Dad's Last Year On Earth

Did Dad Have Alzheimer’s Disease?

There has been a debate raging in my family for the last several years as to whether my father had Alzheimer’s disease or not. Several years ago, I met someone that matched my preconception of the Alzheimer’s condition, had long conversations with her that traversed centuries of human history in perfect recollection… only to find that she didn’t know her own or her spouse’s name sitting next to her.

When I moved back in with my parents in November of 2006, as far as I could see there was very little wrong with my father’s memory of names. Except for one time:

I’d been home for several months already when one morning I came downstairs for breakfast and Dad said “who’s that?” to my mother. It seemed completely out of character from what I’d seen and thought he might be kidding, so I replied in my best North Carolinian drawl, “I’m a hired hand Mr. Smith. Oh, and since it bein’ Sunday and all, do you think I might have the day off to run me some errands? Mrs. Smith said she wouldn’t be needin’ me today.” His scowl indicated that my wiseacre sensibilities had worked their charm once more, this time curing his amnesia 100%.

Dad knew everyone’s name in a remarkable display of clarity until the very end. That’s not to say that he didn’t exhibit other “Alzheimer’s symptoms” such as a shuffling gate, violent mood swings and confusion of fantasy and fact… but these last two were also attributes of his normal mind, so that’s not very damning evidence. Admittedly, by the time I arrived on the scene he and my mother were taking more pills than some of the teenage hippies I knew growing up. In fact, most of the time my father looked “high” to me (and this is a person that knows). And there were periods when he refused to take his pills, becoming more “difficult” than usual, so I guess they were necessary, but I remain steadfastly unconvinced that he had classic “Alzheimer’s Disease” and would have liked to see him living a more drug free life at the end. In a perfect world I guess.

His waking hours were characterized by a week, or at least several days of high energy, followed by another similarly long period of low energy where he did little else but eat and sleep (sometimes punctuated by very loud, cacophonous singing for which I was always grateful when he fell asleep again). Other times, piano playing. Some of which was surprisingly good, sounding spontaneously improvised; my mother said she had never heard some of the tunes before. But it was so sporadic that unfortunately I never got any of it on tape.

The periods of activity were characterized by wanting to be to wherever he had been in his dreams. If he had been visiting Ireland (which seemed to be his favorite place), he’d want to get back there. Other times he was all over the eastern seaboard, like the time he wanted to get to South Carolina “to visit his house” upon waking. Since he would have just tossed and turned if he went back to bed, getting back to his dream meant physically going there.

For a while, this meant getting to the airport and getting on a plane and I was to drive him. If I told him I didn’t have a driver’s license, he would offer to drive. But how would he board the plane with no money? Answer: Give him a ride to “6^th street” so he could withdraw money from his account where he had “millions” (as far as I know, there isn’t a bank on 6^th street). I soon learned that bringing up the subject of money was to be avoided at all cost, something my mother knew all too well. Since I was “fresh meat”, Dad now concentrated on enlisting me for the 6^th street quest. My mother was suffering from long term exasperation, so she became a deaf mute around this subject and wouldn’t hesitate to blame me if one of my questions got him started.

So one morning after a long sleep, he came in to breakfast and began describing a strange dream. My mother and I admired his tenacity as he spoke slowly and haltingly after being in the subconcious for so long : He’d been walking down a hill and couldn’t go back up because a force was preventing him. “Finally, something not related to 6^th street!” we thought. We listened patiently until he finished. After a moment of silence, and feeling safe that I wasn’t broaching the topic, I asked him why he wanted to go back up the hill. “To get to 6^th street.” was the answer, and he was back on me to give him a ride. My mother could have killed me (and this was one of those times when I thought this whole thing was just an “act” and was just toying with us). Things finally got easier when I came up with the idea of “confessing” that I was wanted by the police for outstanding traffic tickets (*ahem* not true). Thankfully he believed it and just gave me a “confidence between thieves” smile, never to mention it again (I think he was moved that I had let him in on my “dark secret”).

