Three months ago, Dad took a 357 Magnum, and evicted Dementia from his brain. He was as fed up with the disease as the disease had control over his decisions. It was one of six Magnums that Dementia had hidden all over the house. Like it had been taunting him. Three months later, I take my wife and my two-year-old for a drive in Dad’s 1996 Ford Bronco. Like his guns, it is pristine, and drives like a nostalgic dream. My daughter is in love, she can't stop talking about "Poppy's Car." My wife is smitten and perfectly content to have all three of us together. We get ice cream, Summer is showing off its best sun set, and traffic is light. One of our favorite movies (Dad's copy) is sitting on the dresser, waiting for us to get home. I say a prayer of thanks, and at that same moment, my wife turns to me with the most serious look, silently begging me to embrace what she is about to say, and then she says it, "You know what? I think we are in the ‘good ole days.’ Right now. These are it." She looks at me with pure affection in her eyes, caresses the steering wheel and nods to the happy little girl in the back seat. Perfectly content to have all three of us together. She is right and I love her for that. A gentle reminder. I fear for what is ahead - parenthood, future diagnoses, fate - but right now, I don't let it get to me. Right now, I give thanks, I eat my ice cream, and I enjoy these good ole days.