I was in the eighth grade
When my friend and I,
Decided to go from Seattle
To Lynden, to pick strawberries.
We were both Boy Scouts
With back packs and sleeping bags.
We left our homes
On this wonderous journey,
By hitchhiking, up North, on old 99.
We arrived in Lynden, later that day
And were told "no strawberries";
it was the end of the season.
We turned around, noting our plight
And slept in a Bellingham field that night.
Back to our homes, we then went
And noticed that green bean picking
Would be another event.
But that is another story.

The time draws close these days I'm alive
for in a few days I will be eighty-five.
An age I never thought I would see
with my youthful display of debauchery.
Chasing women, drinking wine in cars,
spending many hours, drinking in bars.
But in my defense, I started to run
and realized, in running, I was still having fun.
More fun than anything, that I did before,
except playing soccer when a header I did score.

The scurrying of paws
across the floor,
meant that I wasn't alone,
not anymore.
Creatures with claws, gathered
to leap,
so I rose unsteadily
to my aged, old feet.
Turning around, I had a glance
seeing my two grand dogs
starting to prance.
Glad to see me, at least on that day
and they came up to me
as if to say, " we miss you grandpa"
please throw the ball today.

Oh my God, I think I see,
Dementia will be the death of me.
Not because I'm infected so,
But it has attacked someone I know