My father and I drove to my hometown, and the place he raised a family for 60 years: St. Elmo, Illinois. We joined a small group that included his sister from Decatur, my sister from St. Louis area, and a few others (mostly local). I know my father will have a little more decline each year, but he still thrives in a social group. His sister said it's been that way ever since he was a little tyke. So, 2 hours into the picnic, when dad drifted off to the side of the group, I knew he didn't feel right. It was 98° F and sweltering. I had a headache, so I knew the party was over for the two of us.
We packed up (all of us) and headed to the local Daryl's Dine In to enjoy the air-conditioning and a mocha-swirl ice cream cone. Refreshed, we headed off to visit family on my mother's side for an hour, then headed to the town my grandparents met in long ago. The stories my dad tells me about long ago events are getting shaggier and less believable, since his memory has bigger gaps between the main features, and he fills in the gaps liberally and unconsciously (it's called "confabulation").
There was a grand thunderstorm brewing across the prairie skies, so we had a delightful light show as we enjoyed a shared peanut butter shake (another apocryphal story behind that choice of shake) at the local ice cream drive-in. We made it to the motel door just as the rain came.
Photos on Flickr.
