Alzhiemers

Chapter

While her mom wilted away, Julie continued making plans to consolidate households, with me there to take on whatever burdens came along. Only Julie knew what was going on with the bills. The payments had not been made on the home but that was presumably in her ex-husbands name, in anticipation of relocating. The bank eventually foreclosed as things came to a head. Luckily, Julie had a real estate agent involved that she went to school with- a stoner buddy from the past who helped her along in the process from behind the scenes. Within a few weeks she was able to find a home that would work for her.

 The house was on the bus route for school, had three bedrooms and an office, upper and lower level living quarters, large kitchen and dining area, fireplace, two stall garage with a third stall for a boat/utility or as a service bay, lawn sprinkler system, fenced in rear yard, seasonal porch, hot-tub, and it was right on the White Pine Trail.

We began moving in before the occupants could get out, filling their garage with her belongings. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a team effort. It seemed like I was spearheading the whole thing. I gathered up boxes and packed away everything that would fit in them. Casey had been continuously refusing to help do anything at all. Kenny had no job but was all of the sudden too busy, and Julie was not at all responding to the situation like a person who had to move. She was more of an invalid, as if she had no idea what to do, had never moved before, and never even been in a dwelling. It was almost as if she was on Earth for the first time but that was all part of the act to get my monkey to sing and dance… and it did, just not enough to beat the clock.

My words were that they needed to help, and of refusing to be the fool in the scenario but there I was doing everything like a good slave. Now, I wonder if she really had the ability to cast a spell, it seems she had me in one because there was not enough I could do in giving my all.

We moved the items using, both, her truck and mine, just the two of us. Since the new place was only three miles away, door to door, it was easier than it could have been. At the end of the second day of hauling furniture and boxes of crap, we went back for more only to find the house had been locked up tight by the mortgage holder. Julie got on the phone only to find out that the things left in the house did not need to be moved out any longer. They had placed everything in the dumpsters. She was now going to have to fetch them from the receptacles, which wouldn’t really be a big deal. I mean, who looks out of place diving in dumpsters at a trailer park in a bad economy? That wasn’t a big deal.

What was a big deal was that it was now pouring rain and way after sundown. Since she was the boss, in effect, my suggestions to work all night had been dismissed. Now I was hated for being in the position to say many things, one was, “I told you so”. The biggest part of it was that most of what was in the dumpster was Casey’s belongings. We had worked at packing and moving everything else in the home, leaving her things to be packed up by her. Of course, she maintained the stance that she was not going to help, and she didn’t. Much of it looked so much like garbage that it was hard to distinguish which of it was hers. It was a terrible chore. At one point I got in and watched from the cab of my truck, I’d had enough. My suggestion to get Casey to do it fell on deaf ears. Julie was not about to display that she had no authority, again. And although I kept saying that I refused to be the fool, I could not remove myself from this grave out of my own selfishness and compromised wit- my personal motives. After all I had been through it was just another difficulty, right? I maintained hope even though my own faults made it lessened. Neither of us were ever apologized to or thanked for what was dealt with or what was done.

While unpacking at 5904 Alcove Drive, I began to see that things were not all roses in the previous family’s lives. Money troubles were clearly indicated by many things. The sprinkler system was intentionally disabled, causing the yard to turn to a brown patchy mess- the only yard like it in the neighborhood. The hot tub was disabled. Doorstops on the master bedroom and master bath were ripped loose from the slamming of doors, which revealed fighting between the husband and wife. This was not a big surprise, given the fact that this was a time when there was a huge job loss in the West Michigan area.

Many of the jobs were outsourced to other countries with a significant pay difference. People were selling their homes and having to move back in with their elderly parents, in some cases, after already having downsized to smaller homes and liquidating their assets. Some took up the lesser paying jobs in retail and fast food, for the sake of keeping an income of some sort, which displaced the younger people who routinely took and depended on those jobs. This was a whole new aspect of the game- cutting the throats of our young to survive. That’s exactly what happened, much like when Sea Lions abandon their young, leaving them to starve to death while they try to find food to survive and breed again. So, quite simply put, the reality is that the young people are being extorted. Here I was seeing the sign of the times, instead of hearing about it.

My job was now tending the property, addressing those things that were in need of service or restoration, like the tub, sprinkler, interior repairs, water softener, and lots of other odds and ends. There was a scar in the back yard from a pool that I hid by putting a garden in, using eight loads of dirt from a supplier by the Grand River on Coit Avenue.

The tub quickly burnt up, having not been in service for who knows how long. The wires were brittle causing an electrical fire in the control box that ran the tub system. Under the scrutiny and dismay from the pool and spa store, I rebuilt the unit, which was a four hundred dollar repair that only cost me time and a fifty-dollar component. I was full of pride over that one. It all seemed so glorious, my finding myself in a home and a lifestyle to which my skilled trade had me accustomed to. The amenities and prospects of having my kids back in my life was becoming more of a reality. Everything was coming together.

As payment for doing all of the work on the property, and all of the domestic chores, and full-time care and companionship for Jean, Julie paid for an attorney to handle suing for my so-called visitation rights to be enforced. This began the process I had been anticipating so much.

