braced myself for him possibly asking, as he did so many times before; sometimes catching me unawares, coming up behind me in his soft-soled shoes, just as I had picked up the full cup with a ‘let me carry that for you.’ – contents of the cup flying everywhere. I jokingly told him to announce himself if he was going to assist with carrying this or that because one of us was going to get seriously hurt otherwise. The point here is that on so many levels Dad didn’t notice my ‘different’ness. I was just me. The same would be so with my husband for all the years we were together. I may have been differently able, but I was still ME.
My father did, from a doctor’s perspective, appreciate that I had needs and issues that would never be experienced by my siblings. There were times when he wore the Doctor hat more frequently than the Dad hat – though they were interchangeable. But for the two weeks I would be with him, he was Dad and I was Carla. Sitting in that well-worn chair of my youth, I sipped my coffee and had a cigarette; yes, I smoked back then. Nicotine, as it turned out, had an effect with me that was a bit of a surprise – it acted as a muscle relaxant – but that’s another story for another time – in fact, perhaps a full-fledged research paper. As an aside, I’ve long since quit smoking – cold turkey, I might add.
On our first night together, Dad’s evening meal was already set, and his caregiver invited me to share in it, which really wasn’t allowed – she was there to meet his needs, not those of others. Though I knew this, Dad insisted I be included. The next evening, I would be donning the chef’s hat. His care giver was a lovely woman and though she knew of me, and heard a lot about me, she’d not met me. She was in for a treat, to be sure. Mr. Jake took to her instantly which was very telling of her character. I recall one day-worker who was not such a nice person and Dad had her dismissed; she had been hired to care primarily for my mother, but was not terribly kind to their cat.
Dad was doing a bit of a walk-about and noticed the dog’s basket under the piano bench. He walked over to it, stuck the tip of his walking cane inside the basket and proceeded to drag it towards the TV room. He said the dog would be lonely left in the living room while we were out of his sight, so I picked up the basket it, brought it through to the TV room, asking Dad which would be the best location so that it was out of his way. We decided to put it beside my chair, since the dog and I were to forever be caught in a game of Me and My Shadow.
Dinner over, we were on our own. I made more coffee, carrying my own cup, uninterrupted from kitchen to TV room, with the dog falling into step behind me. Dad had already gone ahead so I had no worries about having to pay attention to an extra pair of feet moving about. If I were to list all the things I must pay attention to that are second-nature in my own space, no doubt people would be stunned. It would take a day or two to get acclimatized to my childhood home, but I’d get there.
Once seated in that familiar chair that was ‘my’ chair for so many years, I felt a stabbing pain in my foot, so I took off my sock to inspect the flat, pancake like appendage attached to my ankle. My foot was blue in spots. Dad noticed right away. Go figure. Removing the sock from my other foot, I noted the color; also blue. Dad immediately announced that my feet must be cold and that I needed warmer socks and he had just the ones that would do; he also asked if my heart hurt. Often, if I was having a hiccup with my heart there would be numbness in my fingers or toes and my feet would get a bit blue. I told him I had warm socks in my bag and I’d get them and that my heart was just fine. He was quite insistent that I wear the socks he was offering, so being a dutiful daughter while a guest in his home, I relented and waited for him to go through to his bedroom. I could hear him bumping along – the dog followed him, abandoning me for the guy who just moments before shared bits of his dinner. Follow that tall guy and there might be more snacks!
The issue with the foot was muscle stress caused by posturing myself in a way that allowed me to move about in a place though familiar to me needed to be reprogrammed with regard to my memories being jump-started. I was at the age where I preferred the security of my own home and people, family and friends came to me. An away visit unless it was going to be more than 3-4 days, was very stressful on spine and legs, so this extended visit with my father was going to be just fine though it would take a bit of getting reacquainted with the way of things as they once were. Falling down and going boom was not an option!
Dad returned to the TV room with creamy white wool socks; so soft, and soooooooo big!! He felt they’d be just the ticket to keep my feet warm while I sat around shoeless during my time with him. How right he was! I put them on, and my feet warmed up almost immediately, even though the socks were loose.
The evening went on and we had a lovely time, recalling this person or that person from years ago; we talked about the latest in treatment of neurological insults; Parkinson, stroke, cerebral palsy -- he asked about my heart, and my legs, my spine; he had solid recollections of events of the 50s, 60s and various medical things as they related to me specifically; clearly, he was wearing his doctor hat – he was comfortable in that part of his life and remembering.
