Feeding Sonny

Feeding Sonny is a trip, literally a trip, and more so on an actual trip. In the past when my parents vacationed with us they would come equipped with a large cooler (yes, even larger than the one Dad takes to work for his lunch!) and it was filled with several kinds of muffins, fresh fruit, cheese, sausage - more stuff than I have in my own fridge.

My mother's life's commitment was the care and feeding of my father. We siblings would sometimes scoff when she wasn't around and sometimes when she was around. What is the purpose of promoting dependence and helplessness in a full-grown person? Where does that get you? But German farmer housewives of the 50's did those things and man, I am so glad we stepped away from that although there are some residual traits still evident in my own housekeeping. Thank you, mother. As all social workers know, the fruit don't fall too far from the tree.

Dad has to eat at certain times of the day, or else he would be - uncomfortable - is the word he used. No one questioned this or asked him to explain. It had to do with his GI tract and he preferred to take care of that procedure in the morning following breakfast and if that did not occur, everyone was uncomfortable. My father also cannot use public

restrooms for that before mentioned procedure and that can make a car trip a daunting experience. We tried to accommodate as best we could. We only had one tricky episode and nobody really wants to hear about that. Want to get to know someone, really know someone? Take a three thousand mile vacation and share a small cabin for a few nights.

Surprisingly, Dad wasn't a stickler about meal schedules this time. Every time I would ask - do you want to eat now or later? - he said he did not care, he wasn't hungry. This was unusual for him. He had bought Raisin Bran and instant coffee and

blackberry jam at the mart in Creede and he dutifully ate his breakfast at 7:00 every morning. Dave was suffering from a hellish cough and I was doing nights on the couch in the cabin. Dave and Dad made countless trips to the commode every night - I dubbed this the Parade of Enlarged Prostates - your turn's coming, I said to Jason. Did I get much sleep? Probably not. Did I sleep in the car? Usually I don't, but I did this trip.

One thing Dad kept talking about was homemade pie, pie, pie, pie. That's all he wanted for supper - that and a cuppa you-know-what. Homemade pies are difficult to come by, I think, in the restaurant industry and even though a menu may boast such a item I question this as the edging on that crust looks all too perfect. We didn't find much pie except for items like apples with caramely butter sauce and Dad does not do sweet. On the way home, I asked him, what kind of pie do you want, Sonny? Raspberry Jello pie, he said, right away. "Your mother's been promising two years to make that pie." I imagine she was waiting for the price of raspberries to go down which never happens and I was surprised he wanted a pie with jell-o, but I can do this. Coincidence that the recipe was first under PIES in Mom's 500-card recipe box? Okay, the raspberries were $3.49 a box and I needed four boxes. Cowboy Dave does not read these posts so I can get away with my naughty purchases. Life is short. Buy the raspberries.