P.S. to my TOD memory: My dad suffered a stroke in 1990 when he and my mom were living in Aaron's Creek, VA, where they had bought a two-story colonial in early 1989 from my Uncle Graham and Aunt Fanny, who were moving to Roanoke to live near their oldest daughter. The house was on two acres of farm land my uncle maintained (he kept 50 acres of pasture land on either side of this parcel) and included an older house (where my uncle was born) a smokehouse, a stable, several storage out-buildings, including a barn. My folks had retired there in the summer of 1989 and their goals were to farm the land in spring and summer and then to travel in the fall and late winter. They did plenty of farming, I have to say. I visited them from Italy in August and September 1989 when I was attending a Broadcast Manager's Course at Fort Benjamin Harrison, IN. I spent two weeks with them before going to my month-long course, and I had a couple of long weekends during which I went back to be with them. They worked really hard with a half-acre plot of garden, and they put me to work helping prep some of the vegetables for canning.
When my dad had his stroke, he was driving a tractor (from a farm where he'd bought it at auction) to my Uncle John's house. My uncle saw him first and remarked that my dad looked "sorta strange". When my dad arrived, everyone was outside to meet him and he told them, "That tractor 'liked to' kick my butt." I think my Aunt Frances thought he'd had sunstroke and called medics. He was rushed to a local hospital where my mom learned he'd had a terrible stroke. The hospital gave him 24 hours to live. My mom called my cousin Butch, who is an M.D., for a reference to specialists. Several hours later, my dad was med-evaced to a Duke Universtiy specialty unit in Durham NC. They saved his life.
There's a point related to the TOD, I swear it, and it's not all grim. You have to learn how to communicate all over again when a stroke robs you of speech. My dad worked hard but everything wouldn't come back. So, when he was trying to say something, he'd often speak gibberish which, to me, sounded like he was improvising words that were as close to what he wanted to say as possible.
Bringing my tales about hot dogs and hamburgers as full circle as I can regarding my dad, there was a day when my mom was taking my dad to his doctor for a checkup. He was partially ambulatory by then (required a walker to get about) and the visit was short. My mom, facing the drive back home and preparing lunch for them both, suggested they might stop and get something to eat. My dad nodded enthusiastically. My mom asked him what he'd like. He struggled a bit...and my mom suggested several things, but my dad shook his head "no" to those suggestions. After a few moments, my mom asked him if he couldn't give her any kind of idea of what he was wanting. He looked at her and said, "Hooly-doolies".
My mom, amused and puzzled, suddenly asked: "Do you mean hot dogs"? My dad's face lit up, and off they went for hot dogs. My mom said they were the best she'd tasted in a long time.
Now, I can't think of "hot dogs" wiithout thinking first of "hooly-doolies".
