Laying at the Bedside of Silly
Dad is smacking his gums right now with a childlike glee, not because he’s losing his marbles but because he’s checking in on the systems that still work. More pieces have fallen off; he’s driving on the rims now, and he seems to have lost all his upholstery, but he hasn’t dropped the transmission yet.
He’s been in a hospital bed set up in his living room for about ten days now, each of them steps in a downward staircase which will end sooner rather than later. It was a precipitous dunking in which I literally poured him from a brand new chair across a four foot gap into his brand new bed one night when his legs just gave up the fight altogether, becoming, as he calls them now, scrap yard kindling. Chris had just left Portland to take care of his hastily interrupted life in Vancouver, but two days later I was calling him back again. Dad always had a flare for the dramatic.
We’ve been having a lovely time, despite all that. Chris and I have been here every day, minding the hospice nurses to-ing and fro-ing, taking charge of the minutiae which crops up, and reading Dad an old favorite yarn of his, The Wind in the Willows, a book which feels the rhythms of life; the animals, all imprisoned by their individual natures are still gentlemen through and through, and they move through their countryside with a respect and wonderment at the firmament upon which they walk, no matter the hour, the season, the light of the moon.
We parked Dad by the window a couple days ago, though he protested. He still doesn’t want to put anybody out, of course, but since he’s bedridden, it’s not as though he can argue. And he loves it, though his eyes are failing him too. We finished reading The Wind in the Willows, and are working through other old favorites: poetry, short stories, and most recently David Sedaris, who never fails to make us laugh until we cry.
We also, though it might be distasteful, make unbelievably bad jokes. Dad is a part of the carnival, so though much of it is at his expense, he always puts in a final zinger. He’s still Dad through and through–a little scrawny maybe–but he’s still got an imposing and clever wit and a respect and appreciation of the life that still graces him. We weep often at the writing that moves us, now shared as we read aloud to Dad, and we’ve made our way with as much dignity as we can cobble together, getting our inspiration from Dad whose body has failed him but whose mind remains open and engaging.
We’re waiting to see what Dad does next. He may be bedridden, but he still keeps us guessing.
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Thank you, thank you, thank you, Quenby, for including me in your latest update. Your dad and I have been communicating lately about the alien. My boyfriend has one too. I have had so many hopes about Charles’ alien going on its merry way and leaving him alone. Alas. It was not meant to be. I was sending an e-mail to your dad while you were sending me this. I had wanted to write him – over time – of the many fond memories I have had throughout our friendship of more than forty years. Here is what I wrote to Charles today: “you and I trudging through over a foot of new snow on our way to our homes in Boulder after getting off the evening bus from UCD. We were tough then, weren’t we?” We all know that your dad has remained tough to the end. You too, Quenby. I remember you and Jenny in diapers in your backyard in Boulder. So many memories. I know that your dad will face death with the same vigor and humor that he faced life. My love to all of you – virginia
Thanks, Ginnie. I had just read him your letter, which is how I got your email. He’s still a tough bird just like days of old–mind still strong and impatient with all the hullaballoo–but his body has been in better shape, for sure. No more marches through the snow.
I’m updating as I can, but it’s a bit spotty, I know. Sorry about your fella; it’s a rough old thing no matter how it plays out and always a surprise though I suppose it shouldn’t be.
Love to your daughters, doing what sounds to be great rewarding work in Olympia. Cheers, Quenby
Hello Quemby!
As you may have heard my son-in-law suffered the loss of his sister this past May, from a motorcycle accident. I shuffled off to Texas, after they returned from the funeral, to offer some support and run after Logan (who is now 2yrs). We have walked this path before, both the unexpected deaths and the protracted illness.
I enjoy reading your blog and the simple pleasures and memories you and Chris are creating with your Dad. These will bring you comfort, giggles and tears after he passes, all of which are the necessary tools for grieving. Please give your Dad my best, I am so thankfull we were able to meet him, chat, break bread and drink together (at your mother’s birthday party). Much love and virtual hugs cousin!! Elaine
We’re definitely working the giggle angle–trying to keep it as light as we can before we’ve got no time left. But it’s tiring, and he’s bored out of his mind. Can’t wait to get through the door.
Ah, well. Thanks, Elaine, for checking in. Please pass on the word to any who might be interested, though you only met him the once. It was a great, great night and he was so happy to have met you all that night! Loved your bumptious, laughing stories which came fast and furious, all the daughters fighting for the funniest, most embarrassing yarn! Such a good night, and I’m glad you were there.
Love to you and your new grandbaby!
Q
Hello Quenby,
My name is Bob (Bobby to our family) Moone. Your dad was my father’s cousin, although he was closer in age to me than to my dad.
Your grandfather had a brother Earl who was my grandpa. You may have heard the story of how those kids gave each other nicknames that stayed with them throughout their lives — Earl became “Jim” to his brothers and so on.
While your dad and I never had the opportunity to develop a close relationship, I do recall spending time with him at family reunions and some holidays. Unfortunately, over the decades we lost contact and it was only through a chance encounter with a mutual friend (Susan Scherer) that we reconnected.
I sent him a small biography written by one of his cousins (Raymond Middleton) and some other family-related material. He sent me copies of a few of his wonderful paintings. I am so pleased that we were able to share some stories and information before his passing.
