What's with the trees?

As parents age, children keep a close eye out for the dreaded loss of memory. Here in Florida, it's just par for the course. We have a lot of elders, and many are missing some brain cells. My MIL, however, has her wits, and all we need to do is keep her from getting knocked down by Christmas trees.

Wednesdays, my SIL, niece, and I have dinner at my MIL's house. I arrived first last Wednesday after my drum lesson, and my MIL and I sat and talked about the week. She started telling me a story about a tree that had toppled. She has a glass-roofed atrium between her den and extra bedroom. It's an odd thing to have, and I sometimes try to imagine what the builder thought when he dreamed up that little gem, but my MIL has plants and a waterfall in the atrium. Occasionally on chilly evenings when she has guests, she opens the sliding glass doors.

As she talked, I pictured a plant out in her atrium. The woman lives in a townhome in an association that takes care of the trees and shrubbery outdoors. The only place I could think of that she'd have a plant as large as a tree was the atrium. I did not get up to go look.

MIL: "I mean, it just toppled right over." She made a clucking noise with her tongue and a hand gesture of cutting a tree at its base. "Right at the end. It fell over. I heard it. It made a loud noise. What would cause it to do that? I have no idea. It's a fake tree. I paid a lot of money for it. It's heavy. I drug out what I could, but I'll need to hire someone to get the rest, I suppose."

When people talk to me, imagines appear in my head. Tell me something, and I immediately picture it, and nine times out of ten, it isn't the same picture as the reality. At this point, I had an image of the atrium, a fake palm tree, and my MIL hauling out palm fronds.

Me: "Why would you hire someone? Can't your grandson do that? Or better yet, your daughter, who is always telling us how much iron she pumps on Wednesday? When Julie gets here, we shall assess the situation. I'm sure if she can't do it, her son can. I would do it, but I'm not supposed to lift things. We'll worry about it later."

Cut to later. We were playing cards and discussing Julie's MIL, who has dementia, and eventually, the topic turned to the toppled tree.

Julie: "Where is it?"

MIL: "In the other room. I just don't understand why it would do that. Just topple over. I can't lift it. I don't think you can either. I'll have to get someone."

Me: "Julie can get it. She just finished telling us she lifted two fifteen-pound weights today at the gym. She's a beast. She can handle a fake tree."

Julie: "I can do it. Where is it?"

Me: "I'm not sure, but I think it's in that little atrium area. Let's go assess it."

I got there first, peering through the sliding glass doors of the atrium. There was no tree. Confused, I turned in a slow circle taking in my MIL's surroundings as my brain tried to figure out where she had a fake plant as big as a tree. Not by the piano. Not in the living room. Not on the porch. By the time I'd circled back to the atrium, Julie was peering out the glass doors.

Julie: "Where is the tree?"

Me: "I don't know. I thought she meant it was in the atrium, but obviously, there isn't a tree."

Julie: "What? Where did she have a tree?"

Me: "I don't know. Listen. I know you were talking about dementia earlier. If your mother comes out here and can't point to a tree, we are going to have to be very concerned."

I was joking. I have no qualms about my MIL and her mental stability. Julie and I snickered. Rolled our eyes. Old people. Ha.

My MIL appeared.

Julie: "Mother. Where is the tree?"

MIL: "What tree?"

Julie and I were struck dumb. I mean, struck into total silence, dumbfounded, and we stared at my MIL with our mouths agape.

Then I lost it. I started laughing so hard I had to bend over and clutch my stomach. Julie, however, with her MIL's condition at the forefront of her brain, panicked.

Julie: "What tree? WHAT TREE? The tree you told us about. WHERE IS IT?"

MIL: "You mean the Christmas tree?"

Julie's horror-stricken face brought me to my knees. I mean, seriously? What was happening just now? One minute ago, we'd just discussed this tree. 

My MIL's brain suddenly caught up to where we were, and then she too started laughing. The two of us cackled like hyenas while Julie stared at both of us until she also decided it was better to just join in.

I had been correct. The fake palm tree had been in the atrium--in a basket placed into a planter the size of a small pony. It sat in the corner, and for reasons unknown, had broken and toppled over. My MIL carried out the broken tree but left the basket inside the planter. 

Julie and I went into the atrium and stared into the basket inside the planter. The fake tree had real dirt in it, and parts of a stump could be seen poking out of that. I thought maybe my MIL was mistaken about the tree being fake. Who puts real dirt for an artificial tree?

It took two of us to get the basket out of the ginormous planter. I used my foot to hold it down, and Julie wiggled it out, resting it on the planter as if it were heavy.

MIL: "You can't carry that."

Julie: "I can. It's fine."

MIL: "Well, I don't want it to drip dirt and water all over my house. We should put tin foil on the bottom. What do you think?"

Me: "I think we're not baking it. How about a plastic bag?"

MIL: "That's good. There are trash bags in the garage."

She and I headed in that direction, and when we turned around to go back into the house with the trash bag, Julie was carrying the basket. I quickly opened the trash bag, worried that her muscles might be over contracting with all that weight. She set the basket inside it.

MIL: "Did you get dirt all over my house?"

Julie: "I didn't."

But Julie went to double-check, and my MIL got a broom to sweep up the dirt that had fallen out during the bagging. Unfortunately, the basket was sitting on top of some of the soil, and since Julie wasn't there to lift it, and since I couldn't lift it, I decided to drag it out of the way. That's when I discovered that 90 percent of the basket contained foam, not real packed dirt. Julie played that off very well.

More giggling ensued when Julie came back and realized she'd been caught. We still don't understand why there was a fake tree in a basket of real dirt inside a planter inside the atrium, but frankly, Julie and I don't care. 

We're just glad to know that dementia thus far has escaped my MIL. 

Trees, however...well, that's what we still have to watch out for.