The Alley Saga

He calls her “Glen.” I call my dad “VinSaint” — because honestly, the man is an angel. Even when he’s holding a giant axe in the rain.

Our family’s dementia journey began almost six years ago, when we learned my grandfather, Ralphie, had been living with dementia. We didn’t have a roadmap. No binder. No neat checklist. Just a lot of questions and a deep desire to do right by him.

So we did what felt loving.

We honored his wish to stay home as long as possible.

And like many families trying to balance safety and dignity, we made a few changes. One of them was removing the back gate that led directly into the alley. We were worried about wandering. It felt like a reasonable decision at the time. Thoughtful. Protective.

Logical.

Well… my mom has never emotionally recovered from the loss of that gate.

She talks about it more than the weather. More than grocery prices. More than politics. That alley became her personal community service mission, and the missing gate? A personal betrayal.

Because in her mind, that alley needs tending.

And she and my dad — well, mostly she — are the appointed caretakers.

So what do they do?

They load up like pioneers heading west. Lawn mower. Wheelbarrow. Rake. Electric blower. And for reasons no one can fully explain, a giant axe — courtesy of my father, who apparently believes they are clearing rainforest, not suburban debris.

Mom says, “Honey, pick up the rocks so I don’t break the mower.”

Dad, already channeling his inner lumberjack, replies, “Sure.”

She fires up the mower.

And then…

CLING! CLANG! KA-BOOM!

Something explodes beneath the blades. Shards of something — glass? metal? the ghost of a forgotten appliance? — scatter like fireworks. Neighbors duck. Curtains twitch. For a brief moment, it sounds like the alley declared war.

Turns out she hit a hidden stump. Or a buried relic from 1972. No one’s quite sure.

Of course, Mom blames Dad.

We all know who actually hit the tree.

Dad saunters over, axe still in hand, trying to look useful. And just as the tension peaks, the sky opens up.

Rain. Not gentle rain. Biblical rain.

Now they’re drenched, dragging a broken lawn mower, a block away from home, looking like two soggy revolutionaries whose uprising failed.

They finally make it back.

Mom is soaked and muttering while cleaning the mower. Dad stands in the pouring rain, blinking thoughtfully, and says, completely deadpan, “I’m cold.”

Mom spins around. “WELL GET OUT OF THE RAIN AND STAND ON THE PORCH, GENIUS.”

Eventually, they get inside.

Mom announces, “We smell like wet dogs. Go take a shower.”

Dad salutes. Still holding the axe. As if the house requires guarding.

And because love looks like this sometimes, she still makes him dinner.

While she’s on the phone with my brother, decompressing the chaos, Dad decides it’s the perfect time to scrub his muddy shoes. With a floor brush. In the kitchen. Dirt flying like he’s seasoning the meal with “Essence of Alley.”

Mom turns slowly and says, “I just can’t with you anymore.”

If you’ve ever cared for someone with dementia, you know that sentence. It doesn’t mean I’m done. It means I’m tired and I love you and this is ridiculous and please stop scrubbing shoes next to my stove.

So they pivot.

They sit on the couch and turn on Ugliest Houses in America. Within thirty minutes, they’re laughing again. Cozy. Side by side. The storm forgotten.

Mom says, “The house is too cold…”

Dad responds, completely serious, “We should carpet the walls — you know, for insulation.”

The walls. Carpet.

Why? So my dad can vacuum vertically? So dust has new horizons?

And because the alley still calls to them like unfinished business, they decide maybe they’ll just remove a few boards from the fence. Not the whole thing. Just enough to “make access easier.” Because heaven forbid the alley goes untended.

Reinstalling the gate? My husband — bless his calm, rational heart — cuts in: “You can walk your ass around. Nobody’s touching that fence.”

And there it is. This is caregiving in real life.

It’s not always solemn. It’s not always soft music and meaningful glances. Sometimes it’s flying debris, muddy shoes, and insulation ideas that defy physics.

Dementia changes things.

It changes how plans unfold. It changes how long projects take. It changes how many times you have to explain why carpet does not belong on walls.

But it doesn’t erase personality.

My dad is still stubborn. Still helpful in his own interpretation of the word. Still determined to contribute. Still eager to fix what doesn’t need fixing.

And my mom? She is still fierce. Still capable. Still muttering under her breath while making dinner for the man who just flung alley dirt into it.

There is dignity here. Even in the chaos. There is partnership here. Even in the frustration.

There is love in the way she yells at him to get out of the rain. In the way he stands nearby with that ridiculous axe like he’s protecting the kingdom. In the way they end the night laughing at terrible home renovations instead of replaying the disaster.

Caregiving can feel heavy. Safety decisions like removing a gate can ripple for years. We make the best choices we can with the information we have. We adjust. We learn. We laugh when we can.

And sometimes, we watch two people who have weathered decades together — now weathering dementia — and realize that what remains is stronger than what’s changed.

So here I am. A daughter telling the tale of her wonderfully ridiculous, stubborn, loving, endlessly entertaining parents — Gwen and VinSaint. A couple who turn chores into comedy, storms into stories, and ordinary afternoons into family legend.

And yes, my dad may not always be innocent.

But in this story?

He absolutely is.

Thank you, Mom and Dad.

For showing us that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful. For letting us see the missteps, the messes, the muddy shoes and broken lawn mowers. For being vulnerable enough to laugh at yourselves — and with each other.

You’ve taught us that even in the chaos, even in the rain, there is joy waiting to be noticed.

Your love is real.

It’s imperfect.

It’s beautifully human.

And it’s ours.