Give It a Try

I joked with Mom that we actually had quite the social calendar this past week. It began with my husband’s family reunion a week ago, then family from my Dad’s side drove up for a visit on Thursday, followed by our weekend adventure in Portland. Mom did pretty well with all of the activity.

I really appreciated my cousin, Shari, and her son, Scott, driving five hours round trip so they could spend some time with Mom. It was good to see Mom laugh and bask in their attention.

Mom was certainly a good sport about traveling on two back-to-back weekends, which I know is more difficult for her these days. For the reunion potluck she was self-conscious about navigating in someone else’s home, trips to the bathroom, and being in the way. All of the family was so good with her, though, that she ended up enjoying herself and feeling that the trip was a success.

She had similar hesitations about going to Portland, too, and was especially nervous about our girls trying to take her out of the hotel while Don and I went to the musical. With much trepidation, I finally told her that I had borrowed a wheelchair to take in case the hotel was not able to honor our requests for a room close to an elevator and exit. She actually seemed relieved rather than irritated (usually I get reprimanded with an adamant, “No! I don’t need one of those yet. I’m not that far gone.”) so I went a step further and told her that if she felt like it, maybe she would want to use it at other times as well. For instance, she would enjoy a trip out for ice cream or shoe shopping a lot more if she didn’t spend all her energy just getting inside the first store. She could ride in the chair until she wanted to get out of it to walk around shoe and clothing displays, etc., then sit back down for a ride to the next store.

She ended up having a great time shopping with Sarah and Jen, although both were nearly fired for their wheelchair driving. They canvassed the length of Washington Square Mall twice in one afternoon and Mom bought a couple gifts and herself some slippers and a pair of Aerosole shoes. When they stopped for ice cream, she polished off a rootbeer float and started making plans for coming back to do some Christmas shopping.

I am so thankful that she had a good time and was successful in her shopping. The girls may have gained a few white hairs, but all for a good cause. Mom’s willingness to try was what made the weekend a success for her, although I know she did it only for our sakes at first. Hopefully, she enjoyed herself enough that it may open up some doors for her being able to do more during our simpler outings here at home. She is more physically frail than she was even six months ago, but her active mind drives her to still want to do things and swings her spirit very low when her body and strength can't keep up. It is a challenge to strike a balance between pushing her to stay physically active (move it or lose it) and making things physically easier for her so she can participate more and enjoy life. For now, anyway, we have had a nice little break in routine and created some new good memories together in the process.

Sarah Sunshine

Have a happy birthday week. We love you!

We Belong to the Song

Remember the Jim Hensen Muppet series called Fraggle Rock? I know my kids will because it was around in the 80s when they were young and we became firmly entrenched in its magic. The characters of this fantasyland that dwelt in caves amidst the basalt layers supporting an old man’s workshop were insanely cute and the weekly tales were fun and meaningful. My favorite part, though, was the music.

In episode 18 of the first season, a young fraggle, Red, was in search of “her song” which was a snippet of melody that would be different from everyone else’s. In the end it comes to her and after she starts singing it, all the fraggles join in, each singing their own unique little melodies which blend to become a beautiful community medley. Predictable, perhaps, but sweet and it reminds me of the song of our family.

Last Saturday we loaded up the minivan and made a trek to the home of Don’s aunt and uncle where members of our extended family converged for an informal potluck reunion. Aside from funeral gatherings, it was the first time in years that many of us had been together. Originally, the oldest members of our family reunions were the generation of Don’s grandparents and the small children running around were ours, but that older group is gone now, as are Don’s folks.

This time around, Don’s aunt and uncle were the reigning matriarch and patriarch, the parents, grandparents, and great grandparents of their brood; and their grown kids plus Don and his brothers and sisters were the next oldest. Wow. Somehow, we have become the grandparent generation, which was not only odd to realize, but was also bittersweet because it reminded us of those who were now both missing and missed; the notes that we would not hear again in this life. The people we had always leaned on were now gone except for Clyde and Carol. It seemed impossible to think that we should be expected to fill those shoes that we had long taken for granted.

