Not more than six or eight weeks old, Ellie followed Sarah home one December day and hopped on my knee as I squatted down to paint the outside of our front window. She was bright, beautiful, and impudent. She took up residence on Dad’s lap until he died, traveled with Mom, and inserted her rights and preferences everywhere she went. She adopted two other kittens and allowed them to enter her domain, albeit with parameters. She loved to play a rousing game of tag, stalk the fish in the fish tank, follow yard intruders from window to window, and wrestle no-holds-barred with Joey. She snuggled on my shoulder at night, kneading my neck, sat by us if we started coughing until we were better, dug her way into cupboards, closets, and drawers to find perfect napping spots, and thoroughly enjoyed ruling the roost when she became the matriarch of the household. I loved Ellie’s companionship, her sense of humor, her independence, and her dedication to Mom. She never left Mom’s side the day she died and she mourned for days until little Maia bustled through the doorway, insisting that Ellie accept her friendship.
Thank you, Noel, for your feisty love, devotion, and companionship. You are greatly missed.
I think it was something about her salt and pepper hair that made me think she was severe. She wore it pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck; no curls, no barrette, no loose strands. She went to our church, but I had never seen her smile nor heard her talk so when Dad informed me that my horses would be spending the summer in the lot behind her house, I was less than enthusiastic. It was up to me to water them daily, which meant I would have to traipse into her yard and use her hose to fill the trough. He might as well have sent me to eat gingerbread off the witch’s house with Hansel and Gretel. Only love for my horses gave me the mettle to go there alone the first day.
For a long time I quietly stood next to the trough, gazing at the hose left like a snake in the grass a whole backyard-length away from the fence. The grey, shingled, neglected old house at the other side of the shaggy lawn taunted me with the faucet that I would have to climb through a barbed wire fence to reach, leaving me vulnerable to her. How could I be sure that she wouldn’t come out and yell at me for trespassing? What would I do? Was she watching, ready to pounce?
Before I dared to move, she was suddenly there beside her house. Worse, she was moving toward me. To my eleven year old mind, she was old, which meant anything over 50, but still independent. She might have been tall and robust at one time, but now was slightly stooped. As soon as our eyes met, she smiled and I quickly learned the adage about not judging a book by its cover. Mrs. F was soft-spoken, kind, and funny and, although I never had much opportunity to talk with her after that day, she continued to teach me volumes from her actions.
As the years marched on, I watched her frame bend until her face was parallel with the floor. Several Sunday mornings Mom and I spotted her walking along the highway, even in the brutal winter, determined to get to church. Usually her son would bring her, but if he failed, she didn’t let it stop her. I remember Mom fussing that she should strike out so, but I think it was just a testament to her faith; she knew she would make it to Mass one way or another. On the days that her son helped her, we would all silently watch as they entered the side door at the front of church, Mrs. F struggling to walk as Mom does now. I think the whole parish collectively held their breath. Her son had his own personal struggles to wrestle in life, but I mentally blessed him every time he brought her in. He, too, will have some stars in his crown.
By the time I was in high school, she was in a wheelchair. Seconds before Mass started, the side door would open and her son would wheel her next to the end of the front pew. Then, after Mass, both of these shy souls would slip back out without a word.
I don’t remember when Mrs. F died; she just seemed to silently slip away. I don’t suppose she ever knew how much she touched my life in her later years without even saying a word. Now, thirty years later, I think of her every day as I watch Mom with some of the same physical struggles; self-conscious about how hard it is for her to walk and worrying that using the walker or wheelchair to get to our pew would make a scene. Then I remind her of Mrs. F and how people felt about her and she quiets.
“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’" (Mary Anne Radmacher)
I went to a wedding recently that launched me into a reverie about the variety of such blissful occasions that I have attended. Some were lacy affairs that served a dainty fare of shrimp and petite fours while others, like mine, were down home celebrations with a barbecue and homemade ice cream. Some took place in parks, some in churches, and one in a pig barn (free of pigs, of course). Smiling brides wore veils, or flowers, or floppy hats, three-inch heels, Nikes, or flip-flops; but no matter what their wardrobe, the grooms always appeared white and solemn, as if holding their breath until it was over.
Although, some of the ceremonies might have been more a reflection of the bride or her parents than of the happy couple, each matrimonial pair found a way to reflect their own joy. One of my friends jumped off her wheat harvester and into her wedding gown just minutes before walking down the aisle, then flew off to a new life in New Zealand. Another couple interrupted their procession out in order to greet and hug friends and family on their respective sides of the aisle as they went.
One thing that makes these events fun are the innocent little foibles that don’t hurt anything, but make the day memorable. For instance, at a rather elegant wedding in a state park, the bride wound her way around a small lake before coming down the aisle while a small string quartet played airy music. The perfect visual touch of meandering geese, however, soon went out of control as the long-necked residents took umbrage at the parade of maids going through their midst and began squawking, scolding, and chasing them out of their territory.
