Flushed with Success

Accept, gentle reader, that I took leave of my senses. It happens to all of us at some point, especially when dealing with the needs of elderly, fiercely independent parents.

My mom and dad live three hours away in an ailing house. After a nasty fall that left her concussed, my mom got an emergency pacemaker, this after a previous fall that left her with a torn cuff and limited use of her right arm.

In a few words, because we all understand human dignity and body functions, people who are without the use of their full range of motion might want to invest in a bidet. Nuff said, right?

Running errands and trying to set the house up as best it could be for their continued independence there, what do I find in the clearance aisle during a supply run to Walmart?

Bidets. For $10. Snatching two, I raced home with my prizes—

–and realized that my 86-year-old father, a lifelong handyman unwilling to admit to cognitive dysfunction, was going to take the family toilet apart. At my urging, because I had made the mistake of saying we shouldn’t install the second one in Mom’s separate bathroom until we were sure she liked the bidet model.

5 pm, just as I’m starting to make dinner, my dad turns the water off. Only the handle on the toilet is frozen, so it isn’t off when he unhooks the pipe from the wall. Water sprays everywhere. Dad gets a massive pipe wrench from the shed out back and with the help of his trusty quad cane navigates the uneven hill down to the basement. Where he turns off the house water. Meanwhile, I have every towel in the house on the bathroom floor and am starting to eye the blankets.

My dad returns a few minutes after the water stops spurting. He wants me to hold the lid while he gets the plastic bolts secured. I ask if the nuts holding the bolts are on backwards, and that’s why the lid continues to slide all over the place. He gives me a classic male to female sneer. The problem is tightening, he says; what we need is a Phillips screwdriver. Off he goes to fetch one from the shop.

This is good for five minutes, I figure, and reverse the bolts, hand tightening them until they won’t turn. The lid is snug and no longer sliding when he returns. He places the Philips in the center of the bolt’s large X and turns it, ripping a hole in the cheap plastic.

The light in the bathroom is low enough that he can’t tell this has happened.

“Perfect,” I say. “Doesn’t slide at all now.” He beams. So far, so good.

He studies the t-junction for the water pipes, cannot make head nor tails of it, and declares the rest will have to wait until tomorrow.

“Where will we pee tonight?” Mom shouts from her chair in the living room. Dad frowns, and opens his mouth to shout—I am sure of it— “In the bushes.”

I cut him off, knowing what would happen if he did.

“Look! I found the diagram showing how to assemble the pipes at the three points!”

Dad is having none of it. So, I attach the first one, pretend they came pre-assembled, and then ask if the other two go together “like this?”

“See?” he says. “You just have to be patient. I have this figured out now. You can go.”

I retreat to the living room, where Mom asks if the house is going to flood a second time, because there are blankets in the linen closet I can use.

Dad heads down the hill again. I race to the bathroom and tighten all three joins so they won’t spray. As I finish the last one, the water comes on, but I am close enough to finish with minimal dripping.

Dad comes upstairs, puts his hand on the first join, and smiles. “Dry as a bone. I did a great job. No leaks.”

“Yes! High five!” I tell him. We exchange one, he goes to his chair, and I go to the kitchen to make myself a gin and tonic.

Help, Police

Jack makes it in time again – hooray!

There we were on Friday evening, relaxing and recovering from the week’s travails watching some telly.

We had survived buying the new car, getting our Scottish bank account unlocked, and a nasty bout of convincing the Scottish Teachers Pension Association that I was, in fact, still alive and entitled to draw my pay. Nothing else could possibly go wrong – –

That’s when two uniformed police officers walked up on our lawn and peered through our window!

To show that they came in peace one of them held up a couple of car license plates and gave a friendly smile.

They were our car’s old license plates…..

Wendy invited them, the older one still holding the plates out like a shield. They stood in their black uniforms covered in badges and equipment, including guns, looking uncomfortable in our front room.

I looked at the plates and realized they were old, battered and dirty and the paint was flaking off them. I remembered that about two years ago I had gone through the maze of the DMV to get new ones; these were even now sitting in our new car waiting to be fitted. Were we in some kind of trouble? We’d only had the new car a few days!

No, in fact, the officers were as befuddled as we were. The plates they held had been found seven miles away in the yard of a nice old lady who called the police to see what was up. The police ran them, found us, and here they stood, looking ill at ease, leaning against our living room walls.

We have no idea how they got there or who had put them there and neither did the policemen. One of the officers was tall and obviously in charge while the other was clearly somewhat bemused and embarrassed by the whole affair. If there had been a balloon above his head, it would have said something to the effect of, “This is not what I signed up for. This is silly. Let me out of here unless I’m going to get to arrest somebody.”

The older officer suggested that probably we had thrown the plates away, someone had been garbage surfing, found them and sold them to someone with an unregistered car. Then they dumped them a few years later.

So, the long and short of it is that you should always be careful how you dispose of old vehicle plates – you never know where they could land up, or who could come knocking on your door to return them.