At one point, I got Dad a cocktail; his usual rum and coke. I had a scotch. Dad still smoked and I was watchful of the ash, as it grew from the tip of his cigarette. He let more cigarettes burn than he actually smoked. Intermittent naps peppered the evening, and a few times he woke, convinced he was still in medical school in Halifax, Nova Scotia, when something I said pulled him into the 60s, into the 70s, and so on, until he seemed fully ‘present’. At around midnight, that first night, I suggested we turn in. Dad didn’t want to go to bed but I was tired so I went upstairs, leaving him on his own. Once in my room, I thought I heard a door opening downstairs. Not thinking much about it, I gathered up soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, hair brush, and hair pin and was heading to the bathroom when I heard a door closing. That worried me. Thankfully I was still dressed so I went downstairs to investigate, having shut the dog in the bedroom, just in case. Once downstairs, I saw that all the lights were still on, but Dad was not in his bedroom, nor was he in the TV room. I went through to the kitchen and opened the kitchen door to the outside porch and down the steps, still wearing the heavy white socks Dad had given me hours earlier. No time for boots. Minutes lost could be a disaster. Just in time, I saw Dad turning the corner by the side of the house, heading towards the street. Was he lost in the 50s and heading to work at the ‘old hospital’? I had to stop him. It was snowing.
My youngest brother, Michael, was just minutes away, and another brother 15 minutes away; too long to wait -- anything could happen. Michael lived with Rheumatoid Arthritis and was taking heavy narcotics for pain and might already be well asleep. So, I had to act, and act quickly. I got down to the ground, snow chilling my feet through the white woolen socks. I called to my father --- “Dad, I’ve fallen and can’t reach the step”. He immediately turned around and came back to me; my plan worked. I was able to throw him back to that period in his memory when I was that clumsy 10 year old needing his help. He walked to the steps and put his hand on the railing and I reached for him to help him up the steps. What a turn-about – me helping him. Once in the kitchen, he noticed the socks, now soaking wet, and suggested I take them off and put on a dry pair. He was fully present with time and place once again -- a good sign. He went through to the TV room and sat in his chair, drink as he left it, as though nothing happened. In his mind, nothing potentially dangerous had just taken place. I knew he’d be fine while I went to my room to get dry socks. While still upstairs, I went to the laundry room and tossed the wet socks in the washing machine.
Though late, I decided to call my brother who was going to come to the house after I told him what happened; I pointed out that all was well and I’d see him in the morning --- I just wanted to report the event. As it turned out, this sort of thing was more frequent, and my brother who was charged with Dad’s daily affairs was in the process of executing another plan to ensure our father’s safety. A full time, live-in person, and locks on the doors out of his reach. It had to be done. It was time. The last phase of his journey wouldn’t be until a few years later.
I returned to the TV room, but not before pouring myself another scotch – damn, I needed it! I was a wreck. Thankfully, a calm wreck. I had years of experience with children with intellectual disability so was used to anything happening – rather like Murphy’s Law. Dad again commented about my feet and asked if they were warm enough; he was still fully present and ‘with it’, even noticing the changed socks. He didn’t, however, seem to remember that he’d been outside though recalled the white socks. Clearly, they had some significance for him. He told me the story of the socks; part of his cross country skiing attire from years earlier when he and Mom used to partake of that sport with family friends. There had also been much longer, very colorful socks that were either given away, worn out or tossed out. The feminine version of the socks, pairs once belonging to my mother, I now have and still do wear to this day; love them! But Dad’s creamy white woolen socks remained tucked in a drawer not used for years; that is, until they were slipped on my scrawny Triple-A size 9 feet! I was then and still am a little bit of a thing; long limbs and long hands and feet. Man-sized socks on tiny, feminine feet formed quite a visual. A memory was created during that evening with my father. The theme of that particular memory would be recreated a few more times during my visit with Dad as he ventured outside, lost in a fog and I had to rescue him; a couple of those occasions with the white socks on my similarly white feet, but the socks were smaller. After that first evening’s outing in the snow, the socks got a much-needed washing. The man-sized footwear that went into the washer, then into the dryer, came out sized to fit a considerably smaller foot. Oops!! They were WOOL. Wool shrinks. Did I not think? Did I not remember? Or did I deliberately reduce their size with the view to spiriting them away; as a reminder of that visit to my childhood home and time spent with Dad. I’m not telling, but I will say this – long after those two weeks spent with my father, with the first snowy evening’s misadventure, I still have the socks! They’ve been well worn --- in fact, one of them is starting to show signs of age – two holes. Should I find some wool to match and set a pair of small knitting needles into the body of the sock and repair the holes, or should I do what my father did all those years ago and tuck them away, as is – perhaps with a written story of the socks slipped into one? A reminder of the life of socks and the people who lived with them and in them, if only for a short time.
From Fred Hazel, retired editor of The Telegraph Journal (New Brunswick, Canada): “Just finished reading Socks n Sensibilities. Nothing I'd change in that. You continue to write with such clarity - and even in that personal description of an old man, I can still see your Dad as I remember him. Good work”.
