My dad, dear, lovable angel of a person, Walt Cieplik, died crazy. There was a never a kinder man. The twin devils of Alzheimer’s and dementia took him over. He was living with me those last years and many of us share the experience — touching the poison robe’s edge of senior mental illness. Nearing 90, Dad angrily demanded to move from our cozy Iron Canyon acreage rich with stars, oaks and coyotes into a solo Newhall apartment. Senior citizen agencies were sweet but powerless to thwart his wishes. I drove a half-dozen times from Iron Canyon to Downtown Newhall daily to check up on him.

Not a week later, I’m at dinner. Frantic, the apartment manager called, reporting Dad’s front door was wide open. He was missing. Sheriff’s deputies were called, as were friends. We formed a safari, driving Santa Clarita’s highways and backroads for hours, looking for him. I did something I should do more often. I surrendered to God, which is different than praying. Middle of the night. I pulled the truck over. I closed my eyes, took my hands off the wheel and opened my heart in surrender. I resumed my search, letting the steering wheel guide me. Ten minutes and several miles later, I saw Dad walking on old Highway 99, smack dab in front of the old ranch we almost bought in the 1950s. He was a carrying the cherry pie I had given him earlier in the day. Shivering, incoherent, my war hero father, lover of nature, who sometimes worked three jobs just to pay the bills, blessedly fell asleep.

Home again, I got him to bed, then I collapsed, exhausted. An hour later, Dad was outside, on our patio, screaming. Couldn’t talk him down.........

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