Robert F. Merrill

I know things can go downhill quickly when you're approaching a century old, but it certainly appears as if my father's father, Grandpa to me, Great Grandpa Bob to Greta and Linc, is going to live to see 100.

I was lucky to spend a couple hours with him on July 6 at the Lowville hospital he now calls home. I didn't heed my dad's request to keep my identity secret when saying hello. (He likes to see who Grandpa recognizes.) Point of pride, I think. I like to say to him: "It's the only Robert in the world named after you." And then he always says: "Wellllll, Robert!!!!" And then we do the little bro hug that all men do.

We arrived about lunchtime, which on this particular Saturday also equated to breakfast for Grandpa. A nurse gave him a microwaved jelly donut from a vending machine, carefully inserting it in his hand so he could simply lift and enjoy. It touched me to watch Dad clean the mess off his mouth, his fingers or his lap. We then wheeled him outside -- he gets around most days in a tricked out executive's chair with wheels -- and he enjoyed 30 minutes in the sunshine. He kept telling stories about Alaska, his way of communicating that the air conditioning was set way too high inside. I told him I'd never been to the Yukon, but heard it was nice.

With the donut still digesting, it was time for lunch. He put away a plate of mashed potatoes with gravy, some ground up meat, a couple bites of a chicken salad sandwich and a little chocolate ice cream. Oh, and he drank copious amounts of water during the time I was with him, at least four eight-ounce glasses. Giving a mostly used up body the fuel to continue really is the key to life, it seems.

Dad says he spends at least 60-70% of his time in a waking dream, telling stories of things he imagined overnight. The grandkids will be pleased to know that they often involve us -- we're getting credit for visiting even if he hasn't seen us in a year or more. My favorite this visit was about a convertible he and Sara made for reasons unknown. They simply sawed the top off a car to create it, stopping where the windows retracted into the doors.

It's a strange thing being in an old folk's home -- and that's a strange term we've created, I think to soften the blow of elder care. He genuinely seems happy, sometimes cantankerous and still foul-mouthed, but he's not upset to be there and all the women who work there bend down to his eye level and say hello every time they pass. It's more attention than most healthy people get in any given day.

When it was time to leave, he was awake enough to tell Dad that the visit was a "hell of a surprise." Apparently he doesn't say that every third day when his son dutifully shows up to check in on him and spend an hour or two talking about nothing or soaking up the sun.