They Call Him the Streak

I should probably explain that Ethel's name isn't really Ethel. To be fair, my given name isn't Dosquatch*, either, and amazingly Mom and Sister have actual names. I don't expect that anonymity can truly be maintained on the Internet, but I feel better for at least maintaining the prima facia pseudonyms. It's how the furback rolls.

Ethel's name is courtesy of Mom. Ethel has tendencies that evoke, in Mom's mind, certain Ray Stevens lyrics.

Ethel has a curious nature. Everything catches her attention. She's compelled by nature to stop every few steps and look at something, and that's at home. She can't keep track of the days of the week, but leave a trinket, bauble, widget, or piece of mail in a different spot and she'll lock in on it like a lion on its prey. She'll stand there, studying it, staring at it, and - if it's within arm's reach - she will handle it.

It's even worse when we're out, if for no other reason than because she'll do the same thing with small children. This is problematic. People are funny about their kids and strangers, even kindly old women.

Ethel came from an era where community was still community, and the children in the community were everybody's responsibility. The true "It Takes A Village" small town sort of thing. So it's natural to her to make faces and googly noises at babies and wiggle their feet. Babies like that sort of thing. It's just what you do - when it's your baby, or the baby of someone you know. She doesn't get that times have changed, though, and that you can't do that to random people's children without ruffling feathers. She watches the news, sure, and wonders how people can do such horrible things to kids, she just doesn't understand why this should impact her own behavior.

We try to minimize distraction, and to keep her focused on the task. "Don't look, Ethel!" Mom cries, but often, it really is too late. Easily distracted has been elevated to an art form.

* - though I will answer to it in conversation

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

"What are you doing in here?" Ethel yells out suddenly. "Wait, where you goin' now?" she follows.

I go to check on her - the new medication's been doing something at least. She's been sleeping through the night, and hasn't had any "visitors" in over a week, so this outburst gets my attention.

Her eyes are open, but they're full of that semi-vacant "just woke up" fog. Talking her way in and out of sleep is normal. For her, anyway, she's done this for as far back as I can remember. I sit down to chat for a bit.

"Where's who going?" I ask.

"The ball players. They come in here and pitch sometimes."

"In here? I don't know, do you think there's enough room?"

She chuckles, then sighs. "I don't know," she says. She looks at the television. The television is always on. Awake, asleep, somewhere in between, and she's very upset if it isn't. It's women's tennis.

"I don't like tennis," she says.

We talk about that a bit, and why she watches it if she doesn't like it. Nothing consequential, just chatter. She starts fading back into sleep again, and I slip back out to the living room. Nothing unusual. Just Saturday.