The problem remained as to how he would get to 6^th street however, so we were on to the “riding his bike to 6^th street” phase. Apparently he had done this before when mom was dealing with it alone. She said he’d go off riding his bike around town sailing through stop signs and miraculously never got hurt. When he got taken home by the police , it was always for something like going into a market and advising the owner on how to market his business better, or trying to collect the rent from a woman who had long ago paid off her home.. (which still reads like normal Dad stuff if you ask me).

By the time I was on the scene, the bike was sitting in the shed, tires gone flat from disuse. So the big quandary in this phase was: he needed a bicycle pump. That’s where I came in. I had to fend off requests to buy him a bicycle pump with a litany of deflections, excuses, and outright no’s. Followed by the attempts at browbeating, concluding with the usual tirade of curses and swears. I’d seen it all before many times (and I’m talking about the last time I lived at home, 30 years ago), so was always glad when we got to the curses and swears part. The home stretch!

Undaunted by the failure to obtain a bicycle pump, he’d occasionally go out to the shed and try to ride the bike “as is”. It took a lot of effort to ride a bike with two flats on grass so one day he launched himself from the top of the shed’s entrance ramp and sailed across the grass for a few yards, then fell sideways into a karate style landing on the grass. I would say it was miraculous that he didn’t get hurt, not to mention the ridiculous sight of that being accomplished by an 84 year old guy… except that he did it over and over ad nauseum. I finally got bored and went back in the house.

Of course, with this guy, that’s when his guardian angel takes over to make us look foolish. As soon as I wasn’t looking, he’d invariably go out to the street, do something similarly strange (never once getting hurt), a person driving by would see the whole thing and the next thing you know we’d have a ring at the door with a woman holding my poor elderly father by the hand, telling us some sob story about one of her parents at that age. All the while, the unspoken guilt being on my mother and I as to “Where were we when this poor elderly man needed help?”. It was like having a 3 year old around except this one weighed 180 lbs. and it’s head could turn all the way around spitting vomit if it didn’t get what it wanted... Later I realized that if I had only been a fan of “America’s Funniest Home Video’s”, I could have made his 6^th street bank account a reality with that submission… or public ridicule as an “elder abuser”. You never know how those things will turn out.

When did Dad start getting “Alzheimer’s Disease”?

We have also had discussions as to when this process may have been begun. At first, my mother liked to use the famous example from Sept. 2003 when she and my father visited my sister Dianne at her condo in Beverly. After they left, the neighbor in the apartment below gave her condolences to my sister “on her father having Alzheimer’s”. Apparently she had heard the scene he had caused over getting to the airport on time, the “shuffling gate” when he walked around the apartment, and just assumed “Alzheimer’s” as a forgone conclusion. That was news to my mother who quickly got some medical opinions that agreed with that assessment.

Given that insight, my mother now thinks that the signs might have begun much earlier. In California a few years before, she remembered that he had become more timorous about finding his way around in a car and for the first time, and she had to go and buy the new family car by herself (which she immensely enjoyed apparently). But is it possible that maybe things had begun at an even earlier stage than that? Particularly if one was to consider the idea that his condition wasn’t so much a clinical medical condition as it was a condition of the soul. I can think of a number of incidents that may shed some light.

My father was always given to grandiose dreams of a whimsical nature. In 1985 or so, I was in college at San Jose State U. and occasionally dropped by my parents house on Friday nights to go out for pizza. This particular time my mother was in England attending her father’s funeral with my brother and I went out with just my father for the first time. He seemed to be feeling a little more celebratory than usual. After pizza and a pitcher or two, we drove back to his place and sat talking in the car for a while. This was so similar to what I’d done with my teenage friends (being drunk and all) that it felt kind of strange but I stuck with it. In a whimsical act of storytelling, he related the equally whimsical story of why they decided to move to California, for which I was all ears. It always had astonished me, that after my desperate bid to get as far away from my family as teenage possible: by driving to the opposite coast of the continent, a scant few years later everyone was on the west coast! It felt as if I had precipitated this huge change in everyone’s fortunes without understanding any of it. Finally, some light would be cast on this eerie turn of events.