Although the purpose of this rekindled K family gathering was still to reunite the older siblings who are already close, the secondary effect of introducing the younger generations of each sub-family was also reestablished. Games, food, visiting, laughter, storytelling, and the inevitable group photos drew together people whose lives had been moving apart, creating new memories that would be woven into a larger, stronger sense of family. And, as Clyde once pointed out to me, it is a time when it does no good to mark your potluck dishes and coolers with only a last name!

The day was ultimately a success. The tune was familiar, but slightly different. Some sweet refrains had been lost or taken up by new voices, but new little notes of recent years were added in their place. Overall, though, it is still music to our ears. See you next year!

Back to Basics

Mom and I had a good laugh last night. The temperature in our area reached well over 100 degrees, but, with the help of thermal windows and curtains and several area fans, our house stayed reasonably cool until mid-afternoon. I have the thermostat set at 80 degrees, which is a little above my comfort zone, but it is more economical and keeps the air conditioning from totally freezing Mom out.

After dinner, during Mom’s favorite show, Do You Want to be a Millionaire, I got up to offer ice cream to her and Don. As I turned to face her, saying, “Do you want...,” my eyes took in her sweatshirt hood pulled up over her head and I stopped short. She looked so diminutive in the chair that all she needed was a fur lining to her hood and she would have completed the picture of an elderly Eskimo hunched in our living room. I couldn’t help but think that her wanting ice cream at this point was out of the question.

I started laughing and so did she, but she hastened to ask me, “Do I want ice cream?” Then, without any pause as I nodded, “Yes, I want a maple nut ice cream cone if you have enough.” She assured me that the hood was just to protect her ear from the cold air coming out of the register across the room and that she was, otherwise, comfortable.

Ice cream cones have curative powers, after all; especially for children and grandparents. That is a known fact at our house. Remember how Betty loved hers? Even Alzheimers couldn't obliterate that memory. Our kids sure seemed to understand their value at a very early age, as our little redhead can attest below. (Notice that it is a grandparent who is indoctrinating her.)

Have you had your ice cream cone for the week? Life will be much sweeter if you do so quit being such a stuffy grown up and go have some fun. Put the world on hold for five minutes, sit in your favorite spot, get your hands and chin sticky with your favorite flavor, and see if you can’t relax a little and see things from a different perspective.

It is SO worth it!

Summer - Le Dolce Vita

And so we are more than half way through August, which always saddens me. The end of my favorite season is signaled by the school supply lists posted in the post office and the starting date of school, which is now hurtling rather than crawling toward us. I cringe to think of the coming changes and brace myself much as I would in anticipation of stepping out into a November wind.

For me summer means a slower pace of life; time to read for fun, contemplate a picnic, or watch a DVD with Mom during our lunch together. I can lollygag in the yard, pulling weeds, or pretend they aren’t there and sit on the deck with an iced tea. Although we may haggle a bit over the air conditioner setting when temperatures are in the 90s, Mom is still more comfortable than in the winter and enjoys getting out more often, which is good for her. I love the summer light, too, which cheerfully streams in the windows and brightens our outlooks.

Because I don’t work in the summer, there is more time to do fewer things. Appointments are easier to get to and we are much less rushed when doing errands. This takes the pressure off of me and makes outings more enjoyable for Mom, whose only speed is slow motion. She and Don can spar over vine-ripened tomatoes picked from his crop outside her bedroom window, while I watch for Hermiston watermelons to appear in the store.

But the countdown is on and these languorous hours will soon shorten into crisp, autumn days. To-do lists will lengthen and time will speed up to work against our efforts. Because I see the end of summer approaching, I tend to spoil these final hours of ease by rushing to do more before it is over. Perhaps this time, I can resist the panic and just enjoy the time that’s left. Want some iced tea, Mom?

Uncharted Waters...er, Bricks

Do these look like old bricks? Please say yes. Move farther back and then squint your eyes and look again. Now how do they look? This is an ongoing project that I have been puttering on once in awhile when I am in the mood. My lukewarm motivation is due partly to the fact that I only want to work on it when Mom is occupied in her room so that she does not feel deserted. However, this means I only have short spans of opportunity, which is sometimes inspirationally defeating. Also, this type of subject is new to my landscape experience, so I am in unfamiliar territory when it comes to color mixing and texturizing. I tend to paint more dilegently when it turns out right. Right now, I am feeling much better about my old brick facade capabilities than my cobbled roads (notice I am not revealing those yet).

