Ten years after his death, Ruth’s mental facilities began deteriorating. Senility, you might say, brought her to live with my parents. Their house was never the same. In Ruth’s eyes my father Frank was her Uncle Harry. My mother, her daughter, Betty Lou was Aunt Elizabeth. Harry and Elizabeth were long dead, but that didn’t stop Ruth from enjoying an afternoon with them — and she didn’t stop her imaginings at swapping the dead for the living. She imagined settings, situations, livestock. My parent’s Laguna Niguel tract home back yard filled with fantasy cows and chickens. “Did you milk the cows, Harry,” Ruth would say to Frank. Reality became negotiable.