Oh great...my bad day yesterday, my trouble getting a grip, the reason I stayed home to rest...the stress, the pain the sorrow, have all culminated into a moderate to slightly severe case of the hives. Now, pardon my language, but ain't that a pisser?!?!?!?! Now, I must calculate when to take a Benedryl without the immeninent danger of getting behind the wheel in a drug-induced fog & making matters even worse than they already are.

Kathy helped with the evening meal last night...2 ice creams, a pudding with crumb cake mixed in & 6 (six!!) glasses of water. This is more than he has eaten in a week!

Can one meditate hives away, I wonder?

"Moon River,
Wider than a mile.
I'm crossing you in style,
Someday..

You dream maker,
You heart breaker,
Where ever you're going,
I'm going your way.

Two drifters.
Off to see the world, and
There's such a lot of world,
To see.

We're after the same,
Rainbow's end,
Waitin' 'round the bend,
My Huckleberry friend,
Moon River, and me..."

I do not have an enviable singing voice. My ex spouse & a coupla outspoken ex-boyfriends have been known to actually ask (or tell) me to stop singing. But for Daddy, my voice never brought a complaint..even now, when I join him in song, or try to lighten his mood with a tune. He sleeps alot, of course, these days. But sometimes a song can make him smile in his sleep, and I realize much of what appears to be sleep is a drowse, a dream, and the literal "one foot in each world" for him. Does he know when my flat voice cracks, fades & sobs, and does he know why I do? I do not appear to be startling him,nor do I seem to make him sad when we sing.

It appears to be a source of comfort, though not every time. Dad says he is composing music in his head much of the time that he appears to be sleeping. Sometimes, outside noises interfere with his "trumpet compositions in b flat..." He is such a precious man.

Yesterday, my best friend Deb came with me to visit for awhile, and sing a few rounds of "Row, row, row, your boat..." ((who is this Merilee, anyway?" Dad repeatedly jokes afer every round), and a coupla "Tammy" encores.

After she left, I had some one-on-one time with Dad, feeding him ice chips, sneaking he occasional sip of forbidden regular cold water amidst futile attempts to get him to even taste the sludge (Drs' orders, "all food, even water, is to be pureed and prepared to be pudding thick") which the kitchen had prepared for lunch.

"Please don't make me eat. Please, I don't want to eat..it makes me so exhausted, please don't make me eat," he repeats, even while falling asleep again. I never argue anymore. I never try any slick tricks like I did in the past, in order to fast talk some goop into his gullet.

"You don't have to eat, Daddy. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do..."

It is all about comfort now.

Sometimes, I ask him if he remembers some of the good ol times...every road trip in our old station wagon was filled with all 7 of us singing until we all tired, and eventually trailed off into a too-quiet silence. Then, after awhile, one or more of us would start to sing, again and most of us would join in. And he smiles...

When we lived in the music store, come Christmas time, he'd gather all of us kids into the display window which was usually reserved for a piano &/or organ. He'd had a speaker sound system that would play for passer-bys or anyone at the stop sign that was next to our corner store. We'd sing Christmas Carols throughout rush hour for anyone in the vicinity. I was in junior high then, and outwardly mortified, but touched on the inside by my Daddy's sweet Christmas wish, consumed with that never-ending desire to not let him down.

Routinely, when we did dishes after dinner, the 3 of us girls would sing for my parents while they sat in the "breakfast nook", talking quietly or sharing dessert,coffee or a drink. I can still remember sometimes being pleasantly surprised at how good we seemed to sound, one washing, one drying, one putting away dishes, intent upon being good daughters.

Daddy had had 7 visitors, including me, 8 including his wife, when I left yesterday at 2pm. I was really brave, and sweetly matter-of-fact over the weekend. Today,though, I feel like my insides have morphed into flubber. At this point in time, I'm just not having a good day. I hope Daddy is...Regardless, unless I get a phone call to the contrary,
I am staying home this beautiful Indiana day, spoling my dogs, cleaning, doing laundry, making green tea with honey, hula hooping in the patio, then tread heading (all made possible by my nervousness and my ipod). I'm in the midst of Patricia Cornwell's "Predator", and have a calvacade of movies to watch later on in the day, or I may try to take a nap. I am very fond of sleep of late, when I can get it.

Tomorrow, I see Cecile for comfort & therapy & spiritual enlightenment (she used to be a nun, you may recall)). Tomorrow, I will visit for the evening meal and I will be strong. Today, I go in search of that strength. Wish me luck. Say a prayer. Think a thought, Whatever works for you, that's fine by me. I want to thank you all for your kind words of support. The Stream remains an impotant part of my support system. As always.

In the fifties (& sometimes, even now, on independent local TV channels,) big car lots would host an afternoon movie, where the only commercials were when the movie would cut away to a live shot of the car lot & a sweet-talkin' salesman or owner, would show the consumer the great deals that were to be had if the folks would just hurry on down and take advantage...Often times, to keep the viewer's intrest, the car lot would incorperate some local talent onto the scene.

