Two weeks ago, while Vic was in Virginia on work, I took Papa out on a beautiful Sunday morning. I thought it would be nice to get some fresh air and do some ‘fall’ things.
I mapped our route to Scott’s Orchard to pick apples, then on to New London to eat fritto misto dockside, then a planned stop for some ice cream on the way home.
I made sure we left early, to get to the orchard before the crowds. The sky was an amazing cerulean blue, as it gets in October, and the leaves were at their peak. I parked with Papa’s guidance – no control tower engineer could provide more abundant directions on driving than Benny telling me how to drive and park.
He seemed confused as to where the apples were, despite having to walk straight through a long row of apple filled trees on our way to get to the stand to retrieve our picking bags. No worries, I just kept pointing them out. Turns out, they weren’t big enough for him. He was making a point that they were too small.
I walked slowly, explaining the sights as we went. He loved watching the families arriving with kids, commenting on how wonderful the mothers looked with all their children. “Like a hen, with the little baby chicks, so cute”, he commented. By the end of the morning though, the crowds were too much and he hated children…. but i digress.
At the main stand I peeled off two bags from the stack.
“Papa (his name of endearment for me), I only want five apples”, Benny stated.
“Ok, here’s a small bag to put them in.”
“No, papa, but I only want five.”
“Ok, that’s fine. We’ll fill these two bags and then you can pick out five for yourself.”
“Oh, ok.” He seemed satisfied with the solution, and turning to face the field of trees with his signature hands behind his back, he proceeded to move slowly down the path.
The ground was lumpy with divots and ridges, tractor trails from farm workers of the day passed. I held Papa’s elbow lightly, so as not to embarrass him and cause a commotion with his outrage.
“Oh, papa, look at these apples!” he exclaimed. We hit the mother-lode.
“These are so big!” he yelled, like a child.
I began to turn each apple around, so he could inspect it for approval. Once approved, I plucked it and dropped it into his bag with a satisfied smack of his lips, a boyish grin, and a wiggle of his bushy brows. One, two, three, four, five, six…
“No, papa! I only want five apples!”.
“That’s ok, let’s fill this bag first, then the big one, and you can pick five for yourself.”
“No, why, why are you doing this?” His voice rose in crescendo to a slight wail. I cringed.
“Why am I doing what Papa? I understand you want only five, and you can have five, but I’ll use the rest for pies and apple fritters, and things….” His face was cloudy and confused.
“No, I only want five.”
“Ok, ok,….” I removed the sixth offending apple from his child size bag.
Calm again, we continued down the apple path. We discussed the trees, why there were so many, how big was the field- in hectares- who worked the field (we discussed that several times), why we shouldn’t pick the apples up off the ground, even if they still did look good, or maybe only had a few bruises, or some bugs, which could be cut out, and why are there so many bees?
Back at the stand, I splurged for two cider donuts. Papa’s diabetes would have to understand today. It’s tough to be old.
We sat on a picnic bench worn smooth from generations and warmed by the sun. Our companions at our feet were two farm dogs, one missing a front leg. They seemed content to lay around waiting for things to inevitably drop from the growing gaggle of children darting between the benches, trees, and incoming orchard traffic. This made Benny very nervous. He abruptly got up and pronounced we would now leave. Without waiting for me to agree, he walked straight into the entrance lane. I darted after him, leaving our bags on the picnic table, and got to him just before a black Jeep Cherokee did.
“Papa, our apples, come help me carry the bags.” I wheeled him around by his elbow.
With our bags retrieved we got into the car for the next leg of our journey. Lunch. At 11 AM. I determined to drive slow, taking the back roads instead of the highway.
We drove down a beautiful street in New London with water views and grand houses. Papa filled me in on his journalism days, visiting actors for interviews in homes of similar style and elegance. He asked where we were. He asked seven times.
We were the first customers at the seafood restaurant, all outside seating – thank goodness for a beautiful day. I ordered the mixed fried seafood plate, with french fries and coleslaw. Papa sat at a picnic bench, only made perilous by his having to swing his leg over to sit down. I said nothing but hovered to catch his 6’3, 250 pound frame the best I could should he totter or fall.
