A Love Story

I was watching television with Mom and Dad the other night when it occurred to me for the 12th time since breakfast that I really, really missed my kids.

"You are so lucky," I say to Dad with the straightest face I could muster, "to have one of your own here during the pandemic. And your favorite child at that."

My 87 year-old father, who clearly has not lost his ability to roll his eyes with the best of them, was non-committal in his response Still, he didn't say I wasn't his favourite ...

 

 *

2020 has been quite the experience for me, and I'd happily bitch about it if anybody would listen, but it's been shit for the lot of us, and my tale is better than most.

How I came to be holed up in my parent's basement just before a global pandemic - 40 years after they thought they got rid of me - is a long and boring story, so I like to say it was a series of unfortunate events which led me here, and a series of failed promises from my dear older brother that has me still here more than seven months later.

But it hasn't been all bad. In fact, it has been interactions like the one above that have kept me sane in these turbulent times.

Dad as a New Year's Baby back in his wild and crazy days

Mom at a cottage in the 50s

There's something to be said for spending quality time with the 'rents and I don't mind saying it because they are two of my favourite people. But the last time I spent any significant time in my childhood home was a brief between-marriages stay in the fall of '93 and a lot has changed since then, and not just because of Covid-19. My Mom, who took care of us kids, the house AND my Dad for most of her life, now has Alzheimer's and it's Dad's turn to take care of her.

I sometimes tell people the reason I'm here is to help look after Mom, whose 'early-onset' diagnosis is not so early-onset anymore. But the truth is Dad does almost all the work. I try to be within shouting distance at bath time if only because it's not an easy task to get Mom in and out of a conventional bathtub, and I'm there to help her down the stairs and into the car on the rare days she leaves the house, but that's about it.

Mostly I'm just here for the heavy lifting. I take care of the laundry for them - no lie, my father has t-shirts older than most of you, and between the two of them they own several dozen not-quite identical pairs of black socks that I was successful in matching up only once.

I was so proud.

I also do the shopping, run the odd errand and perform any other task I'm asked to do. And I'm Dad's assistant on some of his DIY projects that have occupied his time this summer.

See, my Pops is a handy fellow (those genes were definitely not passed down), so we've been busy. It started with the downstairs toilet, which had to be replaced before anyone (me) could live down there and that led to me tearing my rotator cuff, because toilets are very heavy when you have to hold them in the squat position long enough for the boss to prepare the landing zone.

(I'm seriously hoping the cure is Tommy John Surgery, by the way, because old dreams die hard.)

Mom& Dad (on the right) at their engagement party
 with family friends John & Eilleen (centre) and Bill & Thelma.
Of the four, only Bill is still with us

Dad also decided to build a new bed frame when he discovered Mom (all of 4'11" on a good day) was having difficulty climbing into bed. Which was rather sweet, I think. That meant tearing out the old wooden frame (which he built a half-century ago) followed by a few trips to Home Depot for supplies and most of two weeks with the two of us in the driveway creating his masterpiece.

I expect the new bed to outlive all of us.

But it's not all work and no play in the Hendry household and their sanctuary is the upstairs TV room, which is where I find myself two or three times a day. And if Dad is puttering away somewhere else I take the big chair and Mom and I have our time together.

I especially like to be up there around lunchtime, and as Dad busies himself in the kitchen Mom and I watch 'our' show, You Gotta Eat Here from the Food Network. Mom tut-tuts over the gluttony while salivating over the dishes and I encourage her to demand that her husband prepare her something for lunch befitting her Queen status.

She is almost deaf and likely doesn't hear most of what I said but she is suitably disappointed when Dad returns with a microwaved hotdog and half a banana for her lunch, as I am when my attempt to get a rise out of my father nets me nothing more than another eye-roll.

