aging

In effect, my mother was my father’s Little Orphan Annie: an abandoned child with no resources and no future.

A large part of my mother’s life, certainly during her upbringing, was fukkin’ gawdawful. My father came along and rescued her from fukkin’ gawdawful.

His answer to fukkin’ gawdawful was marriage and an escape overseas, to a drudging life in Saudi Arabia’s American oil port, Ras Tanura.

After ten years in that hellish place, they decamped to the San Francisco Bay Area, where my father, an oil tanker captain and navigator, shipped out of the East Bay and my mother and I occupied a series of (quite nice!) apartments in the City and then in Long Beach, in Southern California. Eventually he retired and they decamped again, this time to Arizona.

They sent me to college here. My father worked until he could finally see his way clear to retiring, and the two of them figured to spend the rest of their lives in Sun City, an exceptionally bland retirement community on the west side of Phoenix.

That lasted a couple of years, until a major recession struck and my father had to go back to sea.

Horrible! I can’t even imagine how depressing that must have been — for both of them, but certainly for him. Poor man!

Another few years passed and he contrived to quit the hated job, once and for all. By then I was about through college; moving on to a job in a law firm, and very happy to no longer be living in dreary Sun City.

I went on to marry one of the lawyers (that’s what young women were supposed to do, right? Land someone to support them for the rest of their lives…)

Meanwhile, my mother sat crocheting in front of the TV set and smoked. And smoked. And smoked. And smoked. And eventually succeeded in bringing on a cancer that, predictably enough, killed her.

***

Honest to gawd!  Both of them — my father and my mother — were right-wing crazies, the sort who thought anything they disagreed with that appeared in the news was just bat-brained propaganda from Big Brother.

Yes, that really WAS what they thought.

Unfortunately, Big Brother had the story right this time. And so, not surprisingly, this time my mother puffed herself into the grave.

Okay: so he’s stuck out in the middle of nowhere, on the west side of the Valley. She’s done; he’s bereft.

Now he sells the Sun City house and buys into an old-folkerie, a place called Orangewood. Having lived in institutional settings all his adult life, he thought it was just grand. My mother had refused to go there, and so he’d had to wait until she died to get rid of the shack and install himself in the landlocked version of a ship.

Ugh! I’d have died if I’d had to live there. He liked it, though. I guess to him it must have felt like home. Because, after all, he had lived on ships — institutions — since he was 17 years old.

And I do wonder: did he like it? Was it life on the Bounding Main reincarnated? Or was it what he had envisioned as the ideal retirement?

The latter is my guess — never having been able to read his mind.

He was a handsome man, by any measure. And so the minute he moved into the old-folkerie and walked into the dining hall, a feeding frenzy ensued.

Since he was, as far as I can tell, a staidly loyal married man, it hadn’t yet occurred to him that he was the Catch of a Lifetime…or so it would seem to all the agèd ladies at the old folks’ home.

Within weeks he was snared.

So — again, as far as I can tell — he must have felt he’d hit the jackpot. Not only a dwelling in a hotel-like affair designed to cater to the elderly where someone else would buy the groceries, cook the meals, clean  the apartment, and take out the trash, but now a New Woman! 

He seems not to have thought through that bounty very thoroughly: within a few weeks he had proposed to said New Woman.

Mistake. As you can imagine:

* He was accustomed to living with my mother, who after some 30 years together knew him well and knew how to make him happy.

* He did not recognize the Wicked Witch of the West for what she was. Yes: a wicked witch.

Oh, my. You wanna talk horror show? Lemme tellya horror show! 

At one point I urged him to divorce the bit¢h. But he was having none o’ that: “She’ll get all my MONEY,” wailed he.

I was neither wise enough nor brave enough to say, in reply, “Daddy: some things are more important than money.” Wouldn’t have mattered: he would have ignored that bit of advice.

So he spent the rest of his life in misery, until he had a stroke that carried him away.

What a way to wrap up your life, eh?