I didn’t know much about my father’s life as a contract engineer. He started getting decent paying jobs after I’d left home (first to college, then to California) thanks to my brother who went to work at one of those employment agencies specializing in engineering. His was now the life of a nomad as he traveled from contract job to contract job. My mother sometimes went with him, and when she had a job, she stayed home. By all accounts, he enjoyed that life. But on to the pivotal point in question:

In the middle of a particularly hard Massachusetts winter, he’d worked a job in Phoenix Arizona. His face lit up with excitement as he related weekend drives through the desert in a convertible rental car, getting drunk while lifting his new cowboy hat to the sky with a “yahoo” yelp, radio blaring country music (the "yahoo" part was in my mind’s eye from family photo’s and anecdotes from my sisters). I had felt a similar outdoorsy feeling of exhilaration when I drove across the desert for the first time, so I could relate somewhat (minus the over-the-top theatrics). My mother says that he called her from Arizona and told her to “sell the house; He wasn’t coming back.” (and she said he'd bought matching cowboy boots too).

My mother was working the first job that she actually enjoyed and was loathe to give it up for another of my father’s whimsical moves. At first, she decided to stay in Mass. and started planning her move to Gloucester, near her job as a high level manager’s secretary at a company that valued her contribution. Then the older of my two sisters (Christina) decided she wanted to go to Cal. Berkley (near San Fransisco) and wanted to transfer there from Boston University. This changed things considerably so Mom would have to think carefully. My other sister Dianne finally said she’d go too, so she reluctantly acquiesced. It was as if the Gods were conspiring.

It was around that time (1985) that my father started having doubts about his interest in the world of engineering that had so enthralled him for decades. His arrival into the new world of California was full of hope as he not only was in a new country (practically speaking, California is a different country), but had luckily landed his dream job at Lockheed Corp., a top government military contractor specializing in missile systems. In a surprise move of pure moxy, he boldly convinced them that he had done some aerospace related math research and was hired as a direct employee, not as a contractor.

Things couldn’t have appeared brighter at this juncture in Dad’s life. But like all starry-eyed dreams, soon the practical realities hit home and the visions became disturbed by the grinding grit of human frailty. All was not well with one of the largest, most reputable defense contractors in America’s arsenal of freedom defenders. To my father’s pure horror, they were using antiquated mathematical tools to solve the hairiest aerospace problems imaginable... simplistic equations of motion using the basic ballistics equations of Newton instead of the more concise formulations of LaGrange. It was against Dad’s nature to use anything less than the most sophisticated math tools he knew of so he started redoing everything into the Lagrangian equations he knew so well. But it would take too long and he was getting into trouble with his employers. He struggled to keep up with his workload and redoing the equations the proper way but it was too much and he was eventually let go.

There was talk of being sued over “misrepresentation” (of which nothing came about) due to the fact that his experience with it was little more than barroom banter with an engineering buddy who shared his enthusiasm (I stand corrected on this: my mother handed me the research manual of a device he co-developed at Kaman Aircraft which was patented and had very solid applications to aerospace problems. He may have been hired on the strength of that paper. The device was named the Dynamic Antiresonant Vibration Isolator, or “DAVI”). Lockheed has had their share of scandals over the years (like the legendary story of the guy who typed the entire Bible into his laptop computer on company time while waiting for his security clearance… or the guy who built an airplane for personal use on company time… using company parts, for the same reason... and Lockheed was the company famous for the $7500.00 wrench in government audit reports) so I wouldn’t side with them. There was probably plenty of blame to go around.

My father had had a lot off let downs in his engineering career. Lay offs, a decade of unemployment, finally this... Discouraged by the whole world of engineering at that point, he basically retired. He had taken Stanford classes relating to his work at Lockheed and was particularly disturbed by the sheer amount of effort required for even the simplest problems. “There had to be an easier way” he thought. That’s when he hit upon an idea that he could sink his teeth into: a three dimensional number that would simplify the equations that he had struggled with at Lockheed and revolutionize advanced engineering research. Drawing on his early training from Irish engineering schools, he was going to develop a math system similar to Alexander Rowan Hamilton’s “quaternion” but without all the number crunching. It would handle all the complexities of space missile calculations seamlessly, not unlike what Hamiltonian and Lagrangian mechanics did for engineering calculations. Now he had all the time in the world to pursue it. He could patent it, then the rest would be history.

