Remembering Dad

Every child of a parent with Alzheimers worries that one day their parent will forget them. I felt this way, but I was reassured, because although Dad couldn't remember my name, or that I was his daughter, he seemed to sense that I was someone important to him.

It was funny...sometimes he'd ask me my name and I'd say: "It's me dad, Linnie!" and he'd usually reply... "I have a daughter named Linnie."

Alzheimers is a cruel disease, and my heart goes out to all affected by it. I hear it is increasing greatly as the baby boomers age.

I would advise anyone who is going through it to get help through a support group, or by talking to others with similar concerns.

How much of my dad was left after the disease completely ravaged his body? ALL OF HIM...we are more than our thoughts and our memories.

"So Dad, did you boil the chicken first, or bake it with the pasta?"

I am trying to pick my Dad's brain for his famous Chicken-Spaghetti recipe.

"Did you use tomato sauce, tomato paste, or both, Dad?"

He just smiles at me. He doesn't remember the recipe. He probably doesn't remember me.

Dad was a great cook and Chicken-Spaghetti was his signature dish. Unfortunately, I never took the time to ask him for the recipe, and now it may be too late. Dad is in the latter stages of Alzheimers, and doesn't remember much. However, I remember, and I'm haunted by memories of years gone by.

I look back on happy memories of family, friendships, and good times. It is a bittersweet journey, because so much has changed over the years. In some cases, all I'm left with are remembrances of people who were once a part of my life.

We think things will stay the same, but they don't. All we can do is enjoy the time that we have, and try to keep alive our family traditions. I may not have Dad's Chicken-Spaghetti recipe, but I do have his record and album collections. When I play them I don't even mind the scratches on the records. They remind me of the record players of my youth, when we'd pile on a stack of 45's and dance - Dad included.

Looking back, I now realize that the adults of my childhood faced a lot of the same issues that we face today - loss, grief, disappointment, stress, financial difficulties, health problems, you name it. But, no matter what was going on in the outside world, Dad always made me feel secure and loved.

I don't bother Dad about the recipe anymore. I'm just glad he's still here with me. I think back to my times in the kitchen with Dad, and I try to remember the way he used to do things, and the spices and ingredients he liked to use. Who knows? I might be able to make a decent Chicken-Spaghetti myself!

I still enjoy my time with him:

"Dad, we sure used to have some good times, didn't we?" I remind him.

He looks at me, and I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"Yes we did," he says. "Yes we did."

Ingredients:

* 12 ounces spaghetti, cooked just until tender
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 1 to 2 tablespoons bacon drippings or butter
* 1 cup chopped onion
* 1 cup chopped celery
* 1 green bell pepper, chopped
* 4 to 6 ounces sliced mushrooms
* 3 cloves garlic, finely minced
* 3 cloves garlic, finely minced
* 2 teaspoons chili powder
* 1 tablespoon flour
* 1 1/2 cups beer or unsalted chicken stock
* 1 can (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes or tomatoes with green chiles
* 1/4 cup chili sauce
* 3/4 cup half and half
* 2 tablespoons parsley, minced
* 3 to 4 cups chicken; cooked, cut up
* 1 small jar (2 ounces) chopped pimiento, drained
* 8 ounces (2 cups) Cheddar cheese, shredded

Preparation:
Preheat oven to 350°. Grease a large baking dish. In a bowl, toss the spaghetti with the butter, and set it aside. Warm the bacon drippings in a skillet over medium heat. Cook the onion, celery, bell pepper, mushrooms, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, and chili powder together until the vegetables are well softened, about 15 minutes. Cover the skillet if the mixture appears to be getting dry. Sprinkle in the flour, stirring to incorporate it, and add the beer or stock, the tomatoes, and the chili sauce. Bring the mixture to a boil, reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook the sauce for 30 minutes, until it has thickened slightly and reduced a bit. Remove the pan from the heat, and stir in the half and half and parsley. Pour the sauce over the spaghetti, and toss well.

