DEC 1st, 1991 – My diary is off to an auspicious start. I say that with a hint of sarcasm. Within two days of starting this diary, my father has been shot.
He is doing well. Let me start back where I left off. After picking up Frasier from the airport, we went to the hospital where Dad and Frasier just constantly were bickering. There was verbal mud-slinging in every direction. After an entire day of altercating, Frasier decided that his visit wasn't doing Dad any good and he flew back to Boston that very night.
A few days later, Dad was released from the hospital. He refused to stay in our place so Maris and I, with the aid of Frank, took him back to his place. Maris refused to stay in such small quarters, so I had her bring some of my things over so I could stay with Dad for a week or so. Actually, I think Maris was still upset at Dad for having her car booted.
He regretfully uses his walker, but I can see his frustrations are setting in. He used to keep the streets safe and now he can't go to the washroom without assistance.
We decided to have a late Thanksgiving dinner at Dad's apartment. Maris exhausted herself by stuffing the turkey. On her behalf, it was the largest turkey we have every prepared between the two of us. It was 11 pounds. While Maris was sleeping it off, I finished preparing the turkey along with a spiral ham, candied yams, and some sort of cranberry sauce that Dad likes with orange peels in it.
By the time it was ready to serve, I woke Maris up. Dad continued to comment on the nice tablecloth that we had bought for the occasion and kept saying it must be polyester. Damn him, he knew Maris was allergic to polyester. She began sobbing and locked herself in the bathroom. I tried to talk her out, but it was of no avail. I started to carve the turkey when Frank came over with a pizza and some beer. He and Dad ate pizza and drank while watching some sort of sporting event on TV. Such was my Thanksgiving 1991.