Alzheimer's is a Drag

(Much time has passed since my last blog. Things in E. TX. ceased to be funny when I found out Dad has early-onset Alzheimer's. He is living in Purgatory (a friend's house in South Texas) while I find a place for us to move into together so I can take care of him. In all my spare time, I'll update my blog to make some sense later.)

For now, however, allow me to share some of the drama to divert you from your urban malaise...

I've most recently been embroiled in a plot to relieve my unwitting father of his weapons and tools. I arrived unbidden in Purgatory with a moving truck and three strapping movers with the baldly-expressed intent to secrete away my father's personal arsenal, assorted ammunition, and hulking manly-man gang box, filled as it was with a variety of tools, both power-driven and manual.

Dad brought these items to Purgatory last week in an ill-advised effort to protect them, after another dramatic event involving the alleged burglary of his home in East Texas -- the more likely scenario involving my 'sister' and simple theft. These items include: One SKS Assault Rifle complete with bayonet; One AR15 Assault Rifle; One 30/30; One .357 revolver; One .22 revolver; and various other pistols and non-automatic rifles of greater and lesser calibers; Ample ammunition for the above-mentioned guns, which are all legal and registered, etc., btw; One gang box (approximately 800 pounds) bursting with omnifarious tools of all values, large and small.

Dad lives in a house with three (city) boys between the ages of 8 and 11, who have never handled a gun in their short sad lives. The house he in which he temporarily resides is frequented by the same thief who stole and disposed of, at a minimum, the following items formerlly owned by him: (1) One pick-up truck; (2) One 15' hauling trailer; (3) One .270 deer rifle with precision scope; and (4) an undisclosed amount of cash.

Thus, in my infinite wisdom as Number One Daughter, I decided it would be best that he not have these items with him in Purgatory. Hence the trip referenced above.

And, so, there I stood in all my glory (shame), doing what I knew was the right thing to do. Dad threw things. He fought. He left out on foot, refusing to return until I'd left.

I pleaded. I cried. I doubted myself. I loaded everything and left. I hated myself. Dad won't talk to me.

I hope this epic update has managed to jolt you from that insidious urban malaise, which no doubt affects us all from time to time...