I have not seen this much cat hair in a house. Well, not in my house.

But, two days of cleaning has eliminated the majority of it, and I vow to stay on top of the matter from here on out.

I successfully completed the only full time semester I will ever have, and it didn’t happen without sacrifice and cost.

Sacrifice was Sam living as a mostly bachelor while I sat staring at three computer screens for full days and weekends, giving me constant encouragement when I tore myself up with stress and panic, and reading my never-ending 5-page+ papers every week.

Cost? Cat hair. House in desperate need of attention. Barely recognizable meal planning. Major dent in finances. And a lack of attention for every person who was not a professor or a classmate.

I am so proud of myself, and I think I earned the right to say that. I am two classes shy of a mortarboard, and my GPA is a 3.9 (rotten online Psych Disorders timed test from last summer). I started out this semester signed up for my capstone course in Modernism, a 500-level English class at KU that I quickly realized was WAY out of my league. But I trudged on, knowing I had to complete this class to earn the degree. I had two classes on campus, Fiction Writing and Contemporary Drama, and then I added two 8-week 3-credit hour elective courses after spring break: Criminal Justice and Religion and Environment. Never have I ever worked so hard and typed so much. Combined, my final papers totaled 67 pages with a 100-question comprehensive exam.

• My final portfolio in Fiction Writing has given me a great start on my goal of writing my story.
• I know something about the modernist writers and the Harlem Renaissance.
• I have a new appreciation for the climate crisis and how we got here, and I really admire Rachel Carson’s work, the Hindu and Islamic proclamations, and astronaut Jim Lovell’s profound statement, “God has given mankind a stage upon which to perform. How the play turns out is up to us.”
• I have a greater understanding of our criminal justice system and the complexities of working in law enforcement.
• I have a STACK of Pulitzer-prize plays and modernist novels that are eye-opening and made me think critically and engage with younger generations who are so brilliant.
• My final grades were earned, required sacrifice, and cost us dearly.
• Mom is my inspiration. If she could do it at 60 years, so can I.

Modernism – 100.65
Fiction Writing – 100
Religion and Environment – 99.64
Criminal Justice – 96.38
Contemporary Drama – 95.8

I am grateful for wonderful professors.

I am grateful for younger students who became friends.

I am grateful that I love to learn new things.

I am grateful for the privilege to go to KU.

I am grateful for the stress weight gain, but I sure am ready to get it off.

I am grateful for my sister and my brother who helped out so much with Dad so I could focus on studies, and I am grateful for my husband who made this possible.

Thank you, Sam, for believing in me and being proud of me. It meant the world to be able to come home each night after class and tell you all about what I had learned. Thank you for reading my words and acting interested even when I can’t imagine you actually were interested in T.S. Elliot or Langston Hughes or Ray Ellison or Virginia Wolff, or Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, or retribution and incapacitation and the 6th amendment, or my creative writing, or or or…

I couldn’t/wouldn’t have done this without you and I love you more than words. And that’s a lot. 🙂

Two classes left. I see the finish line ahead. It’s covered in cat hair, but still.

On Fridays, I stop what I am doing and drive over to Dad’s at 11:30 to get him out of his apartment for awhile and take him out for lunch. It was one of those early May days that produced light rain showers followed by big puffy white clouds with sun peeking through, warming the wet grass and making it shimmer.

“It’s a clooooudy day,” he always says on repeat in his simplified dementia state of 94 years.

I try to engage and change it up by pointing out the shapes, or an airplane passing overhead, but always go back to, “Yep, it sure is.”

He has been a “vegetarian” since he was a child, and at this age, his palate is bland and blah, so the dementia diet consists of grilled cheese, tomato soup, French fries, macaroni and cheese, baked potatoes…and pancakes. Set one of those options in front of him and he will eat, no questions asked. It makes choosing a place to eat out fairly simple, but oh so boring.

We got settled into my vehicle after his walker was placed in the back and headed down the street. “What sounds good for lunch, Dad?” I asked, knowing the answer before he ever spoke.