I was studying math and physics at the time, including a class on the same topic related to Dad’s research: quaternions (an updated version they teach now called “complex variables”). My college textbook made the following curious note upon mentioning the contributions of Hamilton: “it is proven mathematically that it is impossible to have a 3 dimensional number. Any multi-dimensional number must be an even number of dimensions.” The text literally singled out the 3-dimensional number as particularly impossible even though (I'm sure) the mathematical proof considers all odd numbered dimensional numbers as equally impossible.
"A lot of engineers have been disappointed in the last 100 years or so." I thought.

The quaternion is a 4 dimensional number thus fitting the criteria. Since Dad had described his number as a “three dimensional number”, I knew that it was going to be an uphill battle for him to gain acceptance. From that source and conversations with my math professor, I concluded that what my father was trying to accomplish was not an uncommon undertaking by amateur mathematicians since Hamilton’s day. Not unlike the search for the “philosopher’s stone”, or the “perpetual motion machine” (except neither of those have been proven impossible)... probably pursued by engineers who like their math based on “terra ferma” and not one iota more !

It always struck me as significant that my father harked back to the original writings of arguably one of the most brilliant (and more importantly, Irish) mathematicians of all time: Alexander Rowan Hamilton. To me, it was more than coincidence that his mathematical research went hand in hand with his romantic love of the olde Irish Soude. I believe that working on his 3 dimensional number theory brought him back to the carefree days of youth, pursuing his first love: mathematics. Once his mind started to go (possibly from all the mental energy expended), all that was left was the nostalgia, which is what I saw. I’m sure his soul is sailing over Ireland to his heart’s content right now. And as soon as he figures out how, he may start haunting some of his old haunts. Just for old times sake.

“Davey” J. Smith

A Brother Remembered

I am Donal, the sixth of ten children. Michael was the first or second. And thought that I should add to the memory of Michael as one of his brothers. There are only two of us left. Brothers that is. Jim being the other now aged four of five years older than me. At 75 this month and recently experience a storke. Jim is an invalid in Rockwell College. Two sister remain, Joan and Nuala.

All you will have is patches of his early life. He's now at university in Galway when I became aware of him. I remember his study at home in Market St, Ennis where he had a room to himslef, a small one and kept to his schedule of studying religiously. We were are strangers. He to his schedule of subjects, me gallavanting around the town. Can't remember that we spoke. About that time (in the early forties) my sister Madeline and I were sitting at home on a cold winter' night getting the best that we could from the turf fire when Michael burst into the room and to each of us handed a big bar of Cadbury's chocolate. And he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. That was Michael, always in a rush when he had things to do. It was Christmas and he made it for my sister and me. At St Flannen's College in Ennis I went to the sports day one year and I saw Michael, his face screwed up like it was an Olympic event, doing his best to win the 100 yards. He didn't. I remember him around the same trime at Drumore Lake (we used to have a family caravan there, that summer anyway) about six miles from town and three of us posed for a photo still alive today. Me sitting on some rocks with Jim behind me going up and Michael at the top with him pipe.

Some time after he met and married Ena then went to the States. And came back for a holiday. I met them in Bath in England and shot a complete film, each one of Mike and Ena. It was after all a long long time since I had met my big brother and I needed something to hang on to! Of the town, of the Roman Hot Springsl, everywhere they went. And send the lot to Mike when he returned to USA. Didn't see them again until I think 1983 when all the Smiths and their better halves returned to Ennis for a Smith reunion. Can't remember the numbers but there were a lot. And a noisy lot the Smiths turned out to be too.

We first me in Shannon Airport for a reunion dinner laid on by the Rockwell College Catering School Staff suitable led by Jim, Brother Jim being of the Catholic Creed. Great food. Thoroughly demolished. Then a request from Madeline's husband (Madeline was No 7 and also now from the States) with a message from Maureen who was dying in Galway General Hospital, and No 1 or 2 in the family). Thus started one of the famous rows in the family history, led by Michael and supported by most of his bros and siss. Quite simply all hell broke loose. Which, looking back on it, was a hoot. But not at the time. As a family we had been thoroughly scattered worldwide by then. And were still scattered by the time we met. Different viewpoints, different opinious. There was no set plan when we met and that first night was the ideal setting for a non harmonious first meeting.