Layer half the spaghetti and sauce mixture in the baking dish. Top with half each of the chicken, olives, and cheese. Add the other half of the spaghetti, and top with the remaining chicken, olives, and cheese. (The casserole can be assembled ahead to this point, covered, and refrigerated overnight. Remove it from the refrigerator 30 minutes before baking it).

Bake the casserole 25 minutes, or until the cheese melts and the sauce bubbles around the edges. Serve the casserole hot. Serves 6.

My Uncle Will was a decision maker. Some of his decisions might have seemed strange to the outside observer, but he never wavered when it was time to decide something. Like the time he decided he had spent enough effort trying to untangle three strands of Christmas lights. He simply got the scissors and cut them. His rationale was that it would take less time to splice the wires back together than to untangle the cords. Fortunately, his wife convinced him an even better idea was to go to the store and buy more lights! Nevertheless, Uncle Will had no problem making a decision.

My uncle was also a great listener. He was not threatened or intimidated by people with strong opinions - male or female. He taught me to speak my mind and never be afraid to, as he put it, "call a spade a spade."

If Uncle Will didn't like you, you knew it! He didn't believe in the behind-the-scenes character assassination and back-stabbing that is so prevalent today. Instead, he would look someone in the eye and tell them face-to-face what he thought about them.

He's been gone over twenty years and I still miss him. In today's world, there seems to be more concern with image, rather than substance. Every situation gets its own spin, and decisions aren't made for fear of hurting feelings.

Uncle Will wouldn't be happy with this. He knew that people prefer decision makers over those who back away from them, because even if you disagree with the decision, you can respect a person who stands up for their convictions.

There is something to be said for men who listen to the points of view of others, but make up their own minds. I know there are still some decision makers out there because I married one. Uncle Will never got the chance to meet him, but I believe he would have approved.

I did not look forward to my tenth-grade American History course at George Washington High School in Los Angeles. Neither did my fellow students. We learned that there was a new teacher assigned to teach the course, and he was also a Pastor at one of the local churches.

We envisioned class with a minister as teacher: every lesson would include a scripture reference; on Monday's in addition to taking roll, he would ask us if we went to church on the Sunday before; and heaven forbid we forget our homework! Well then he would probably stand at his perch in the front of the room and lament our moral shortcomings. We dreaded the semester.

Mr. Johnson was not what we expected. We covered a lot of subjects in class that semester, the Revolutionary War, the Constitution (including the separation of church and state), Slavery, and the Civil War. We found Mr. Johnson to be an engaging teacher, forcing us to consider all sides of the issues while keeping his own opinions to himself. "Surely this man can not be a Pastor?"

On the last day of class he let us have a no-holes barred discussion of the issues we had covered during the semester. Still, he didn't interject any of his personal feelings, acting instead as a moderator.

Finally, we asked him the question that had been on our minds all semester.

"Is it true you are a minister?" we asked.

"Yes, I am," he replied.

We then gave him what we considered a compliment: "But you don't act like a minister!" we told him.

He smiled.

Feeling emboldened, we asked him a question none of us would ever dare to ask our own minister, or our Sunday School teachers, or even our parents - "Why?" we asked. "Why do you believe?"

"Well," he said, after pondering the question for a few moments, "I tried a lot of things in my life as a young man, and then I was introduced to Jesus. I guess the only thing I can tell you about Christianity is that it works."

At first I was taken aback by the brevity of his response. It Works? No dissertation on religion. No invitation to come to his church. No Sermon! Here was his chance to reel us in and that's all he could come up with? What kind of Pastor was this?

But, over the years I have come to appreciate the simplicity of it all. Those two words really do sum it up. And, while I may have forgotten much of what I learned during my high school years, I can honestly say I've never forgotten those two words. Like Mr. Johnson, I learned that when all else fails - It Works