Most recently, a barn full of onlookers were unexpectedly charmed by four very small attendants. The oldest boy, not quite four, pulled his baby sister and girl cousin up the aisle in a wagon, the latter flipping wads of flower petals behind her. After depositing them with Grandma, in the front row, he turned the wagon around and went back to fetch his toddler cousin. The sweetness of this quiet moment was suddenly shattered when he pulled up in front of the exit and called out, “Next” - disintegrating the spellbound audience into fits of giggles.
My own wedding was no exception. The ceremony went perfectly: the flower girl went down the aisle on cue, I didn’t trip or step on my dress when getting up from the kneeler, and neither of us fainted or threw up. Since we were skipping a reception in favor of a family barbecue, we greeted everyone as they came out of the church and breathed a sigh of relief as we waved goodbye to the last of the cars pulling out. That is, until we realized that we were being left stranded across town at the church in our wedding clothes without transportation! “Wait!” we shouted to Don’s parents, running for their car as it started to drive away. Ah, yes. Memories.
It just goes to show that “perfect” is in the eye of the beholder. As in the rest of life, we must follow our hearts in making it meaningful and allow laughter to soften the harsh edges. However we choose to celebrate it, real joy should not be contained, but allowed to spill over and infect everyone. At least no one used black electrical tape to spell “Help Me!” on the soles of the groom’s shoes so it would show up when he knelt at the altar. Oh, wait. Um. I guess that did happen…
Since today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, yesterday was Shrove Tuesday, sometimes better known as Fat Tuesday. The latter name reflects the effort of soon-to-be Lenten fasters to cram into one day all the eating and fun that will be ecclesiastically frowned upon during the encroaching forty days and nights of Lent. Some communities, such as New Orleans and Venice, even stretch this magical day into a week-long mardi gras festival. Here, in my little corner of eastern Oregon, amid the wheat fields, foothills, and pea patches, however, we keep things simpler.
Tonight, our parish is hosting a Shrove Tuesday Pancake Dinner, replete with ham, pancakes, applesauce, and scrambled eggs. No masks, dancing, or debauchery here, just plain, down-home, clean-out-the-fridge type cooking with a side of ask-the-neighbors-over and visit-across-the-table hospitality. Much of the town filters in from work to plunk down a few dollars and fill up on the simple fare, the hall reverberating with chatter.
Frankly, I wonder every year why people come when it would seem easier to go home and flip their own flapjacks for free. But they keep coming anyway, people from other churches or no church at all, to support this little Catholic shindig. I suppose it is cheap enough that even large families can afford to give Mom a night off and basic enough that even the pickiest eaters will be content. And, too, it is a quick and easy outing for a school night.
I have also wondered why we put this dinner on, especially since there are so few of us to do the work. Who else, besides us, cares that Lent is approaching? Or is it to help pay our bills? The Octoberfest Dinner that we host in the fall is a larger money-maker, but maybe it isn’t enough.
Dorothy says that we host this dinner for the same reason that people come: community. Our working together toward a common goal builds a sense of family among the people at church, and people come in order to acknowledge and support our place within the larger community of our town. She says we all NEED this dinner and I believe she’s right. It really isn’t about pancakes at all.
Don and I spent our post-Christmas/pre-New Years break researching, number crunching, and hemming and hawing about new cars. Finally, in a typical rush of indecision, we decided the stars were aligning in a pattern we couldn’t ignore and found ourselves on the road to Fossil; the K-family childhood home and the birthplace of one of the few low-pressure/high-integrity car dealerships left on Earth. The result was coming home ten hours later with a nicer car than we’d gone to get, at a better price than we had hoped for, warm butts from the pleasurably heated seats, and smiling faces as we realized we’d just gotten our first “grown up” car.
Besides the successful venture, however, something even more important happened on this impromptu trip that doesn’t always occur when we visit our roots. Sometimes when we go back, we return feeling sad because of all the changes in people and icons. Family homes might be different or completely gone, friends have died or moved away, and what was once familiar and comforting seems not to acknowledge us any more. On this day, when our minds were diverted with the usual torture of decision-making, we were surprised to experience a genuine homecoming.
Although there are several Chevy dealerships nearby, it was a very natural decision to drive three hours to Wrights Chevrolet. Herb had started the business and hired Don’s mom to do the bookkeeping when the kids were little. Eventually, Herb’s son-in-law, Bill, took over the business, and now Bill’s son, Billy, who at 44 has long since outgrown the nickname, is running the sales department while his dad has semi-retired to the parts department. Since they close at midday on Saturdays, we left home early and only expected to see the two Bills. Instead, we were met by the whole family and spent three hours visiting and maybe one hour actually doing business. One of the retired mechanics who used to like to harass Don and his brothers even stuck his head in to greet him.
