This solstice night

It caught me driftin’ in the beyond: driftin’ a spell, not unlike the Glenora ferry hesitating on its course while pointed to the far side of Adolphus Reach. I was watching from my perch, high above on the ridge of Lake of the Mountain, when the cell phone rang.

Samantha introduced herself. Said she was a nurse at an Ottawa hospital. Said dad was admitted. Said an assessment was being completed. Then he could go home. But, she added, Dad couldn’t be on his own in his home anymore. The centenarian scientist’— dad celebrated 100 years this August past— as my friend Anne calls him, was grounded. Dad needed help in Ottawa.

An aged parent somewhere—albeit in this case an ardently independent one in remarkably good shape for someone born at the time that Robert Borden lived at 24 Sussex, the Prime Minister’s hangout—who requires immediate family backup and a shift in his or her living arrangements, generally triggers a paradigm shift for at least one member of the next generation.

Now, as the middle of three children and the one closest to Ottawa, the job of overseeing help and assisting in a life transition is in my court. Plans for Dad travelling by train for a planned-for County Christmas were off. In short notice, I would ramp up into a world of care for the elderly that, while not unforeseen, the reality of it had neatly parked itself as an abstract in a corner of the sock drawer of my imagination.

Arriving in Ottawa, I tallied things:  Groceries to be got; meals to be done, meds to keep track of, laundry—separating whites and darks the challenge—dishes in the sink; more dishes in the sink. Hell, let them air-dry.

Then came the kitchen, vacuuming, snow shovelling, garbage day, pay the newspaper boy, get the O.T. ( occupational therapy) person in, personal care help, manage banking, phone central, compost bucket and visits from Father—Paul the parish priest—along with a parade of well wishers coming over the threshold toting platters of baked goods.

While the compilation of tasks was growing thicker than the friggin’ Picton phonebook, being here at a time of need is the right thing to do. With support, I am piecing together a game-plan; for today at least. It’s all you can do when the variables are as plenty as potholes on a County road. Come to think, my job is similar to the workers who fill those holes. They must feel as if they are the story of the little Dutch boy holding a finger in the dyke to hold back the sea.

I am house-bound with Paul, my father; accepting of the fact that I must wait for the times when I have someone to cover for me so that I can get out for errands. Adjusting to temporary bungalow life in an older suburb of the nation’s capital will require meditation. It’s not just the house itself, but it is also the home of a widowed, very practical, very social, often stubborn-minded retired scientist living alone who taught himself to cook at age 92 by developing new formulas for everything. And, seemingly, there is the notion that someone may arrive who is unfamiliar with the working systems of a house: a house of inventions that is. There are more hand-written notes on how things work and what goes where, post-it tags on this, post-it tags on that—more notes than feathers on Molly the African ringed-necked parrot who sometimes accompanies care-worker Joan. Don’t get me wrong. I like parrots: especially the talking kind. So much so that I am inclined to have Molly record our new voice message since arranging with Norm at Bell to add message-record as a feature. And yes, I took the package for $3.99 more that offers a host of additional features I’ll probably never use—anything to intercept the duct-cleaner guy’s phone call when he is soon to return to our neighbourhood.

And so, while I enjoy the tropics, democratically managing through the paperwork of how the thermostat works makes a novice out of me at every step. Heat management in Paul’s house requires imagination. Paul gets woollens; I wear Hawaiian shirts. While I enjoy silence in my own home on the banks of Slab Creek, here at the centenarian scientist’s house, ways are negotiated to politely maintain liveable volume levels on electronic stuff without the need for ear protection.

Also I have muted and/or lowered the ringers on all five phones to avoid the five-alarm reaction every time the important announcement from the hotel chain is heralded, or next charity person is on the line or the leaky basement guy calls to say he is also in my neighbourhood. The Canada Do Not Call List and phone answering service were put in place after subtle guidance from people more in the know about these things than I.

Dad received a wreath from the few spare ones of the 3,000 wreaths that volunteers place annually at Veterans’ markers in the nearby National Cemetery. We hung it outside with a string of lights. There is now a Christmas tree up, and Anne braved the pressure of working in the kitchen under close supervision of the centenarian scientist with his weigh scales at hand to undertake his carefully-guarded formula for tourtière—meat pie—a recipe handed down through the Beaubien clan since they first went ashore along the lower St Lawrence in the 1600s.

Accepting the moments for what they are and also giving, I guess in the long run is what my Ottawa mission is all about. I’ll keep you posted on how it goes. I know many of you have been there.

The cuckoo clock in the kitchen sounded 6 p.m., a few moments ago. Dad is snoozin’ in his lazy boy chair and Wi-Fi, now in the house, allows me to know that the North Pole is tilted at 23.5 degrees, its furthest angle away from the sun. Quiet reigns throughout the house, a place where for my parents, life was lived, dreams came true. Tomorrow, daylight will be on the rise. There is a truth in the air on this solstice night.