“Look at the little bird” he exclaimed brightly, tossing a fry, “Oh, he’s so hungry.” He giggled.
We shared the plate of fried seafood, or fritto misto in Italian, Papa relishing every bite, his favorite dish.
“Oh, papa, everything you plan is so good, it’s perfect, I will remember this day forever.”
I didn’t remind him that he probably wouldn’t.
On our way back to the car, Papa stated that he would write about this for the Italian newspaper. “But,” he said “It needs a special twist. I cannot write about the American apple fields…how you say this?”
“Orchards”.
“Orchards, yes, I cannot just write about that. I will write about going for a lovely drive with my beautiful daughter and all the things we saw.”
We traced our road back toward home. Shortly I turned the car into an ice cream shop, all pink and purple, with a big black and white cow on the sign.
“What’s this papa?” his voice filled with excitement.
“I thought we’d get some ice cream.”
“Aghh, now you’re talking kid!” he growled like a 1940’s movie star.
We walked in and I saw that it was frozen yogurt, not ice cream. Uh-oh.
“Do they have, my favorite, pistachio?” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. It was serve yourself. He wanted a cone not a cup. The shop owner was very kind and talkative.
“We do,” she said, “It’s white pistachio.”
Oh-boy.
“White pistachio?” he inquired, furrowing his brow. “I never heard of such a thing.”
I grabbed a sample cup “Here, Papa, taste it and if you don’t like it we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Is this ice cream?” he said, reading the sign – FROZEN YOGURT.
The shop owner brought us a waffle cone in a white and red striped paper. I grabbed a serving cup. Quickly moving to another machine I animated “Mmmm, salted caramel, that sounds good, doesn’t it Papa?” I hoped the distraction and brief time would help him forget the yogurt obstacle.
It worked.
“Caramel ice cream, with salt? Why would they do that?”
I filled his cone with pistachio, he swiped it from my hand and sat down immediately at a little cafe table. The shop owner, kept talking to him about her store, New York, her sister. I thought it was charming. Papa ignored the whole thing. He was clearly now in his world. I was a little nervous all the sugar and fried food was too much for his endocrine system, plus we had been out for about 4 hours now.
He sat with his back to us, looking toward the rear of the shop, devouring his treat. When he was done, while the shopkeeper kept talking, he got up, headed toward a door marked employees only and tried to enter.
“No, Papa, not there. Do you need the bathroom?”
“Huh?” he grunted as if woken from a daze, “No, no, the car.”
I turned him toward the front door. “Good bye” he shouted, lifting his hand as he strode out the open door into the parking lot. I quickly said goodbye to the sweet shop owner, with a smirk and eye lift, and joined him at the car.
On the ride home we listened to the Frank Sinatra station on XM radio.
“Papa,” he said, “remember when your sister said, Bobby Darin would be more famous than Sinatra? And god dammit, she was right! Remember, we were in the room with your mother, she asked who is this Bobby Darin? Your sister loved him.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes.
Then he spoke softly. “Oh, papa, not your sister… your aunt. Why would I say your sister? Your aunt loved Bobby Darin. Is she still around, your aunt?”
“Yes, papa, remember you saw her a little while ago at the house.”
“I did? Oh.”
It had been a long day.
But now, two weeks later, Papa proclaims he’s moving out. Again. This will be the sixth time he has made this announcement. Some minor, or major, or dream inspired grievance in his mind, that I or Vic, or someone has put upon him. Unremembered, fabricated, or long standing from his younger days. Who knows. But he’s going. On the first. Or the second. Whenever he can find a place, he states regally. And he won’t be joining us for the seven pm meal as he calls it, he is refraining from that as well. He made his caregiver take him to Stop and Shop to buy dinner…hot potato wedges and a bag of chips. He made her store them in the car. She snuck out later to retrieve the potato wedges and place them in the fridge, out of fear he would food poison himself.
It will be a long week.
Journey Toward Oz 