We stayed together for 10 days I think. And, as quickly made up our differences and returned to them on the next meeting. We travelled a lot. To Galway Hospital where individually we saw Maureen. To Bunratty, a famous ruin of the 13th Century I think but modernized. To Lahinch a seaside village on the west coast. We laughed a lot, rowed a lot, cried a bit And swore that we should something like it again in the future. And didn't. We were too fragmented. The whole of the reunion was paid for out of the limited funds from the deaths of my father and mother - that is, the sale of No 10 out of which we were done by a clever tennant who swore that he did not have a rent agreement - nothing signed.

A fair bit there about the family history of which Michael was considered a figure head but not respected as one. He returned again to Ireland with Ena and stayed in my house (my wife and I bought one - had it built - out in the wilds of Co Clare.) They stayed there for a week or two and bought a Kayak, which they tried on the lakes around the house. Well, a couple of miles away. I did not meet them then, I was in England. There was a bit of a story that Ena tried to upturn the Kayak to keep Michael quiet because his temper was too much to cope with. She having to learn her part in the small craft. And it was small. I know because he left it behind him when he returned to the States. I had an oppertunity to get rid of my wife when we used it. But it meant me getting wet if I tried it. Pity, because later she divorced me and almost broke me. I said almost. And mean it. Anyway...

There was the story of Michael's part in the mathematical numbers game. Tried his hardest to get his nembers of whatever it was called - a formula of sorts that would have provided mankind with information that would tell you how many sheep were in a field, what position each held in relation to the sun, what way each was facing, where each had been, where each would go to, how much each had eaten - all this kind of useful information. Not that mankind would benefit from any of it. As I understood it anyway. Which is another way of saying that I didn't understand it at all. But he hept very busy and had bumbled his was through the higher maths brigade of the USA trying to make his mark. And appointed me Maketing Director of the European side of things !! Wow!!! He was convinced that his theory was infalible as all of this family in the States knew it was not. It kind of pettered out. I think he found one small calculation in his theory that wasn't exactly right.

Although I didn't know Michael all that well or see him all that often, I found him excessively funny when his lost his rag. Couldn't stop laughing at him. He would have made a wonderful commedian - if he did not take life so seriously. I just recall the story of him going to the Carmody Hoterl here in Ennis with his brother Jackie and two girl friends (I heard of this story - did not see it) and Michael purchased a round of Putteen for the four. Which they consumed and after a few moments of quiet Michael stood up and set about destroying the bar - literally. Tables, chairs, the bar itself, a male body, a female body, everything that could be lifterf and thrown. No one could stop him and of course the two ladies beat a hasty retreat as did everyone else in the bar. Michael spend the next three or four days in bed and was handed a rather large bill from the Hotel owners.

His brother and sisters in order of Birth
Maureen (Gone)
Jackie (Gone)_
Jim
Collette (First to Go)_
Joan
Donal
Madeline (Gone)
Nuala
Ted

And I finish my story here. Especially here because Michael had in him a nasty temper which I saw myself on a few occasions and could not stop laughing. I knew of no one else who did. And of course I did love him. May he Rest in Peace.

Donal

The Trickster

by M. Paul Smith

Dad was kind of a trickster. Decisions from my father were made mysteriously and he took strange directions in these enigmatic conclusions. He just didn't share his thoughts very much and there was never much warning about his sudden decisions.

My best memory of Dad as trickster was in the summer of 1970, when I had just turned fifteen. I had just started a job working as a lifeguard at a pond in Middleton. We had just finished the July 4th holiday. I had made a couple of hundred dollars at that point and could use the rest of the summer to put away some cash for the next school year. I was at work one day, having ridden my bike the ten miles to see if the weather was good enough to stay for the day's wage. I was working the beach, taking in the sun and the bathers when the manager came to me and said I had a call. That was very unusual, and stranger, it was Dad - who rarely called me anywhere. He said he was going to Ireland in a few days and asked did I want to come. We had only been one time a couple of years before, so I leapt at the chance to visit his hometown.