Trust Me

In what Jean Piaget called the sensorimotor stage of cognitive development, from birth to about two, children achieve object permanence. This is the ability to understand that when a person plays peek-a-boo, stepping behind a barrier to “disappear,” the person hasn’t actually left even though they can’t be seen. In a later, pre-operative stage, generally between ages two through six, there is a skill that children acquire called conservation. The example usually given to illustrate it is when a person can distinguish that the amount of liquid poured from a short, fat glass that is completely full into a tall thin glass that becomes only half full is the same in quantity. Today I am wondering if it is possible to lose touch with such cognitive skills once they have been attained, or does Mom really consider me unreliable?

We go through some, in my mind, unnecessary rituals these days; and a greater variety of them is accumulating. It started out with asking me every Saturday if I would curl her hair after she washes it so that it will look nice for church. Why would I say no? I did it the last Saturday and the one before that; but, yes, I’m happy to curl your hair today, too. We also have to reestablish on a nightly basis that I will put drops in her eyes and let the cat in even though those things have been taking place for years. I think the basis for needing these reassurances is that she feels she is a burden and must be polite in re-asking the favors to let us know we are not being taken for granted. But, I ask you, is EVERY NIGHT really necessary?

Recently, I am loathe to say through tightened jaws, we have added to the repertoire. I now have to assert, when prompted, that I still feed the fish and her cat. I mean, come on! Does she actually consider it a possibility that I would let them starve? Me? The unofficial humane society of Eastern Oregon? (*sigh*) I mean, I was stunned the other night when, after I assured her that I had just fed Ellie, she gave me that motherly look of skepticism and pointedly said that Ellie’s dish in the kitchen was empty. (Grrr.) I calmly, though just as pointedly, said that the dish was empty because she ate the food and went outside and that I would feed her again, like ALWAYS, when she came back in for bed.

In all fairness, Mom has always had this tendency, but I think that it is amplified by my taking over more of the responsibilities that were hers for 95 years. She is partly afraid that she will forget as much as that I will forget and even though those things are too hard for her now, she misses being able to do them, being needed, and being active. I get it. (*duck head here and shift feet*) It is just difficult to not take it personally when your very motives and reliability are questioned to the point of insinuation. I really feel that if she doesn’t SEE me do something, she cannot completely believe that I did it; part of her must feel that I am just placating her.

This is when I pray for patience and God answers that he is giving many opportunities to practice it, how many more do I want? I am sure Mom is having the same conversation with him. I wonder which of us will go crazy first.

Out of the Ashes Comes Hope

(I have just come into the house from a quick trip to the library when there is a light knock on my front door.)

Me, opening the inside door and taking a step backward: Hi.

Him, holding the screen door and leaning forward a bit: Do you own a green Toyota pickup?

Me (feeling of dread – my daughter has the pickup in the city...what has happened?): Yes.

Him (rushing to get the words out): The stereo was stolen out of it? A long time ago?

Me (tumble of thoughts...confusion...): Yes. (My eyebrows furrow, taking in this sketchy character. Is he 25, 30? What does he want? Clean, but sounds uneducated. Like some of my past students? Be careful, I think. How does he know about the pickup?)

Him: I did it. I stole it. The stereo.

Silence. We look each other in the eye. He seems relieved to have said it, yet afraid of my reaction. Do I have a reaction? What? My thoughts tumble backward ten years to picture the pickup parked out front, our reaction to see it broken into, and the frustration that someone thought we could afford the loss...or didn’t care...

Me: You did it?

Him: Yes. (Heartbeat.) I did my time, but I wanted to tell you it was me.

Again we both pause. I am formulating what I want to say next, (Why is he familiar?), but I am too stunned that this is happening to formulate much.

However, he is here for a purpose and is driven to continue: How much did it cost? (Reaching for his wallet) I have $15.

Me (putting my hand up like a stop sign): No. It’s alright. (Am I just being nice, or do I really mean it?)

Him: No. I want you to take it.

Me: No. I’m just glad you told me the truth. (Realizing how much it must have taken for him to do this I want to add something encouraging. The words, stumbling but sincere were something like): I hope good things happen for you now as you work toward your future.

Thrusting three crisp $5 bills toward me he quickly adds: I’ll pay you more when I can.

