I’m spending time this week going through more of my dad’s “stuff”. Yesterday I managed to fill two garbage bags with stuff I culled out–old catalogs, saved corporate annual reports from his investments, old junk, worn out shoes, etc. Miscellaneous old negatives and photos went in a box for future review, along with some old papers.

But he’s definitely a pack rat. He has a few small, full-color handouts from his local Presbyterian church dated 1918, religious scenes and text written for kids. He’s got reams of stuff about the Waikiki Surf Club, assorted photos and correspondence, along with several mementos recognizing his role as a founding member.

This autographed photo of Johnny Pineapple’s South Pacific Review featuring the Aloha Maids was in a stack of apparently unrelated things. I can’t tell the year or the occasion, but it’s a nice picture. Just click for a larger version.

Then I found a folder of papers about his boat, the Nadu K-2. It includes an original, hand-written receipt for $12,000 from his 1972 purchase of the boat from Denny Dennison of Pan American Financial Corp.

There’s an original card showing the boat was sold to Duke Kahanamoku, whose address is given as “Waikiki Yacht Club”. Accompanying papers show that original sale was at the beginning of 1966, two years before Duke’s death.

Then there are several dozen pages of regular old lined notebook paper with handwritten entries, a log of the Nadu K-2 from mid-1967 through to the day before Duke died in January 1968, showing when he was on the boat, who was with him, etc. I don’t know who made the entries, but old clippings indicated that he had someone who maintained the boat for him.

There’s a thank you note from Duke’s widow thanking my father for his funeral gift.

Later in the afternoon I visited my dad at the nursing home. He’s usually napping in the late afternoon. Yesterday he was wide awake and out in the common room. He told me that he had gotten up in order to look out the windows and see if his car was parked downstairs. He’s been very upset recently about his car, or cars, depending on the memory of the day.

He has identified his car as absent, or perhaps as a symbol of everything that is now absent. Without his car, he can’t drive “home”, although he’ll tell me that he’s been out driving and just can’t remember where he parked the car. And yesterday he told me that he was worried about my mom because, as he put it, he’s been eating at home and hasn’t seen her.

Actually, he hasn’t been home since last November, when he had a bad fall just a few days before Thanksgiving.

The car has become generalized in his memory, and he can no longer recall much about his last car, a 1982 Nissan wagon that he drove until last year, or the new car he brought with him when he first arrived in Hawaii in 1939, or the others in between.

So when he asked about the car yesterday, I asked him which car he was referring to. His face had a puzzled expression as he tried to coax the memories back into the open. I finally prompted him about the Nissan. He was still lacking any firm grasp on that memory, but was okay just following along with the flow.

I also explained that his car was unsafe to drive. It just wore out.

“Who is maintaining it?” He was worried.

“It’s beyond maintaining,” I said. “It’s broken down, worn out, unsafe for any driving.”

Then he asked me if I knew a good used car dealer.

“Can I get a pretty good car for $5,000?” he asked. “I’ve got some money stashed away, but I haven’t been able to find it.”

Actually, he turned over control of his banking and investment accounts last year, before this slide deeper into memory loss.

And I reminded him that his drivers license expired last year and that he can’t drive. I don’t know that the message got through. He can be stubborn.

Along with being upset by the lack of his car, he complains about being restricted and monitored. He knows that they have monitors clipped to his clothing, to his wheel chair, and his walker. If he tries to get on the elevator, it will shut down temporarily. And if he tries to get up out of bed without assistance, a buzzer goes off. He pantomimes ripping that sensor off the back of his shirt. More awareness of a general loss of freedom, of movement, of memory.

I stayed for a while but left when they brought his dinner, which was served at the “Men’s Table”.

But within an hour I got a call from the staff. He was up and agitated. They passed him the phone.

“I don’t have a car,” he said, still upset about that absence. “How am I going to get home?”

I did my best to calm him down. I told him the folks at the hotel were taking good care of him, and that they had the same room “reserved” that he’s been staying in recently. I don’t know if it worked. But I didn’t get another call. I’ll have to stop by today and check on him.