Susan shared an e-mail that included your blog. It was beautifully done and demonstrates that you clearly inherited your dad’s creativity and talent. He must have been very proud.
If you or any family member out there is interested in genealogy I’ve fallen heir to the old Moone Family Bible and some other artifacts, which I’d be happy to share. My e-address is: oldbobby2@aol.com.
So sorry for the loss of your dad, but clearly he was at peace and made his last journey easier for all of you.
Hello, Bobby. I remember the biography, which, if I find it, can send it back to you if you have few copies. We’re still sitting by Dad, though he’s closer to the end than to the beginning, that’s for sure.
I read your comment to him, and though he’s not able to speak much these days, he was clearly cheered and heartened by the memory and your reaching out. He’s tired, mostly, and bored. His mind was always so sharp and active, and he would always retreat to his art studio when the urge took him; now that he’s unable to do so he’s at loose ends. We read to him often, and we’re having movie marathons, but it’s not the same.
Thanks so much for writing, and I’ll try to update as I can, though I’m having a hard time keeping up sometimes.
Love to you and all the rest of the Moone-Clan!
Cheers, Quenby
Hey Quenby,
You are doing such a beautiful job with this – all of it. It appears that you have inherited your dad’s brilliance with the english language. Mine is a bit more pedestrian. Here’s another one for your dad……..okay. We have just gotten off the plane in Madrid after flying more than 15 hours from Denver. We are jet-lagged and exhausted and have loaded ourselves into two 9 passenger vans. Sally is driver #1. I am driver #2. You are my navigator and you have maps and books in your lap. I don’t know how much spanish you know but mine is basically limited to “una mas cafe por favour”. We are driving on the freeway from the airport to the city center of Madrid in the evening rush hour. I am white knuckled at the steering wheel, bird-dogging Sally’s van. I burst out “Oh my god! I am driving in Spain.” You had a good chuckle after that, when, really you should have been terrified. HA!! Anyway, we lived through it and what an adventure it was! Thinking of you and your gardens. Love, Virginia
Hi Quenby,
A few months ago, I sat with your dad at his dining room table looking over the R. Crumb catalog from the Portland Art Museum. At the time when I spoke to him, your dad was planning to go see the show with Kathleen when she came to town; how fitting that the show was an illustrated version of the Book of Genesis R. Crumb-style and that your dad was still able to go and walk the show.
What I have been wanting to share with you and Chris and your dad is that I had a dream after the R. Crumb conversation. It was a visual dream in which your dad was the main character. In the dream, I knew that your dad was showing me a book of his artwork; I could hear his voice as he described each page, but I didn’t see him. Instead I saw the book of him. In graphic novel style, this was the book of Charles’ philosophies of life. In one frame, there was an image of Charles in profile speaking. In another frame, I felt as though I were zooming in towards an epiphany that was as simple as a pinpoint of ink, then I was zooming out again. On another page, Charles walked forward, gesturing as he spoke coming closer to the viewer with each frame. The paintings of him were realistic, the details of his face and hands and voice–all him, but then I got to the last page. Here he was walking in his studio, and I saw that he had shoes on with splotches of paint on them. I was jolted from my focus on this story of his life because I realized that I did not know what kind of shoes he wore when he painted. In my dream, I tried to repaint them, but they still weren’t right. I kept trying to recreate this final detail of his persona.
I told my dad about this dream, and he said immediately that “no, Charles’ shoes wouldn’t look like that.” I think there was something about this detail that represented him in this dream, something that I didn’t know about him.
I mainly know your dad through my dad and the brotherhood they have shared, but I also know your dad from afar, from seeing him at openings or walking to and from the bus in the North Denver neighborhood where my mother also lived. He always wore his distinctive Greek Fisherman’s cap, and he seemed legendary to me. I didn’t get to know Charles personally until he moved to Portland, but he was always a part of my life and so were you and Chris. We all are children of artists and single dads and we all have been raised with the artist’s way of seeing the world; it’s a bond that is there and will always be there.
I don’t know what the dream is meant to say, but I know that Charles impacts the people he knows on so many levels–philosophically, spiritually, as a teacher, as a friend, as an artist, as a dad. It doesn’t surprise me that he is still surprising you, Quenby in these most recent days, still teaching and still revealing a new dad to you. I’m thinking about you all reading Wind in the Willows, one of my favorites too.
Love, Cara
Ah yes, the Wind in the Willows, with Arthur Rackham’s drawings. One of my great faves too. how lovely to be read to, in the early years and going out. Q, thank you for the one you just sent me from today and the note. Okay. Thank you for readying me best you can. and yes, that was a completely splendid evening after a unique day. I cherish it always. contact again soon, I know.
Dear Quenby, I am a high school classmate of Charlie and recently heard about his health. It is very sad to hear of one our friends who is going upstairs. Please tell him that I pray for him and in the not too distant future I will be joining him.I hope this short note will help to cheer him up before the sun goes down one final time.
jed mcentee
My dear Quenby, I do not know you but Charlie and I were in the same HS class in Arlington. I am very sad to hear of his ailment but glad that his has an upbeat attitude. Please pass on to him that I will be joining him in the not to distant future. Hope fully this will reach him before the sun goes down.
jervis mcentee