We couldn’t believe that everyone stayed there the entire time and stood outside to wave goodbye when we finally left two hours after closing time. Memories were shared and pictures and stories of kids and grandkids were passed around and repeated at least twice. After dragging ourselves away, we also made sure to swing into Nornie’s, a family friend, at least long enough to give her a hug and once again exchange family news.
Don and I left Fossil that day with a lot more than a car. It was nice to know that even though many things have changed, we still have roots there. We are actually missed by some people who are part of who we are. It goes without saying that we would never have forgotten them, that they hold a special place in our hearts, but it was incredibly nice to find out from their actions that we meant something to them, too. And, I must admit, that is even better than heated seats.
The following little Greek video from Jean shares what someone affected with dementia might want us to know if they could step outside themselves for a moment. Watching it brought back a flood of feelings and thoughts that must now tumble over themselves to spill out through my fingers onto the keys. Please bear with me...
Many of us have been touched in some way by at least one form of dementia, watching helplessly while someone we love struggles with memory loss, slowly losing the words that could maintain a spindly bridge of understanding. For me it has meant standing on the shore as a child while watching my grandmother float away after several strokes, reaching out to my father as he worked so hard to mentally stay with us while emphysema robbed him of breath, holding my mother-in-law’s hand as we watched her very essence fade before us, and now sadly dreading the weekly decline that I see in the once-lively face of a neighbor.
Dementia, particularly Alzheimers, is a mean disease that clogs the brain, chokes memories, robs emotions, and stabs the very hearts of those left behind to watch its progress. Its victims become at first confused, then frightened, and, finally, silent. There are medicines available that slow its progression and research that brinks on prevention and cure. Until that time, however, it is important to remember that there is always grace.
Born and raised in this American society of independent thinkers and problem-solvers, it took me a while to realize that I could not fix my loved ones. How many times did I patiently, and sometimes not so patiently, try to explain and re-explain what pills to take, how to wash hands or pull up the covers, or why pushing someone down the stairs was not a good idea? Finally, in a moment of grace, I realized that learning was not possible; my friend could not be fixed. The best I could do was analyze each situation and find a temporary solution that might help us both feel less frustrated. I began to hand out each pill to be swallowed, hold her hands in mine under the running water, tuck her in at night, and ask the doctor for medicine to ease the aggression. When she couldn’t remember, I repeated; when she was afraid, I consoled; when she forgot the words, I prayed her prayer aloud and we were both blessed.
This is grace: an unearned gift from God that makes all the difference in the world. To anyone who has just slammed against the wall of Alzheimers, I offer you this ray of hope as you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and brush away the tears. There is a gift within this loss. Grieve the person who is slipping away, but don’t miss out on this chance to love them more than you ever have before. They need you. They are children, now, who cannot learn, cannot explain, and do not understand why. They need you to make them feel loved and safe. Don’t be afraid; you can do this and you will never be sorry. When you need it, grace will come and you will all be twice blessed.
And for goodness sake, keep your sense of humor! My fondest memory is of Betty animatedly conversing with the lady in the mirror, telling her one day how pretty she was and how glad she was to see her. Poignantly sad, yes, but that is still one of the good memories that balances out the painful ones. If you can’t laugh with a mother who turns herself upside down on the sofa so she can see someone behind her, or who giggles and talks nonstop in rhymes for a week, you will never survive and neither will they. I firmly believe that the moment that they step into heaven, memories released from a mental prison, they will be laughing along with you and marveling at how you stuck with them and gave them dignity and love even when they couldn’t ask.
Although it seems like the person you loved is already gone and only an empty shell is left, I found that they really are still in there somewhere and spending time with them will sometimes reward you with a fleeting glimpse of their spirit. Out of the blue Betty’s eyes would suddenly sparkle as she’d point no where in particular and say, “you know...” like she was in the middle of a conversation. And you know what? Somehow, we did know.
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?
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.
We should give meaning to life, not wait for life to give us meaning. - Stacy
Welcome!
This blog is an extension of myself; a way to process the various facets of my life. I wish to use it as my "pensieve", a term recognizable to Harry Potter fans, in which to place the swirling silver strands of my thoughts. My world involves the sweet and complex tangle of family, the mixed blessings and isolation of caregiving, the winding road of faith, the insecurities of self, and the roller coaster of education. I have more questions than answers, more faith than doubt, and more hope than despair, yet sometimes I feel I can't hold another feeling without bursting. I value individuality and creativity, but I also seek connection and welcome the voices of those whose paths cross mine. For me, this space offers an opportunity to honor and examine both the mundane and the miraculous moments of life as I trudge ever onward. If anything here touches someone else in a positive way, then I will be doubly gratified. As someone else has said, "Happiness is in the journey, not the destination." - Michelle
I am a daughter, wife, mother, sister, sister-in-law, neice, aunt, cousin, grandaughter, and friend. Faith, family, and friends are my greatest treasures as are the laughter and love which bind us together. I believe in honesty, integrety, hard work, dancing in the rain, following your bliss, and going back to college at 50 to get a teaching degree. What about you?
