Notes from Maine - 2022/02/20
Almost done with this month—one more week. February is usually a grind in Maine, but this year, it has flown by. Some surprising weather has helped move things along, as well as a quick visit from family. My father is back in the hospital, where they’re trying to figure out the mysterious ailment that robbed him of his energy and appetite. So far they have theories, but no conclusions. His parents both lived into their nineties, and for years Dad talked about that like it was his birthright. He even talked about “beating his father,” which I think means living to an older age (in this context).
My grandfather (we called him Grandpa) didn’t want to live as long as he did. When I was a kid, I was watching TV with Grandpa and we saw a person on a talk show who was disabled. A combination of age and an accident had left the man in a wheelchair. Grandpa said, “Richie—if I ever get like that… I never want to live like that.” He called me Richie most of the time. And then he said, “You might have to help me.”
I told him okay, because I was just a teenager and I didn’t know what else to say. A decade later, when his health and mobility had declined, he asked me to go upstairs and bring him the handgun from his bedside table. After carefully unloading the gun and hiding the magazine, I brought it to him. I had very little experience with guns, but I was certain that the thing was de-fanged. Angry, he demanded to know what happened to the bullets. I shrugged. We never found that gun. My brother has asked about it a couple of times. I told him what I did, and he found the magazine, but we don’t know what Grandpa could have done with the gun.
Those two little moments—a decade apart—go together for me. I can’t be certain of his intentions. He was somewhat of an ogre to most people, but he and I were close. It’s believable to me that he chose me as his instrument. Normally, I did whatever he told me to do. But the same as his body failed him, I failed him as well. I wasn’t thinking about his well-being, I was thinking about my grandmother, and maybe myself. She and I wouldn’t have coped well with whatever he intended to do with those bullets.
It’s a strange memory to pop up on a perfectly nice Sunday in February. I suppose I’m thinking about my father and how he has lost autonomy over his care. My brother decided to take him to the hospital because Dad was suddenly uncomfortable. The doctors there treating his condition like a crisis that requires intervention because that’s what they do. We’re just attempting to make him comfortable in spite of his health issues.
I live in a different world. Today marks the anniversary of little Albert coming to live here. Out in the barn, the Sweet Baby Angel filly is growing at a staggering pace. By spring she will be as tall as her mother—I’m sure of it. When she is weaned, I plan to reunite the horses. I have more to look forward to than back on. I never thought that I would be learning so much about horse husbandry in my fifties, but I’m glad for the experience. Every bit of it has been surprising and fun.
