Bermuda Shorts #1

*"Bermuda Shorts" entries will be a space for shorter posts and amusing anecdotes

I've been feeling a little guilty about something. Dad's first dinner in RI was at Twin Oaks on the way home from the airport. His flight didn't land until 8:00 pm, so he was famished by the time we made it to the restaurant. When his steak dinner arrived, Donald dug right in; and on his second bite, he choked. I saw his eyes grow wide as he pointed to his throat... and I bolted from the table, searching frantically for my exit from the dining room. In my defense, as I was fleeing the scene I did call back, "Dani, help him!"

It's no great secret that I'm not the woman you want around in case of an emergency. My fight-or-flight response can be more accurately characterized as fright-and-flight. It was pretty crummy to realize that I wouldn't even stick around to help my own father! In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not the woman you want around when you're ailing in any way either. So, when dad's feet were aching tonight and he yelled to me from his room, "Diiii?! Come rub my feet," I immediately texted my sister to see if she'd come do it. "Not tonight," she responded.

Feeling bad about deserting Donald in his time of need at the restaurant, I gulped down the last of my wine and reluctantly agreed to rub arthritis cream into his swollen feet. "It's a bitch gettin' up in age, isn't it?" he said as I removed his socks for him. Pushing away my anxiety, I squeezed a line of white medicated cream onto his foot and hesitantly rubbed it in. I didn't even wear the gloves I had begged off of Tawn a few moments earlier. Now, if that ain't love...

Double Twelves!

We've been hosting communal dinners at Vineland for a few months now; we started with "Taco Tuesdays" and added "Pasta Wednesdays" when Blondie's softball season prevented her from making it to the Tuesday night festivities. Dinners always end with boardgames, and the time shared with friends helps to break up the monotony of the work week. Dad's favorite game is Dominoes, so that's become our post-dinner pastime.

Dad is adjusting to this new tradition somewhat reluctantly. He assured us last night that we "don't have to worry about [him] eating this shit Tuesdays in Bermuda." Tacos aren't quite his speed. He did, however, make a pasta sauce tonight; and my sister and Blondie were the welcome guests. Dad is loud and demanding throughout the meals, but I think we all agree that he's a lovable nuisance.

I had to run some work errands after dinner, but returned home to the jubilant sound of a competitive round of dominoes in play. Tawn and Blondie were new to the game, but Heather had learned how to play last night with Ashley, Donald and I. Dad sing-songs his way through each game, starting every round by crying out "Double Twelves!" He proves to be a pretty sore loser and immodest winner, but I dare you not to have fun sitting around the table playing a round with him!

Table for Four

Dad's 70th birthday was last Friday. I have a hard time comprehending his age: will I live that long? what's it like to feel your bones and muscles grow heavy under the weight of seven decades on Earth; to remember that only fifteen years ago you walked without a limp? how does he look back upon over a half century of memories and choose which stories to tell? To commemorate the event Danielle, Ashley and I joined him for dinner at his favorite local restaurant- The Old Grist Mill Tavern. I generally find it hard to rally to do much of anything on Friday evenings, tired from the week and longing for the simplicity of enjoying an ice cold beer on the porch; Dad's enthusiasm for his celebration was contagious, though.

All in all it was a truly enjoyable evening; a table full of Bermudians sat overlooking the river in dim Tavern lighting, enjoying good food and genuine laughter. We had reserved Donald's favorite table, number 22, and were waited on by the same gentleman that had served dad and his "lady friend" only a day earlier. Dad ordered appetizers for the table and relished his entree of Maine lobster. I tried all the while not to be the nagging daughter that worries over her aging father eating too much.

The highlight of the evening came after we had blown out the candles on the Shaw's Bakery cake Donald had special ordered days earlier. The ladies at the table next to us, three sisters, had insisted on singing "Happy Birthday" despite Dad's insistence that he's "too old for all'a that." They sang, the table behind them joined in, and we all applauded. Over cake, dad opened his gift from Ashley. From under layers of blue tissue paper, he uncovered a box of his favorite tea, P.G. Tips, and erupted into cries of, "Oh Boy! My tea! Thank you, baby doll! Haaaaaa!" To say that he caused a stir in the generally subdued restaurant would be an understatement; to describe the gift as thoughtful would fail to do justice to Ashley's beautiful gesture. As dad hurriedly opened the box, anxious to share a few tea bags with our new friends a table over, I fought back tears. Overwhelmed with pride to be seated next to this amazing man, my father, I cried.