Finally, something in me breaks through my shock so that I can say more firmly: I don’t want any more money. It means more to me that you came and told me the truth.

After he makes sure I take the bills, he backs up a little. Perhaps it is his turn to be a little stunned. Neither of us is sure what comes next.

Me, moving closer to the doorway: Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate your being honest.

He seems satisfied and, letting go of the screen door, turns to go. Before he is down the porch steps I lean around the screen door and ask his name. Stopping, he turns around and tells it to me without hesitation. Things click into place in my mind.

He wants to know something else as well: Did the pickup belong to your son?

Me, inwardly analyzing his question but answering honestly: No. It was the family car, but he drove it to work after school.

I watched him turn and go, unable to take my eyes off of him. His fresh start began with taking care of some old business. Setting things right. Forgiveness and grace. Amen. I will never forget.

Joy

In the funny, poignant movie, The Bucket List by Warner Brothers Pictures (2007), Morgan Freeman’s character, a quiet mechanic with a head full of Jeopardy facts, tells the character played by Jack Nicholson, his rich, flamboyant cancer comrade, about ancient Egyptian beliefs concerning death and the hereafter. According to Freeman, Egyptians used to believe that upon death a person had to answer two questions to get into Heaven:

Did you have joy in your life?
Did you bring joy to others?

Good questions, I think; but I’m not going to wait until I am standing before Saint Peter to ask them of myself. Now is better, so that I might have time to change things.

Focusing on my own happiness is really important because I can’t share what I don’t have, but we’re not just talking about happiness here, we’re talking about joy, which to me is slightly different in intensity. A hint of the subtle difference in the two emotions can be detected in Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Whereas, happiness is described as “good luck, good fortune, [and] a state of well-being, peace, or comfort,” the definition of joy is “the emotion excited by the acquisition or expectation of good; gladness, delight, [and] the state of bliss.”

The first question is easier for me. Absolutely yes! To name a few:

- Gazing on the faces of our newborn children in the delivery room, laughing at their silly antics as toddlers (and adults!) and glorying along with them in their joys.
- Sharing a carefree moment with my beloved.
- Laughing until my sides ache with a friend.
- Seeing Venice unfold before me for the first time at dusk.

The second question is more difficult and it is the one that I especially want to be more conscious of in my life. Bringing joy to others is a goal that leaves me speechless. I think I will be contemplating the idea for a long time.

And, speaking of expressions of pure joy, watch this video one more time and see if it isn’t catching! Joy begets joy – so make sure there is joy in your life!

My Roots

Mom and I went for a drive today. At first we were just going to go fifteen minutes away to a neighboring little town where I wanted to turn in an application for substitute teaching and then come right back. However, it was so pleasant out that we decided to go further through a rural area that she wanted to see, then loop around through Pendleton for lunch before heading home. The mountain range was a hazy blue that nearly matched the sky and the harvested fields on the foothills around us were a clipped gold interspersed with brown, fallow fields that were a rich hue from the recent rain.

Too often I take this country for granted. People either love it or hate it and for almost the same reasons. It is as colorless and dead-looking in the winter as it is vibrant and alive in the spring. One nearby mountain range or another can make the weather change quickly and the road conditions a bit of an adventure to navigate whether from frozen fog, blowing topsoil, or snow. Streams and rivers cut into the soil and basalt rockbeds, swelling in the spring and almost petering out by summer’s end; luring fishermen, swimmers, and rafters.

Towns are much farther than a stone’s throw apart and many are only held together by narrow, twisting roads that are vulnerable to the upheaval of the land and small county budgets. It is a rough country, carved by glaciers and rivers into occasional plateaus and valleys lined by rim-rocked hills. Although humans try to tame it with precariously plowed hilltop fields, much is still covered with boulders, sagebrush, wild grasses, and scrub pine.

It is a big country, where one can truly be alone to the point of isolation and come to fully realize his or her insignificance compared to the immensity of Earth. Many find it lonely to the point of desolation. I, however, love standing alone on these rough hilltops, feeling the timelessness of their existence, the simultaneous strength and vulnerability of the rock beneath and beside me and feeling a kinship with the creatures that struggle to do more than just survive amongst them.

