Once upon a time, there was a young woman whose family moved her halfway across the country. For years after they traversed the familiar path back “home” for visits with family and old friends. Along that familiar path, many traditions were formed. The start of every road trip with a Journey album. The swapping of control of the radio. The games of License plate and alphabet.

Then there was the Tale of the Tuttles of Tuttle Crossing. Tonya, Tina, Tasha, Tony, Tom, Travis, and the like. All started the day father and daughter spotted Tasha on her horse Tennesee Tuxedo.

Years passed, the trips slowed, and faded into occasional jaunts. The young woman and her family made several moves around the country before all managed to find their way back to that podunk town and settle in. The trips had since all but stopped except for funerals. The daughter married and moved out.

Then the father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

Parkinson’s does much more than rob a persons muscle control.

It robs them of their brain little by little.

It robs them of themself.

It’s ugly.

Nasty.

Hateful.

**

Several years ago I realized that the man I’ve loved my whole life was no longer really my dad.

Hallucinations and dementia caused by Parkinson’s had taken the control freak of a father I grew up with (seriously, every minute of vacation was planned)…and turned him impulsive and…it’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it, which I’m sure many of you have.

It’s just not the same person.

Then, one day a few months ago I spotted a familiar name among the hundreds of names I see every week at work.

Tuttle.

It sparked a smile in me, and I impulsively texted my dad to tell him I had just seen a Tuttle.

This triggered a back and forth texting frenzy of sorts speaking once again of Tasha, Tonya, their Grandfather Theodore, and Uncle Titus…and “let’s not forget their Native American descendant Tonto Tuttle…”

I laughed, I cried.

For five minutes of rapid-fire text exchanging I had my dad back.  Our joking and laughing on those 9 hour road trips. Our anticipation of reaching “Tuttle Crossing” in Ohio every single time. For the joke that never got old.

I laughed…and I cried…

For a moment…he was there.

Recently, he forgot my sons name.

His golden boy, his favorite grandson, his first grandson whom he himself named.

Now I live for those moments.

Even if I have to go back in time to find them. I will. For as long as I can.