“Oh, you know what I like, so whatever you put in front of me will be fine.” He paused a minute, and then added, “It’s a cloooudy day.”

I sighed, internally, responded with, “It sure is,” and drove in silence, knowing he just enjoyed a change of scenery and these outings made him feel less institutionalized for an hour or two.

I was tired of French fries and grilled cheese, so I decided to take him to The Big Biscuit for some pancakes. It wouldn’t be overly crowded at 1 pm, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the noise. We were greeted at the door by Dez, a cheerful waiter with pink cowboy boot earrings that dangled, one red rhinestone sparkling on the heel of each boot. Dez’s brown, curly hair was tied up in a bun, giving the earrings prominent spotlight and room to swing.

“Hi there – are there two of you today?” they asked in a deep voice and then showed us to a booth in the corner. I wondered if Dez had a cold but then realized, no, this was Dez’s normal voice. I opted for the seat that faced the wall so Dad could have the expanse of the room for viewing while we sat. Dez took our drink orders and left to get Dad’s coffee and my glass of water, returning with a small individual silver metal pot filled with hot coffee and a mug. After dad’s coffee was poured and our lunch order was taken, Dez cheerfully replied, “I’ll get that order turned in right away. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime!” and headed toward the kitchen.

“IS THAT A GIRL?” Dad said loudly.

I winced. Not knowing how to explain it, I just said, “Yes,” and then, “It sure is a clooooudy day.”

We waited while our pancakes were on the griddle, and enough time went by that Dad refilled his coffee mug with his little pot of coffee while I tried to act interested in the ramblings of the latest interview on ESPN that was close captioned on the wall, eavesdropping on the ladies sitting at the table next to us talking about the graduation trip they had planned in sultry Georgia next month.

Finally, the manager on duty delivered our plates. If you have never been to Big Biscuit, fair warning here. The buttermilk short stack is two pancakes that are exactly the size of the circumference of the dinner plate. Exactly. So, there is no room for a slow drizzle of syrup oozing down the side of the cakes. I stared at my plate and wondered where the syrup was supposed to go, and picked up the little pitcher of maple heaven, barely drenching the exact center to keep from making a mess while Dad unrolled his utensils from the paper napkin cylinder.

Before I knew what was happening, Dad had his silver coffee pot in his hand and was pouring hot coffee all over his pancakes.

“Dad. DAD. Dad! That’s coffee, not syrup! DAD!”

I could see on his face he was thoroughly embarrassed, but he is a proud man and said nothing at all, setting the pot down and picking up the little pitcher of maple, drenching the entire surface of the cakes with ooze that now made its way to the outer edges and dripped…all over the table. If he realized the minor disaster, he didn’t let on. Instead, he picked up his fork and began eating the coffee maple mush. I wanted to laugh, hoped no one else was watching this fiasco, and sat across from my father, watching the syrup continue to flow and drip onto the paper napkin Dad had not put in his lap. Did you know a paper napkin can hold a good amount of syrup?

Dez stopped by the table and asked, “Is there anything you need?”

“Extra napkins,” I eeked out, looking at them with embarrassed desperation. They smiled and said, “On it.”

Dad continued shoveling bites of mush into his mouth, unaware of his surroundings, and apparently quite hungry, in spite of coffee pancakes. When the stack of napkins arrived, I slowly moved a couple of them towards dad’s side so he would get the hint that these were clean replacements for the syrup receptacle.

Oblivious.

He stopped midway and took a drink of his coffee and then looked at THE napkin. He picked it up, wiped his mouth as syrup began dripping all over his shirt, and then placed the napkin in his lap, like a gentleman.

What do you do in that moment. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, right?

“It’s a clooooudy day,” I said, and kept eating. But the coffee was good and his plate was clean when all was said and done.

Dez, you’ll need to refill that empty little syrup pitcher and use a big wet towel for that bench.

I put my sticky father back into my vehicle and we enjoyed the puffy clouds all the way back home.  

Today, I am grateful for moments with Dad on Friday afternoons.

I am grateful for sticky laundry.

And I am sure grateful for clooooudy days and pancakes.