On my birthday, she offered to do something special for me but out of pure mercy I only asked for some boiled eggs because I knew how scatter-brained and challenged she was. My fear of receiving grief later had motivated my choice and was an easy solution to her offer without rejecting her, I thought anyway.

Well, the water all boiled out of the pan. What gave an indication of a problem in the kitchen were small explosions that sounded like little balloons being popped from where we were in the lower level of the house. The air was soon flooded with the smell of burned chicken feathers. If you have ever had a chicken brush up against a wood stove you’d know what I’m talking about. Some smells leave a dent in your memory. We went to the kitchen and saw the mess. It looked like the eggs had all jumped out of the pan. The cathedral ceiling was plastered with egg yolk. Being that the ceiling was finished with a “crows foot” style texture with no sealer coat of paint, it was impossible to clean off without damaging the unfinished finish. I am sure the yolk stain is on it still. It’s the thought that counts, I’m told.

 A week later, she bought me an old fishing boat with a trailer. It was a hundred-fifty dollar boat that she paid eight hundred for. We put it in the water and used it that day. The next day I returned to Bruce’s, where it was moored, to go fishing again but found her sunk. The guys helped me bail it out, saved from sinking completely by the rocks under her, and four hours later I got her running, taking her over to the boat launch to get the vessel back home. It had so many pinholes in it that it could have been a screen door, colander, and Flour sifter- anything other than a boat. Again, it’s the thought that counts but it should have been the thought that maybe I was being used in every way possible but then again it wasn’t really her money- it was her mom and dad’s. I let it all ride and buried myself in caring for Jean out of loyalty to her, and the fact that I had no place to go where my prospects would be much better. Here, I was on my way to being on top of things with having a shop, tools, my truck, and in a position to rebuild my business.

 My identity was almost back. I almost had my children back. Now, I rationalized that the deeds I was doing were righteous. I felt a great sense of purpose.

Julie made the decision to purchase a real estate license in hopes of an easy income. As smart as she tried to be, she fell victim to another heavily used sales pitch used on a desperate society. Those who had a couple grand bought into an empty promise, only getting a piece of paper and a fantasy of not needing coupons to live. Truth is Grand Rapids had enough salesmen, especially Realtors.

Always scribbling, banking a little time in my songwriting added up fast. So, while Casey refused to do even the least of anything to help, my workload grew and grew to the point where I wouldn’t have a moment for anything but to write a few lines about it while stewing in my frustration and disgust with what I was now involved in, as well as with myself. A lot of that was voiced in a song I wrote about a subject in the news, Jennifer Wilbanks.

Ms. Wilbanks must have gotten cold feet regarding her wedding plans because she disappeared, causing her Bridegroom and their families to call the authorities, requesting to file a missing persons report. A lot of authorities from several states became involved. When they finally found her in Oklahoma, she claimed to have been abducted by a white woman and a Mexican guy. 

Too many opportunities had been lost in the past, like the Joey Buttafuco and Amy Fischer thing, where someone had written a song about that. Although only a novelty item, I wanted to be the one to nail this one. I couldn’t miss out on the chance to nail a gig, so I ran over to the loft in order to pitch the idea to Danimal while it was still in the news, mentioning how people land songwriting publicity that way, and that maybe we could turn something out that would gain attention for our compositions. It wasn’t long between breaths when I had my notepad out to show him what I already had to work with. He looked it over and suggested an intro idea, grabbed his acoustic guitar, and laid down a twelve bar blues progression. After about ten minutes, we had a pretty cool little blues boogie that I could belt out harmonica leads on my A harp to. We were satisfied with ourselves and basked in the glow of completing another song.

The warm weather settled in about two weeks prior, and my excitement about putting it together before anyone else, could hardly be contained. It wasn’t hard to rally Danimal into going down to Tuscan’s Deli to soundboard it on a friend of ours that worked there as a clerk, and to buy a couple of beers in celebration.  It was just about time for the lunchtime rush of customers, so we knew we had a perfect time to catch some ears. She was just about to snag a quick break when we got there, so we went out to a patio table in front of the building and started playing our song.

A minute or two into it, a man in a double-breasted blue pin-stripe suit pulled up, listened for a minute, and then entered the store with the clerk following. After he left, we played it again. As we were making a purchase, then to leave, the same guy came back in asking me for a business card or phone number, saying something or other about looking for acts. I really wasn’t paying much attention for the sake of all of the distractions and my enthusiasm over our sound-boarding the song.

Several weeks later, the phone rang. The caller identified himself as being with the D.W. Cassard V.F.W. hall, Post 3023, asking if we were available for Memorial Day. He said he needed an act, wanting to know if we could fill a two-hour slot in the schedule. I thought about it for a minute, remembering the hours we spent playing at our own art-jams. I told him we sure could, and it was set. I called Danimal right away to let him know that we were scheduled to play on Memorial Day at the Monroe Avenue VFW for a benefit to raise money for a new police K-9. All Dan said was, “We need a Ringer. We need to call R.B.”