(Part 4 -- story of Pat Kidd)
We had to keep an eye on Pat, especially when he was younger, because he might walk away from our house. He might hear a dog barking and go to pet it. He would just wander away, and I remember a couple of occasions on Volder when he did, and there was much anxiety on the parent's part. One time they found him at a police station, where he was happily drinking a Dr. Pepper with the officers, and not at all concerned about the commotion he had caused. Another time the whole neighborhood was out looking for him and it was getting toward evening when somebody found him and brought him back. Years later, Pat went through a period of wanting to be more independent, but he was always vulnerable and pretty much defenseless. There were facilities that could have accommodated Pat, but no one in the family really wanted to place him in one, as long as he was happy at home. At the workshop where Pat was employed for a time, some of the people were loud and foul-mouthed, and Pat would get physically sick in order to avoid going to work, so that was the end of the workshop. Pat liked to say that he was "retired".
All through his life he loved music, primarily the religious and classical kinds that Mama loves, and I do too. Pat wold sit near the stereo in the living room listening to a record, looking at the cover, and humming along especially with the bass part. He would get agitated when the volume increased, and when the record ended he'd turn the stereo off. "Just turn it off." Pat loved music, but he didn't like loud music; he feared sudden noises. Once when I took him to the circus, I don't think he liked any of it, but when the high-wire motorcycle act filled the coliseum with the roar of a revving engine, Pat just got beside himself, and so we left.
Most of the time Pat would go along. He enjoyed going on trips and would ask, "Where are we?" or "How many miles?" Sometimes he would ask Daddy, "What sign say?" and Daddy might say, "No Passing," and then a little later Pat would ask, "Sign say?" and Daddy would say, "Pass With Care." This back-and-forth went on for maybe 30 miles one day when we were on the road home to Dakota, Illinois, from Galena. As I say, Pat was usually cooperative. He desired peace in the family, and he would apologize in order to make things right again. Last January, when we were in Ft. Worth, Pat and I went walking on the south side of town, and then I drove us downtown to the train station, and I wanted to go inside and take a look. Thirty years ago Pat would have gone with me, but this time he refused to get out of the car, I think because of all the traffic and train noise, as well as the fear of the unfamiliar. Pat was becoming more cautious. I didn't want to leave him in the car by himself, and he steadfastly refused to go with me, so I just gave in, I got back into the car and headed home without a word. After we got home, I was kind of pouting in the living room, and Pat began to make amends: "I sorry, Tim," he said. Of course then everybody else perked up and had to find out what Pat was sorry about. He said, "Train station." So I had to explain in sentences what happened. Pat never was too proud to apologize, nor did he ever hold a grudge or seek an apology from anyone else.
He enjoyed a wide range of foods but needed help in cutting his meat and was sometimes mighty frustrated by a multi-layered sandwich that would fall apart on the way to his mouth. He did get frustrated and sometimes angry, especially when he was tired or hungry. Pat's basic needs had to be met. Mama laundered his clothes, and Pat usually got some help getting dressed. He showered with Daddy, and he brushed his own teeth, squeezing out a huge amount of toothpaste and chewing on the brush. We tried to get him to use less and to avoid swallowing the toothpaste, but Pat would often agree with you and then proceed to do whatever he pleased.
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