Dad likes to repeat the story of when he and his local swing band(The Blue Notes) were the guests of a Peoria car lot, and when I was a realitively new-born baby in the summer of 1952. The idea of this commercial break would put teeny lil ol' me in my Father's arms, and while the band played on in the back ground, he was supposed to look into my baby face and croon the song, "Daddy's Little Girl" to me. His eyes never failed to tear over every time he told this story...that he'd get all choked up, break down & cry as he repeatedly tried to stick to the band's plan. One, two, three, four times, he tried to sing this song to me, each time, his voice, overflowing with tears and love. Finally, he just took one of the audience seats that was usually reserved for a few locals who liked to be seen on TV, and the two of us quietly cried while the band switched songs and the dealer hawked the latest special deal.

When I came back from California, the last time for good, there were several occasions when Dad & I would share some Scotch (When I did drink, I drank), and he would tell and re-tell this story. A few times, I asked him to play it for me then. Ususally he was already in tears, and would tell me he would play it for me later. Once, I caught him seated at the organ doing another gig at the local Ramada. I'd had a few, & insisted that he sieze the moment and sing & play that song for me, right there and then. He tried. He cried. He mumbled he had forgotten the words, and we should take a break to go have a Scotch because he wanted to tell me how happy it made him that I had finally come home to stay.

I've never heard him sing this song to this day. Today,when I go try to sweet talk him into eating something, I will try to ask him to sing it for me, if he is still in a singing mood. It will be very, very hard for me on the day that my Daddy stops singing or re-telling his tear-jerking sweet old stories.

Another memory he loves to re-tell, is when we lived in a two-story big white house in Galesburg, Ill. A big fan to this day of "The Lawrence Welk Show", he took his cue from the Lennon Sisters, and would put all 3 of us girls on every other step if the semi-winding staircase where his piano & organ were juxtoposed at the base. Being the eldest and therefore, the tallest, I'd stand on the top-most stair, above my two little sisters, and we worked out what I am led to believe was a charming rendition of the, then, very popular movie series' theme song, "Tammy." I still remember most every word, and remember really belting out an almost sensual group of lyrics that came halfway through the song. Sometimes, Daddy would let me have a solo spot there, and we entertained many a friend & neighbor at my parent's frequent parties.

"I hear the cottonwoods,
Weep from above,
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love.

The old hooty owl,
Hooty-hoots to the dove.
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love..."

(my 10 yrs old passionate sometimes solo:)

"Does my lover feel.
How I feel,
When he comes near?"

"My heart beats so joyfully.
You'd thik that he,
Could hear..."

(all)


"Wish I knew
That he knew
What I'm thinking of.
Tammy, Tammy,
Tammy's in love..."

I sang it for him as he started to drift into sleep again the other day...my handbook on "The Dying Expeience"("Gone From My Sight") tells me that this is the time when he literally "has a foot in each world."
His facial expresssion changed from one of dead-pan deep sllp into a broad smile, he murmured a heart felt "Oh!" and this time, he didn't cry. But I did.

Dad's head is full of music all the timee. Mine, too. For the last coupla days I've adapted the refrain from one of my favorites that Jerry Garcia Band used to play ...

"I see his light come shining
From the West out to the East
Any day now, any day now,
He shall be released..."

It comforts me.

No real change...3/4 a cup of vanilla ice cream, a couple three bites of vanilla yougurt. This nursing home must get hecka discount on chicken & mashed potatoes...almost every meal...the same swill, that he wrinkles his nose at & declines after the first bite that I sneak in.

Cecile says I need to record his verbal gems, as I will forget them with time...as he started to fall asleep again yesteday-after the ice cream, yogurt, vain attempts to make him comfortable, bringing Rene into the room to visit before they brought the meal to the room (she, too, is so tired, so scared to live on without him...)

He sang multiple choruses of "America, the Beautiful" and "My Country 'Tis of Thee," and I told him "Daddy, I didn't drive all this way for you to turn down the nourishment you need, please eat. I came home from California for you, I drove 35 miles tonight for you, you are #1 in my life, please eat!"

To which he responded, "No Honey, You've always taken the back seat. You need to be number one. You deserve to be..." then, sleep, again.

On his 70th birthday, I was still in the ghetto in Oakland, trying to live the California dream. I kept telling myself that it had to be his 60th, birthay, not his 70th...how did that happen, I wondered? Then, I gave myself a year to kiss California good-bye, then came home to "help my parents die..." So much easier said than done...

Kathy & Buzz are finalizing funeral plans. I think that I am taking the day off today to throw some clutter out of my infamous junk room together for the Highway 50 Yard Sale this weekend. I am trying to keep busy. Trying to keep the tears in check...

"But my heart. belongs to Daddy..."