I gave my notice immediately and quickly prepared for an journey for which I had little idea what would entail. When we had been to Ennis in my first visit we had just hung about the little market town for a week. I had absorbed the sleepy Irish culture of this little village in the western county of Clare, enjoyed the late night repast of fish & chips with malt vinegar, walked through the late medieval ruin of the downtown Abbey, and smelt the rich loam of the Oulde Sod. Ireland harkened to me and intrigued me - to go back again was an unexpected opportunity! I'd just have to live as a pauper this school year. We had our few needs packed in a couple of small bags and were on the way within the week.

I was very excited on the flight. I had only flown once before on our last trip to Ireland, so this was a great adventure in many ways. The flight into Ireland's Shannon Airport was just magical. I can remember the clouds breaking open and seeing the emerald green fields of Eire glowing under the dim glow of the North Atlantic sun - it was better than I remembered. When we got of the plane and went through the airport to get our baggage, the signs written in English and Gaelic, the lilt of the local's conversation gave me goose bumps. It was like being in a modern fairy tale.

We had our bags and went out to the bus to get a lift into town. When settled into the bus, my puzzlement bubbled over. "Didn't anyone want to pick us up at the airport, Dad?" My Pop just smirked and glanced over, "They don't know we're coming."
"What...?" I stammered. "We're just going to show up!" Our trip was a big deal, my father had been back to see his family just once in more than a decade. His mom had died since our last trip. In fact our last trip was kind of his farewell visit, as she passed shortly after our last visit. It hadn't struck me that we might be going back for a similar reason this time, as well. I shook my head as we continued down the country roads to his little home village. He goes back once every ten years or so and doesn't bother to tell anyone that he's coming. I couldn't help but smile - what a character.

We rode the bus right into the heart of Ennis, near the grand old Hotel near the Catholic church. This was the main street with the great fish and chip shop, the photographer, travel agent, etc. This one street was the tourist mecca, where I'd spent most days walking through the last time. We strolled over to Market Square where the homestead was, next to the Baker's shop. As we walked down the square I could smell the offal of the donkeys from the farmer's carts. The local farmers came to the market every Saturday morn with their goods and pigs. I remembered well, the squeal of the pigs, on Saturday mornings, waking me like a rooster call to the farmer's life my family must have shared some generations ago.

My Pop strode up to the window of his family's kitchen on the square, lifted it open and called in. "Is there anybody home?" Quite a hubbub arose of Irish shock and amazement, calling him to come in the house and leave his tricks on the street. We came in the door of the gate to the drive and ducked into the side door, the main entrance to his old home and were welcomed by his sister and my cousin in the stair. We were hurried in to the kitchen to see his Pop. Although the old man had slowed down even from the sleepy place he was at in my last visit, my Grandfather was wide eyed and clear when he said, "I thought I'd seen a ghost at the window. I was sure it was my last call as well!"

My father might have killed his old man with shock, now in the last few months of his 80-odd years, from this sudden unannounced visit. What a trickster !
I'm sure there was more background to the story that I don't know. As I said, I never heard much about these Irish things, or any of my father's things. Maybe that's why I was on this trip - to fill me in on these unknown Irish goings-on. We went drinking at staged medieval banquets with some of his brothers. I'll never forget my Uncle Jim in his cleric's collar banging the table and demanding for a wench to fill up our wine. We laughed and the table of tourists was charmed by all my uncle's wit.

We hung about Ennis for a bit, my cousin Mary taking me to a concert by the greatest Irish band I've ever seen, the Bothy's. That other Irish group, U2, is pretty good - but those Bothy's knew how to get an audience on their feet. I thought the old theater was going to come down. We stamped our feet to those reels and jigs and howled at the band for their brilliant twisting melodies and rhythms.
Then after this week of haunting Ennis' streets and fish shops, lurking about spooky Abbey's and threadbare pubs, my Pop said we were going to look into a couple of bikes the next morning. I asked what for, and he replied, "...to bike down to Cork." I had been riding bikes since I was seven, but the idea of bicycling more than a hundred and thirty miles to Cork was daunting. "Why don't we take a bus?" Dad waved me off, "We want to see the bloody place, don't we?" I could tell his mind was made up.

So we went to a bike shop and rented a couple of little bikes with extended seats and handlebars. They were silly little things, but rugged. The proprietor was fine with our proposition. He was confident these little bikes could make the trip. I was completely dubious of these toys, but was proven very wrong. We left that same day keeping to country lanes as much as we could for the long trek by the Kerry "mountains" after the fields of Clare.