You Gotta Eat Here is also where I do my best beer celebrity watching. I spotted Beer Diversity founder Ren Navarro on one episode from a few years back, touting the virtues of former Toronto brunchspot Lisa Marie (it closed last year) to host John Catucci. A week later Mom and I are watching his spin-off show, Big Food Bucket List, and there was Ren again chatting up John at Butchie's, a super popular Whitby eatery that is known almost as much for its work in the community - particularly for LGBQT causes - as it is for owner Andrea's authentic southern fried chicken.

Mom's face after Dad swooped
in for a kiss

(I eagerly sent Ren a message after the first sighting, telling her about her new celebrity status, but after seeing her in Butchies, I figured she is probably far too busy to respond. Teaching breweries and people in the craft beer community about the importance of diversity is time-consuming enough without the added responsibility of being a Food Herald for John Catucci, like Silver Surfer was when he was scouting out new worlds for Galactus to devour.

As long as Ren doesn't start wearing plaid.)

We watch other programs as well, and I've become a fan of NCIS in these past months, though my love of the action drama has already surpassed my Dad's. If he had his druthers - and if he's holding the remote - he'd choose shows on British architecture, or maybe a nature program which we both love.

Or we just talk. While our world undergoes a dramatic social revolution it has been a wonderful thing to live with an 87 year-old man who is so ardently liberal in his beliefs that back in the pre-pandemic days he used to get a kick out of debating politics with his conservative pals when they hung out at Tim Horton's on Sunday afternoons. As old folks do. So we chat about current events every day.

I also ask him a lot of questions about things I don't understand, because he has always been my rock and though I may be getting on in years myself, that part hasn't changed.

But it hasn't always been peaches and cream at Casa Hendry. I wasn't planning on being here, and in fact only found out that negotiations for the horse farm I was scheduled to 'manage' north of the city fell apart 24 hours before I arrived in my parents' driveway with a U-Haul containing all my stuff.

That 'stuff' is now crammed into an already busy garage and in the furnace room downstairs, much to the annoyance of Pops, and I have been called upon numerous times this summer - particularly when we were working on the bed - to climb over my boxes and other assorted junk (as well as his band saws and other painfully sharp things) to find the tool he needed for the job.

All things considered (my age, my recent knee surgery) I wouldn't be the first option for Climbing Over Stuff in most households. But I am in this one.

But besides the complexities of folding a dozen pairs of black socks that look identical to me, I haven't had much to complain about living here, save for that beer 'incident' from early in the summer.

When I arrived on the last day of February I brought beer with me (naturally) and was storing them in the main fridge upstairs until Dad said he needed the fridge space for food. I know, right? But he was quite serious, so we found a little beer fridge he had stored in the basement, plugged it in and voila! I had my own fridge.

Fast forward three or four months and Pops announces that my niece Natalie is coming down from Edmonton for a socially distanced visit and that my brother Craig and my other niece Nicole will be driving in from Innisfil for the occasion. And could I get a few of his beer from the front closet and put them in the fridge?

Because who doesn't keep their beer in the front closet?

And in the closet, nestled up against Dad's macros, were four of MY beers, including a Waller Street (Ottawa) Black IPA, a 9.5 per cent glorious hop monster I scored on a beer trip to Kingston (April & Chuck from Waller Street were in our party) exactly one week before my move.

Good thing all that alcohol ensured the taste wasn't drastically affected by months in storage. Can't say the same for the other three, but I drank 'em anyway.

So you see, I don't have much to complain about. Besides, my father didn't exactly plan for his adult son coming in to live with him during the pandemic, so I really hope the experience has been at least half as awesome for him as it has been for me. 

*

September 17, 1955

It was just over a week ago - the 17th of September to be exact - when I went out to buy a cake, a card and some flowers for my parents to help them celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. As someone who has been married twice for a total of 14 years, I think it's safe to say 65 is a major accomplishment. Hell, I believe that merits another pension just for the marriage itself, though I have yet to convince Ottawa of that.

I joined my folks for the cake-cutting and stuck around as Dad opened a nice bottle of wine for the occasion. Mom had two glasses - unusual consumption for her - and was snoring by eight o'clock.

Congratulations, you crazy kids.

💖