… on a homecoming, a nearly dead husband, and a plea


Grampa doing his physical therapy with his ‘physical terrorist’, Heather.

Over the past few days, things here have been pretty dang busy. There have been backs and forths to the hospital to visit Grampa (the original Old Yankee Man (and, yes, I believe that. He is an old man so set in his ways that I’m certain it has taken him many, many lifetimes to “set” these ways. So he is an original – both cosmically and generally.)).

Yesterday, we had a family meeting at the hospital and were told that Grampa could indeed come home on Wednesday.

Which is tomorrow.

So of course my nearly perfect husband has prepared as best he can for the re-introduction of Grampa to the household. You know, I should probably give Grampa a temporary label so that people who just jump in without reading previous posts will understand why we are following him closely all around the house, or helping him stand up, or chaining him to his bed so he doesn’t try to barrel out of his apartment and into our garage. What? You thought that would stop just because he broke his freakin’ neck?


So I looked it up, and ‘bionic’ means, “Having artificial body parts, esp. electromechanical ones”. Well, maybe it isn’t electromechanical, but a titanium screw (we purposefully requested one that wouldn’t rust, which sort of surprised the neurosurgeon. I don’t know why. It was a perfectly reasonable request.) Anyway, a titanium screw certainly counts as an artificial body part.


Bionic Grampa.

So where was I? Oh! Right. So John has prepared as best he can for Bionic Grampa to re-enter the home. Let’s see…. Yesterday, he rolled up the rugs in Granny’s and Grampa’s apartment so that Bionic Grampa doesn’t get hung up on them when he is using his temporary walker (I had to write temporary there, because if Bionic Grampa reads this and I have said anything indicating that it is not temporary (like if I just called it a ‘walker’), he would surely retaliate. And we all now know that this would involve now-but-not-then illegal poisonous or flammable materials saved from the 1950s, a visit to our garage to ‘tidy up’ (translation: “redistribute”), or the painting of something, most likely utilizing Rustoleum’s Safety Orange spray paint (yes, Safety Orange is a real color. And, yes, he owns a lot of it.)

Oh my Gosh. Clearly, I am so totally excited by the fact that Bionic Grampa is returning tomorrow that I have just developed an acute case of Attention Deficit Disorder (I hope it doesn’t become chronic. Oh wait. It just did.).  We just took two hairpin turns from my attempt to tell you how John has prepared for his father’s return. I’d better just say it, before we take another turn. John has prepared fabulously for his Dad’s return from more than a week of rehabilitation following his spinal surgery.

He left.


My nearly perfect husband is gone.


Shuffled off to Buffalo (well, actually, Seattle).

Knockin’ on heaven’s door.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. He’s not dead.

But he might be.


It all depends on how smoothly Bionic Grampa’s homecoming goes without my nearly perfect husband actually AT home.

If it doesn’t go well, I may be thwacking my nearly perfect husband’s stiff, dead corpse on God’s Heavenly Husband Emporium’s countertop and asking for a refund in the spirit of Monty Python’s dead parrot sketch:

He’s not pining! He’s passed on! This nearly perfect husband is no more! He has ceased to be! He’s expired and gone to meet his maker! He’s a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed him to the perch he’d be pushing up the daisies! His metabolic processes are now history! He’s off the twig! He’s kicked the bucket, he’s shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-NEARLY PERFECT HUSBAND!!

I really hope I don’t have to go there.

I mean, he said he had a business trip in Seattle (personally, I think he’s going for the coffee). But on the off chance that he’s telling the truth, and we want to keep a roof over our heads (and me with a new camera lens every so often), I need to act all supportive.

So what am I doing to prepare for Bionic Grampa’s return?

I’m resting. Conserving my energy.


I’m all alone in the house (rare!). I delivered Gabe-the-self-described-perfect-boy to school, and took a few early morning photos (forgetting I was in my pajamas, again. And this time I pulled over on a main street in town. I’m sure some folks’ commutes were either horrific or enhanced, depending on their penchant for comedic perspective). These are some of the photos from the pajama shoot this morning:

Totally worth it.

I came home and made bacon and pancakes just for me (Okay, Blaze got a piece of bacon that accidentally ‘fell’ in front of her, but that was the only sharing that happened).  I put a fire in the kitchen fireplace, slid onto a stool, read two of E.B. White’s essays (Sootfall and Fallout and Death of a Pig), checked my e-mail, and decided that I should clean myself up for a chat with you.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Do you want coffee?


So I’m going to need a lot of support in the coming 8 – 10 weeks while Bionic Grampa is still wearing his collar (That makes it sound like Bionic Grampa is a dog. He will officially be wearing an Extended-Wear Cervical Support Neck Brace (okay, and maybe a harness if he gets too feisty, but not a head harness because that could hurt his neck if he bolted for a squirrel or something)). Oh, and Bionic Grampa is required to use a walker while he wears his Extended-Wear Cervical Support Neck Brace.

Now you are thinking, because I asked for your support, you should write things like, ‘Sending good thoughts your way’ and ‘Best hopes for a speedy recovery Bionic Grampa’ and also ‘R.I.P. and run free, Lisa’s nearly perfect husband.’ (That one would be a bit premature, but perhaps appropriate. We’ll see.). 

But all those well wishes can be saved for folks who are kindly and selflessly caring for their wonderfully grateful loved ones. That will not be me.

Not at all.

Because, people, I am telling you there is a term for an Old Yankee Man who is lacking 100% control of his environment and person.

A cranky Yankee.

With that in mind, here are the wishes I hope you will “send my way” – both spiritually and literally – in the coming weeks:



An increased sense of humor in all things.

Okay, I’m kidding. That all sounds fantastic folks, but what I’ll really need is:


And maybe it would be a good idea to homicide-proof my house and surrounding area. All of New England should be sufficient (oh, and New York too as I have class there the next two Saturdays). You should remove sharp instruments, firearms, cross-bows (regular bows too, I suppose. Oh, and arrows), all poisons (including untraceable neurotoxins and Lily of the Valley berries (I learned about those on Breaking Bad). Crap. I just watched a Discovery Channel program that taught me about poisonous sea snakes. Creepy. We should remove all poisonous sea snakes from New England, lest I be tempted to milk one. I think that should do it. Dang. Except I just thought that shoe laces tied together could make a noose. Shoe laces should be collected also. And twisty ties. Those suckers could be as deadly as piano wire if I stripped them and soldered them together with… a deadly soldering iron.  Oh screw it.

Just send the wine.

Lots of it.

Oh geez is that the time? I’ve gotta go. Can you let yourself out?

Okay, see you soon!

Thanks for readin’.