Early Monday evening, there seemed likely to be a break in the excessive heat and humidity. I sat outside with Kirstie and her boyfriend Paul, enjoying the cooler air, as towering backlit thunder-clouds obscured the sun.

It's never pleasant to have somebody tell you that there are parts of you that are less than noble. As we sat there, Kirstie basically keelhauled me by saying that while I'd been with the family, I'd insisted on expressing my opinions very forcefully, and had at other times been rude and neglectful.

I felt not only defensive, but hurt and a little angry. I felt that I was being attacked. I sat there, fondling the dog, while the thunder rolled distantly, feeling incredibly uncomfortable.

Later, I went out for a long run through the nearby fields. As before, it was a beautiful place to escape to. Completely peaceful, completely alone, with the clouds towering ever higher and contorting into more and more intricate shapes. The cows were lying down, protecting a few square feet of dry grass, ready for the rain that seemed to promise across the still evening landscape.

I hate feeling bad about myself. I suppose everybody does. It's so hard to figure out right from wrong. Had I really been so rude, and was I really wrong to express my opinions so vehemently? If I had to hold back in my conversations with close friends and family, then surely I wouldn't be being myself.

As I pounded along the rough dirt paths through the fields, I knew that nobody could tell me what was right or wrong. On the one hand, I hated to admit I was wrong; I knew it would make me feel that I'd been the one who'd conceded defeat in the disagreement with Kirstie. On the other hand, if there was truth in what Kirstie said, then it really meant that parts of my personality, however precious they are to me (since they're all mine), are just plain not very nice. And they'd probably always be obstacles to deeper friendships.

The next morning, my final full day in England on this trip, I accompanied Dad to see my mom. She's in a new rest home now - a temporary waystation until a room opens up in a permanent rest home for people with her level of dementia. The people in the temporary place are mostly much worse than she is. When I walked into the communal room, with my dad, to find Mom, I saw three old people seated around a card table. At first, my mind came to the conclusion that they must be playing cards. As my eyes focused more sharply though, I realized that they were all just sitting there, staring into nothingness.

We located my mom, who looked frailer than ever, and the three of us went outside to the garden. Mom was pathetically glad to see Dad, and clung to him closely. Her mind is failing, but she's aware of the difference between herself and most of the other residents. While I was there, one man kept repeating over and over again, non-stop, with varying degrees of distress, "I love her, I love her, I love her." I couldn't imagine what it must be like for my Mom to live there, not knowing anybody, surrounded by people who barely have any mind left.

It was a very difficult visit. I don't know how Dad copes. I don't think I could cope visiting there, even if I only went every week or so. Later that day, Kirstie and I would talk about this, and we admitted to each other that we'd both harbored the wish that Mom would pass away. That life lived like that must be horrible for her, and unbearably painful for my Dad.

But Dad and I went ahead, as planned, with a visit to the Royal Air Force Museum, in Hendon. Although Dad's thoughts don't drift far from Mom, he seems to be able to compartmentalize it enough that he can at least seem to enjoy doing other things. I think I've become an expert compartmentalizer too.

Anyway, we toured the museum, which is filled with warplanes, large and small, mostly British. There was an audio-visual presentation of the Battle of Britain. They herded together all the visitors they could find and sat us down on banked seating in the middle of the main hall, lowered the lights, and presented a fifteen-minute mix of commentary, sound and light effects, images and movies which together told the story of the battle. As it wrapped up, the words slowly appeared on screen "for the few", referring to Churchill's favorite speach "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few." It was really very moving, and I found tears in my eyes. I wondered how it had affected my dad, who was a teenager during the Blitz. When I asked him, though, he said that he'd seen so many movies and TV shows on the subject in the last few years, that he'd had enough of it.

A Vanguard bomber, a large, beautiful plane painted all white, from the second-half of the 20th century.

Finally, in the late evening, after I'd had another great run in the fields, narrowly dodging a heavy downpour, Kirstie, Paul and I wrapped up my visit by meeting Dad at a posh pub just out of town. It was a nice, easy time, and I felt, overall, that I was closer to them than I had been before my visit. Now I leave to return to the States, leaving them all behind to a somewhat painful life dominated by caring for my mom.