The Old John Deere

I am the main care giver for my elderly father.


My observation from this is that old age can, at times, be a frightening journey along a path of pain, depression and great loss.


This past winter was particularly hard on Dad as the doctor finally took his driver's licence away.

His anger enveloped the small house for months.




***



Dad has an old John Deere lawn mower.

It didn't work at all for much of last summer and by rights it should have gone to the junkyard a long time ago.


Yesterday I was puttering around in the garden, worrying about the overgrown state of things and the damage to the barn caused by the violent wind storm we had in April.

I was wondering how we were going to manage this summer when Dad limp/hobbled onto the porch and told me he was going to look at the lawn mower.


"Okay," I said, then thought, "Like that old rust bucket is going to start after sitting all winter."


I braced myself for another major meltdown.


A few minutes later the garage door flew open and my 87½ year old father came rumbling down the driveway on his John Deere, which, unbelievably, cut the grass as if it had rolled off the assembly line yesterday.

The moral of this story is this:

 You can take away a man's health,

 his friends and his driver's licence

but

as long as there's a breath in his body

you'll never get his old John Deere.

Man Talk

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.


"Them?"


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.



Jeesh.



Can't men ever say what they mean?