Convoluted

My elderly, pre-Alzheimer's father's memory is not so great.

     Neither is mine, for that matter, but that's neither here nor there.

     Many years back, we were on our way to visit some family in another town and we just couldn't find the street we were looking for. Today, I would just key the address into my phone and it would give me directions, but back then we used maps--real maps--and we didn't have one.

     My father, whom I trusted to drive at the time, stopped at a convenience store and the two of us went inside to buy one.

     They were out.

     "By any chance," my father asked the clerk, "do you know where such and such street is?"

     The clerk did.

     "You want to write it down?" he asked my father before giving him the directions.

     "I'll remember," my father told him, sniffing in indignation.

     We jumped back into the car and immediately got turned around. It wasn't my father's fault. The streets were just convoluted, probably designed back in the 60s when ingestible things were available to make you feel convoluted. 

     We couldn't find the street we were looking for, but we did find the convenience store again.

     My father pulled into the parking lot, just to the side of the door where he couldn't be seen.

     He told me, "Go inside and get directions."

     As I opened the door and started to get out, he stopped me.

     "Be sure to write them down," he said.

  

RaisingDad

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