Donald loves life. This joy for the world around him is unbridled; it bubbles over in ways that are often unexpected and rarely seen. In our fast-paced society, surrounded by the impersonal, it's not always easy to hold on to his kind of enthusiasm. It's even harder to maintain the freedom and strength to express our emotions openly. That evening, however, Donald reminded all of us in that restaurant that a joyful spirit should be shared. He's living proof that it's okay to laugh the hardest, sing the loudest, and play the longest, because in the twilight of our lives we should all be so lucky to ring in our 70th birthday looking forward to "seventy more."

House Rules

During my senior year of college I lived with five of my closest friends. To maintain a copacetic relationship with each other, it was quickly determined that we'd need some house rules: Cathie's mom shouldn't call the house phone at 5:00 am, the toilet paper should roll over, parties should be approved by everyone before invites were emailed, and we should strictly abide by the chore wheel. I'm not sure how many of our friendships could have remained intact after that year without such rules.

When I moved in with Heather and Tawn, we seemed to settle into an effortless and natural rhythm of communal living . We haven't had to establish such codes here at Vineland, and we often marvel at how easy our transition from friends to roommates has been. When dishes pile up over the weekend, someone eventually peels themselves off of the couch to clean them; grocery lists are coordinated throughout the week; and taking the trash out on Monday nights is a group effort between cigs. We're not the types to sweat the small stuff, and this works well for all of us.

Last year we discovered that living with an extended house guest creates the need to establish a few ground rules. We hadn't thought much about the rules again until Donald's recent return, and I was sure to remind him of them on the way home from the airport.

Rule #1: Stay in bed until 7:00am
Tawn is the first to rise in the house. Her morning routine consists of getting dressed and ready for work, feeding Izzy (Heather and Tawn's golden), making lunch, and stolen conversation with a sleeping Heather. She has a quiet routine, and for most of the year doesn't run into anyone eager to talk to her. My dad's an early bird, though, and would try to engage Tawn in conversation heavily laden with a Bermudian accent. "I have a hard enough time understanding him when I'm fully awake- I feel bad asking him to repeat himself ten times while I'm making a sandwich," Tawn confessed two weeks into his stay last year. So, we instituted a 7:00 am breakfast rule for Donald on the grounds that Tawn isn't a morning person.

Rule #2: House guests must wear pants
I grew up in a "clothing optional" home. My parents were big on strolling around in their underwear- we did, after all, live in an often unbearably warm climate without central air conditioning; it was natural for them to walk around in various states of undress most times. The trouble is that Donald is still pretty big on wearing scant clothing around the house (quite unabashedly). Last year Heather and Tawn both stumbled upon him in his drawers at the kitchen table, and we quickly decided to declare that pants are mandatory in common spaces!

Dad's having some trouble readjusting to the first house rule. As soon as Donald hears the jiggle of Tawn's door opening in the morning, he's up and at 'em. I overheard him chatting with her eagerly while enjoying his oatmeal and banana yesterday morning. I rolled over to check the clock and, tsk-tsk, it was only 6:15 am.

I'm happy to report that so far this year we're at a 100% success rate for abiding by rule #2.

Meet Donald

Donald's a big bear of a man. Partially crippled after suffering two strokes and three heart attacks over the last twenty years, he walks slowly but lives fully. His bellowing voice and soulful laughter fills rooms. His toothless grin lights up faces across dinner tables and supermarket aisles. And once a year, he embarks upon a month-long visit to Rhode Island to spend time with his two girls.

I'm his oldest daughter, and my dad started these visits four years ago when I lived in a two bedroom apartment on my own. That empty bedroom was his ticket to an extended vacation from Bermuda, and it's become a highly anticipated tradition ever since. Unable to afford the rent in that apartment on my own, and after failed attempts at finding a roommate my dog wouldn't attack, I moved into the basement apartment here at Vineland. It's a happy home owned by my friends Heather and Tawn. This year marks my dad's second stay at Vineland, and after recent flooding we almost postponed his visit. We lost the basement apartment, and I've moved into the guest room until we rebuild. Heather and Tawn insisted, however, that we stick with tradition and have turned their office into a second guest room. Donald arrived safe and sound last night, and while he misses his Red Sox themed guest room, he's settling into the new room quite contently.

Donald coincides these visits to overlap his birthday and mine. This Friday he'll celebrate his 70th birthday. He'll celebrate the momentous occasion for the next four weeks here in Rhode Island, and we'll chronicle the stories in this blog.