We had a great time. We stayed at bed and breakfast home-style rentals, traveling through little villages so much smaller than the comparable city of Ennis, crossing innumerable streams and brooks, 'til we arrived at the grandeur of Cork's winding river Lee. Those little bikes were reliable and tough. We had a wonderful time over the next few days and my Dad was considerate and patient with my slow pace. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

I didn't forget what a trickster my Dad was, though. One of our stops was at great Blarney Castle, an imposing edifice, a recovered ruin. We went to the battlements of the tower. My Dad wanted to show me the Stone - where I might win the great gift of Blarney. We came to the stone which hangs precariously from the battlement over a drop of about 80 feet. He said I could grasp the hand guides, themselves looking like a perilous grip over this drop, he would hold my legs and I could lift myself out over the drop and look up to kiss the stone. I looked Dad and back at the Stone. The thought of relying upon the trickster to just let me kiss the stone and come back without incident drew me to a quick conclusion - "No thanks, Dad. I'll get by on my own Blarney."

Compromising Positions

When the Smith family departed Beverly, Massachusetts for California, we held an enormous yard sale to get rid of the junk of years that had accumulated in 41 Central Street. We had a big back yard so we hauled everything out there and arranged it on a series of tables.

Dad had a great time with this project. Maybe it was the prospect of moving again? Whatever caused his high spirits, it maintained him through a long, boring day of displaying minutia and answered niggling questions from shoppers, many of whom were neighbors who seemed rather glad to be saying good bye to us.

There was a Barbie doll for sale. I don't know where she came from since I was never allowed to own one of those famously top-heavy tramps. Perhaps she was Dianne's? She was on the auction block anyway. And all day long Dad posed her around the goods like a spokes model. She held her arms gracefully to indicate that the toaster was a great bargain. She perched daintily atop a collection of books. She leaned, sultry, against an easy bake oven as if to say, I may not be able to stand up on my own but even I can bake a delicious meal in this thing.

And then, tragedy struck. After a hard day of modeling our tired goods, Barbie's leg fell off. She dropped from her post atop a pile of books. Dad rushed to her aid. He was stricken. This was worse than someone buying her, which he had been dreading all day. Fortunately her malady occurred during a slow spell in the a sale--we had not had a customer in an hour--so he rushed her upstairs for the medical attention she desperately needed.

I stayed to man the sale at Dad's urgent orders. "Go, Dad! Fix her! I've got it." I told him. And he rushed up the three flights of stairs to our kitchen, her gallant rescuer.

Shortly after he disappeared, our immediate neighbor showed up. I suspect he had been watching out his window for Dad to leave. The two men hated each other and had been at war since an incident involving a tree branch that had occurred when I was too young to have any idea what it was about. We all avoided this man, whose name escapes me, because he hated us. And his large, expensive house, next to ours, blocked our view of the ocean. He had come to inquire, not about the junk on the tables, but about the furniture in the house, which was also for sale.

"I'll take you in to see it," I told him since he was the only customer.

When we opened the door to the kitchen, I saw it before he did. But there was no time to stop him from following me into the house.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Barbie had been stripped naked and her leg was back on. Being near-sighted, Dad had removed his glasses and held her shapely, naked form--legs splayed--right up to his eyes to better see his task.

He looked up at us--the naked 12-inch doll a mere inch from his nose-- and knew immediately how it looked to his enemy: Consorting with a plastic tramp while his daughter handled the business of the day.

"I was just…" He muttered, embarrassed, shaken, blushing like a man caught in the act.

"I always knew you were a deviant, Michael," said our evil neighbor without even a smile.

My father looked guiltily at the doll. "This isn't how it looks," He blustered.

I burst out laughing but the two men glared at each other as if some perverted crime had been committed. I showed our neighbor the furniture and he quickly left without saying another word.

"Well, it's a good thing we're moving." Dad said when Evil Neighbor had finally gone. "I'll never live that down." But by now he had recovered his sense of humor and saw the hilarity in the situation. Barbie was fixed and the three of us went, giggling, back to work.