|Dad and great granddaughter, Cora, last Father's Day|
After my mother lost her battle with Alzheimer's a few years ago, I sold my house and moved into my dad's farm to look after him.
Now I have to tell you that it has been years since I've shared a house with a male person and one tends to forget how their minds work.
Last week I was taking Dad someplace in the spy car.
Flynn-the-dog was in the back seat.
Dad was telling me that my brother, Ian, is looking to buy a retirement property just outside of Timmons.
"Sh-t!" said Dad suddenly in the middle of his monologue, "I forgot to ask Roger about Doug Wells!"
(Roger is the farmer down the road who ploughs Dad's driveways in the winter in exchange for the use of the land.)
I thought, "Doug Wells, Doug Wells ... Who the heck is Doug Wells?"
"I think Ian is going to need a pick and a shovel," he said peering at me with such ferocious eyebrow knitting that I became alarmed.
I wasn't finding any connection between my brother who lives in Moose Factory, Ontario, Roger the farmer down the road and the stranger Doug Wells.
"But I don't know anything about them." Dad sounded worried as he turned to look out the window.
Flynn-the-dog sensing his distress, whimpered.
I was starting to think that Doug Wells was part of some terrible gang and my brother in Moose Factory was going to have to defend himself with a special pick and shovel he could only get from Roger the farmer down the road.
"This is getting scary, Dad," I said.
"Yeah, he agreed, "but I think Roger has a dug one."
Clickety, clickety, clickety clack, I could feel the pieces falling into place.
Not Doug Wells - dug wells.
My brother needed a dug well as opposed to a drilled well on his property.
I laughed so hard I almost put the spy car in the ditch.
Can't men ever say what they mean?