Is it age, wisdom, or my new glasses that gives me such a sentimental viewpoint today? Perhaps, knock on wood, if we’d had car trouble during our morning excursion, my environmental opinion wouldn’t be quite so rosy and thoughtful! Such is life in the far, far, West.

Vive bene.

Why?

This blog comes with a “read at your own risk” warning; “contents may be boring or arguable.” Yet, I cannot shake the need to put it down on cyber paper. The stanzas, below, were written by an unknown author and were part of an email forward that has probably bounced all over the country, but recently became the opening to Father M’s homily. It struck a chord with me and I want to repeat it here rather than toss it away as I do most forwards, usually before I even open them. For me, this one bears thinking about, at least for a moment, because it touches on attitude. And, let’s face it, our attitudes have a lot to do with how we perceive the world and how we choose to react.

Life hurts. It’s hard and painful and unfair and wonderful all in the same breath. And as we live out each day trying to overcome hurdles and make some sense of the turmoil, we turn either gratefully, hopefully, or angrily to whomever we feel might be responsible; in my case, God. How many prayers have I started with, “What are you THINKING!?” Needless to say, those are the rather one-sided conversations that omit the formality of beginning with the Sign of the Cross and can probably be heard across heaven because of the shouting level of my mental voice. Some people give up on a Creator who can allow bad things to happen; who does not seem to love us enough to stop famine, death, and disease. Others, like me, just struggle to keep trusting that there is a just reason beyond our limited, human understanding why one friend dies of the same cancer that another friend survived, or why any four-year-old is allowed to die of Leukemia.

My life has been easy compared to many others, but, so far, in my darkest moments I have been able to choose faith as my reaction. Anything else seems to lead to bitterness and I don’t want that for myself so I choose to do the best that I can and trust that God does love us enough to take care of the rest. I may not have a choice in everything that happens in this life, but I can choose my attitude towards it and my reaction. That being said, as far as where I am in my journey on this earth, I must also add that I see some truth dancing through the following words:

God Said No.

I asked God to take away my habit.
God said, No. It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up.

I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.
God said, No. His spirit is whole, his body is only temporary.

I asked God to grant me patience.
God said, No. Patience is a byproduct of tribulations; it isn’t granted, it is learned.

I asked God to give me happiness.
God said, No. I give you blessings; happiness is up to you.

I asked God to spare me pain.
God said, No. Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares and brings you closer to me.

I asked God to make my spirit grow.
God said, No. You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful.

I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life.
God said, No. I will give you life, so that you may enjoy all things.

I asked God to help me LOVE others, as much as He loves me.
God said, Ahhhh, finally you have the idea!

Heaven's Tears

Spattering drips
of promise.
Gathering,
wet
drops in
downward
motion.
Cool, fragrant air.
Misted windows.
Dripping downspouts.
Wet,
mirroring
pools
graced by
ripples.
Liquid
nourishment for all.
Rain.

At My Leisure

Today culminated about three weeks of self-prescribed “taking care of myself time.” After committing to the not-so-terrible, but less-than-fun physical exam, tetanus shot, blood test, mammogram, eye exam, and vision field test during this time, I gleefully celebrated my birthday today by going in for a deep-tissue body massage. It was only the second one I have ever had in my life.

Our company left early this morning, bound for their northern home, and Don stayed home with Mom so I could escape, carefree, for a few hours. I went to town early enough to grab a shrimp lunch at DQ, buy some oil paints at Pontarola’s, browse through Macy’s, and do a quick hit and run at the scrapbook store before heading to my appointment. Two hours later I was laying between soft covers in the dimly lit room, inhaling eucalyptus fumes and melting under the slow, purposeful, circular pressure of the masseuse’s warm, oiled fingers against my forehead, temples, and jaw. All I could think was why had I waited eight months to experience this again?

After I floated home, stopping only to rent three movies (one of which was free because it was my birthday), I napped on the sofa while Don barbecued dinner. (Okay, okay, okay...and I also stopped for a small BR Raspberry Cheese Louise milkshake! Geez.) Orange cake and homemade ice cream topped the good meal and then happy birthday phone calls from our kids finished a perfect day!

All day I thought about all that I am thankful for, but realized there is too much to enumerate here. Suffice it to say, it all comes down to the love, forgiveness, friendship, hope, and joy that have been shared with me by those touching my life. Thank you.

