And after you're done...Mow some more. Just Mow. And when not mowing, display your lawnmower on the front lawn so everyone knows you have a lawnmower. If you tell him, "the lawn is mowed already," he'll say, "Who says," and mow anyway. It's always been this way, but it's more severe with the dementia.
I arrived to Syracuse this afternoon and Cynde was already weeding in preparation for the landscape party we hope to have on Saturday. It will be our attempt to reconstruct trailer park, Christmas Tree, Dollar Tree junk with plants and a little more warm feel. We shall see. Dad has even taken to stabbing trash onto the beaks of some of his lawn art birds. It is something.
Ah, but we're here. The temperatures have started to cool down, and there's not much to the week's agenda but to do paperwork via the university for all summer programs and to spend time on Amalfi Drive while I can.
I won't mow. I leave that for Papi Butch because it is what makes him happy. Perhaps I'll convince him to shave. Others have tried, but he's resistant. Looks like a possum died on his face.
Of course, Karal is in her glory, too.
