sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 205 — Explained

It was just after six on a sleepy Saturday morning a couple months ago and I was driving the Beehive’s snow-white Toyota Cross through sludgoville, heading to the foo-foo coffee shop next to the junior college. The flight back to New Sludgoville was scheduled for noon and I still had to pack and was feeling a little rushed but I made sure I drove slowly. Twenty-five miles per hour is the posted maximum all across town and you can count on good ol’ Deputy Randall to be hiding out there somewhere in his black-under-blue Police Interceptor waiting to nail you for even a couple over the limit. Tell it to the judge, sir. But I didn’t mind driving slowly that morning because it had hit me the night before that aside from returning to sludgoville for Big Sis’s or the Beehive’s eventual funeral it was very likely the last time I’d ever visit my beloved NoDak hometown. Thought I’d better take the morning’s opportunity to check out some of the important sights of my life one final time. Shoot some pics to help my increasingly glitchy memory banks link this place to that face. And at the very top of my list was Old Man Granger’s house. Figured it might make a good Mile Marker story too. You never know.

I eased to a stop in front of the big old Victorian and gave a low whistle. It wasn’t the dilapidated and decaying dump I remembered from when I was a kid. Hardly. It looked fresh as your little sister’s prom date, expensively refurbished and renewed and restored, presumably by the curators of the black F-350 dually and the red e-Mustang parked around back. My Grandma Lettie’s old house next door seemed ratty and run-down in comparison. Well then.

I continued on my tour, struck by how much sludgoville had changed, especially the downtown. No more Woolworth’s with its lunch counter and smart-alecky soda jerk. No more Ben Franklin with its endless candy aisles and flashy HotWheels displays. No more JCPenny or Montgomery Ward or Sears. Charlie Greene’s Coast-to-Coast Hardware was long gone. Same with Manny’s Department Store and Gleason’s Mens Clothiers and Hall’s Fine Jewelers. And the Home of Economy that always and forever stood steady guard at the end of the business-strip? Torn down to make room for the parking lot of the new Walmart.

Stupid Walmart.

I wish I could say I was home for a pleasure trip but I wasn’t. I was home because Big Sis and I had to be The Bad Guys with the Beehive. It had all started in August when Big Sis decided to sell her long-term home in sludgoville and move west to New Sludgoville. She had plenty of reasons. Her son and his wife and their adorable four year-old boy live here and are just ten minutes away from my place. Then there’s the weather. After sixty-seven years of enduring NoDak’s interminably long and bitterly cold winters she was ready to trade for New Sludgoville’s notoriously milder climate. She’d also tired of the upkeep required for her home, a lovely sprawling mid-century rancher surrounded by expansive garden-spaces and a broad, finely manicured lawn. Wanted to downsize. So she got busy. Started looking for a new, more manageable pad here in New Sludgoville. Quickly found a darling home and bought it on sight. Put her old house up for sale and had a cash-money buyer in two weeks. Cool beans, right? All systems go, right?

Wrong. There was a slight complication, Houston. The Beehive. Still kinda-sorta soloing the summers in her retiree condo in sludgoville. I say ‘kinda-sorta’ because her condo is only a short walking distance from Big Sis’ house. And Big Sis. Who’s been an absolute angel-of-mercy for Mom for years now, helping her out on an ever-increasing basis. She schedules and accompanies her to her many medical appointments. Makes sure she’s taken the right medications for the right day. Checks to see if she’s had something decent to eat and that she hasn’t left the oven on. Or the freezer door open. Or any of the faucets running. And lately she’s been Mom’s exclusive chauffeur, especially since more and more ‘mystery dents’ were appearing on the Toyota.

In all fairness, Mom turns ninety-one next year so it’s commendable that she’s lived independently for as long as she has, but it’s also undeniable she’s to the point where she needs day-to-day, or even even hour-to-hour management. Her mind has been fading more rapidly than ever. Repeats herself over and over. Repeats herself over and over. Repeats herself over and over. Can’t remember what she ate for lunch or who she just talked to on the phone and some of her longer-term memories are starting to drift into the mist. Simple tasks— making toast or washing her clothes or doing the dishes—have begun to be difficult for her. Making matters worse, she’s also unfortunately chosen to be a non-compliant patient. Picks and chooses which doctor’s orders to follow. Staggers through her world like a drunken sailor but refuses to use a walking stick much less a walker so she’s been falling more often and her last one was a doozie. Hit her kitchen floor hard. Wound up with a black eye and a golf ball sized knot on her forehead. Laid there for a while until Big Sis came over for her check-in and found her. And that was it for Big Sis. And me.

I caught the very next flight to sludgoville and we sat Mom down right when I got in. Told her we’d been talking and some changes in her life had to happen. There’d be no more of her driving anywhere anytime. We were going to put her condo in sludgoville up for sale and rent out her Arizona place for the season. And she was going to fly back to New Sludgoville with me, crash at the McBungalow for a bit, and once Big Sis got settled into her new digs we’d take her out and find a nice assisted care center nearby where she’d live full-time.

Thud. Went over like a lead Zeppelin, Mr. Moon. She didn’t say a word but gave us a look that would freeze ten-thousand suns.

When she looked at us like that I was reminded of the time when my eldest got his first bike, a sharp little tiger-striped mini-BMX Schwinn we’d bought him for his birthday. It was just his size and he’d taken to it right away but found it hard to ride on our sidewalks because they were bumpy and cracked and broken-up courtesy of the powerful roots of the old-growth sugar maples that lined our street, a right-to-left one-way that had recently been paved pool-table smooth. I’d finished mowing the lawn and was cooling off on the front porch with a lukewarm barley-pop when he came out of the house in his helmet and knee and elbow pads, ready to roll. Disappeared into the garage then came riding back out on the bike and headed down the driveway. Slowed to a stop at the sidewalk and gazed longingly out at the street. All that beautiful new blacktop. He turned up to the house and looked at me and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Shook my head firmly at him then did my best Mike Brady to remind him that his Mom and I had already talked to him about riding his bike on the street. That we’d told him it got pretty busy sometimes and no one ever drove the speed limit on it so we’d decided it was just too dangerous for him and riding on it was off-limits. Forbidden. Verboten. Capiche?

He stared at me silently. I heard a clock ticking as a tumbleweed rolled through the yard and something howled balefully in the distance. He turned and looked back at the street. Then back at me. Then back at the street. And in an instant, pedaled out onto it.

I leapt off the porch and charged down the driveway and out into the street. Caught his bike by the handlebars and lifted him up off the seat and gave his four-year-old keister a good swat. Dragged him and his bike up onto the driveway and told him he was done riding for the day. Said that the rules his mother and I set for him were for his own good and we’d always care about his safety even if he didn’t and would gladly take any measures necessary to ensure that safety and if he got mad at us about it or even hated us for it, too bad, so sad.

And the look he gave me when I said that?

Hi, Mom.

It’s true what they say. Sometimes love really does have to be tough.

Peaceful travels…

sludgo