Fortunate Fortune

Sister and her husband landed on our doorstep yesterday for a couple nights before heading on home from their trek across the nation. Today we braved the 90 degree “cold spell” (considering the triple digits we’ve been adjusting to) long enough to go into town for a sweet and sour chicken, pork fried rice, and chow mein lunch.

It was good to get Mom out of the house for awhile. I must remember, though, to take a pillow for her to sit on. Her four feet, nine inches put her barely above chin-level to restaurant booth tables. Mom's fortune read: Rarely do great beauty and virtue dwell together as they do in you. It's true.

Put Your Feet Up

I have been indulging this summer in what has become a decadent pasttime for me: reading purely for pleasure. After all the research reading of my college courses, (yes, I was one of those nauseating people who actually READ the texts), I feel like I almost have to relearn how to read for fun. Before my 4-year endeavor, I was hooked on Brother Cadfael mysteries and before that on Hamish McBeth mysteries but, alas, I have finished both series and am now casting around for a similar substitute. So, despite the overwhelming urge to cast furtive glances over my shoulder in an effort to sidestep the reading police, I have been haunting the aisles of book stores and my local library to sample authors the way people in tasting circles sample wines. To date I have indulged in light mysteries by Katherine Hall Page, Luanne Rice, Lilian Jackson Braun, Sharon Duncan, and my favorite so far, Emilie Richards. I have also read some children's books and reread the Harry Potter series, marveling once again at JK Rowlings' amazing ability to weave subtle, portentious bits of information and clues into tales of great imagination that capture life's eternal unrest between good and evil.

This luxurious use of my time reminds me of my childhood; long summer afternoons spent sprawled out in a comfortable chair, reading Nancy Drew mysteries and any horse story on which I could lay my hands. I have decided, in a new effort toward positive thinking, that I will consider this use of my time as relaxing rather than as lazy. I am not having a lazy summer, I am having a relaxing one. How about you? What are you doing for yourself that feeds your soul and calms your spirit?

Lazy Sunday Afternoon Treat

Remember the Reeses Peanutbutter Bars we used to make and eat right out of the freezer? Beth G. gave Jen the recipe when she babysat her boys. Well, I got hungry for them, but invented a lazier method. Instead of pressing the ingredients into a pan and spreading melted chocolate chips on top, I mixed my carob chips in with everything else and rolled them up into 1-inch balls. Yum! Much easier to store and eat. Wanna make some? They really do taste like Reeses Peanutbutter Cups...and the peanutbutter must have at least a little redeeming value.

With a wooden spoon, mix 1 pound powdered sugar with 28 ounces of the thickest, cheapest peanutbutter you can find. It takes a lot of arm muscle, but stay with it until it is all mixed in. Add 2 cups or 1 large package of your favorite chocolate chips, then mix and roll into 1-inch balls. Keep covered and refridgerated so they don't get too dried out or sticky.

Treasures

I ran across this picture the other day. I believe it was taken with Betty’s camera and Jeremy must have been the photographer (how fortuitous, eh?) Dated June of 1997, I remember it being taken, although it seems like a century ago.

We had barbecued in our backyard and eaten outside on the picnic tables. I believe we might have been celebrating Father's Day, but mostly we were just enjoying having Don's folks visit us after returning from their winter in Arizona. As usual during family gatherings, we took turns taking the photos, making sure everyone’s camera had its turn immortalizing the moment. Many times Dad and I have wished we owned Kodak stock because of our tendancy to memorialize everything!

Although we all automatically assembled and posed until the last click, we often would have loved to forego the inevitable ritual. Now, however, I am really thankful to have these frozen memories to stumble upon.

My first, knee-jerk reaction is usually to think of how things have changed since the picture was taken. Kids have grown and moved out into lives of their own, Don’s folks have both died, and our hair is a little bit whiter. This time, however, I can’t take my eyes off of Betty. I don’t remember why she was laughing while the rest of us seem to be patiently waiting for her to get back into the shot, but look at how she is leaning back, fully enjoying her mirth. So different from the way I last saw her after Alzheimers had stolen her joy.

This is the Betty I want to remember. The real Betty, my friend. If we hadn’t taken those few precious seconds to pull out our cameras, I might have forgotten this ordinary moment that is such a treasure to me now.