Yesterday I went shopping. I needed to find the perfect pair of tennis shoes for myself and some with non-slip soles for my husband. In times past, this would have been pleasurable; yesterday— not!
A lifetime ago, I would have relished the chance to get away for a shopping day. Our five boys would have been left very contentedly with the grandparents or with their dad, who would have them working on the farm (which actually meant they would be chasing wild rabbits and pelting each other with dirt clods and jumping into gullies deep enough to break a leg). Anyway, they would be happy and so would I. Sometimes Burt would ride with me and nap in the car while I enjoyed my shopping. I especially liked selecting things for him.
But my shopping day yesterday was different. I had to leave my main man at home with a caregiver and I ventured out alone. This time I saw so many good looking clothes for guys, but all he needed was a pair of slip-resistant shoes, to make things easier for the caregivers to shift him. What I found were ugly and black, and it made me sad. I still want him to look stylish.
There were years when I thought he didn’t really care about style since most of his wardrobe consisted of farming and hunting clothes–in other words, mostly brown. But the older he gets, it’s funny how things like his clothes still seem to matter to him. A few days ago I pulled out some old flannel pajama pants for him because I thought they’d be comfortable. He opened his groggy eyes and said, “Why’ve I got on these things? They’re about a hundred years old!”
The man is still here.