The Burrow

Amster and The Firefighter are bringing the truck over this afternoon.  He'll load up G'ma's mattress and box spring, and deliver it to her room, placing it on top of the bed frame I'll have set up by the time he arrives. Firefighters have very strong upper bodies, having to carry hoses and axes and humans up ladders and down staircases. He hefts the pieces up and over his head without any assistance at all, while I stand and stare, in amazement. He has the truck, he's on his way to pick up furniture from a friend, it's a favor he's happy to grant. I didn't tell G'ma that her bed is on its way. I realized that she was no longer in the decision making loop last week, at the dentist. The pod castle had alerted me to a swelling along her jaw line; I went over to take a look and decide whether to call the dentist or the gerontologist. This was the kind of decision I had to make for my children, and the kind of decision for which I would have sought m...

G'ma has a friend.  Glenna sits beside her at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  They chat, they observe, they judge, they comment, they laugh.  Meals last for hours; there's too much fun being had. Did you notice that I mentioned breakfast?  My mother, the queen, used to prefer her morning meal on a tray in her room. She didn't have to bathe, or change from her jammies.  Her flakes and coffee were waiting for her when she roused herself from bed and made her way to her recliner. Over the past months, she's been waking up earlier and earlier, with less and less prodding.  No one knows why her internal clock decided to reset itself, but reset itself it did.  My night owl parent is now an early riser. Will wonders never cease? Glenna doesn't seem to care that Mom can't remember, from day to day, where she is or who has been sitting beside her for months.  Glenna remembers my name, and that clue from a table mate has led to more "Hi, Suzi" greeting...

There's no two ways about it - getting a tooth drilled is creepy. Sure, the hygienist can laugh and say that she and the dentist hear it as "opera... or a cantata" but it's shrill and metallic and loud and in my mouth. It sounds like many things, but music just ain't one of 'em. As a kid on Long Island, we had a family dentist. His office was a short bike ride away; going to appointments on my own was my first really grown-up experience. Down Benjamin Road, then cut through Ellen Terry Drive, which was named for the actress, not some builder's daughter. I liked knowing that. Ride under the giant poplars hiding the too-big-for0-the neighborhood, gated, wonder-who-lives-there house and then cross Brower Avenue. Carefully, very very carefully, looking left then right then right again because there was a triangle one block down that way and cars came from both sides of it and merged in front of the office. For a while, there was a little farm on that triangle...