Saying goodbye

Before our daughter joined the Navy she worked on a horse farm outside of Kalamazoo. One day a stray dog showed up on the farm and followed her home -- 20 miles to our home in Paw Paw.

At that time jobs had taken the King and I to mid-Michigan where we were renting a farm house in the middle of 400 acres of soybeans and corn.  We didn't meet Baxter until a trip back to Paw Paw to check up on the house we still owned there.The kids were supposedly "maintaining" for us. I'm pretty sure it was party central. 

Baxter was the most unusual black lab-ish type of dog I've ever seen. He had a lab body and short little legs and barked like a hound. And our daughter babied him like no other dog ever had been.

He rode with our daughter to work every day and played on the farm while she shoveled horse do do. At night he would go home with her and fall asleep, exhausted from a day of playing. He would be up and ready for another day early the next morning. Our daughter said weekends were horrible since he couldn't run and play the way he did on the farm. 

I can attest to that. She would come to visit us occasionally and had his walks timed to a science. She assured me it was imperative he have a least a 20 minute walk, twice a day, or he would be up all night.

Right. I gave her a leash and told her to enjoy the fresh air.

Then she joined the Navy and we got custody of the dog. We already had a St. Bernard and a mixed mutt, so he joined a family of dogs, the King and I.

Baxter was a Houdini when it came to escaping his pen. I would come home from work in the evening and  find him on the side of the road (fortunately we lived on a seldom-traveled dirt road). I would open the truck door for him and he would hop in, ready for a ride. And I mean an extended ride. Baxter had exchanged long walks in the woods for rides in the truck. If I simply drove the rest of the way home, Baxter would refuse to get out of the truck. No amount of coaxing would bring him out. We had to ride around the block. If we stopped at the party store and I bought him a beef stick -- all the better.

While our daughter was stationed at Pearl Harbor she acquired a golden lab. Cyrus became her new baby and Baxter was no longer on loan. He was ours. 

Like all of us, Baxter started to age. 

Like all of us, Baxter started to age. His face turned grey and he slowed down when he ran. He also developed what the vet said was a "fatty tumor." His face grayed and his tumor grew and grew and grew until it was inches from the ground and swung back and forth when he walked. It also started to sprout new tumors. 

It was getting more and more difficult for Baxter to lie down comfortably. Imagine trying to lie down with a bowling ball on your stomach. There are few positions that are comfortable. He also started having "accidents" in the house. At least I think they were. They always seemed to be in Mom's bedroom. Truthfully I think he was pretty pissed at her. No pun intended.

Today was the day we knew Baxter needed to be put out of his misery. It was not an easy decision. King would bring him to the vet and I would remain at home and weep. Before King and Baxter left I sat on the couch -- Mom's couch -- and loved him. I hugged,  scratched behind his ears and under his chin. I glared at Mom, daring her to say something. To her credit, despite the fact she could not comprehend what was going on, she didn't say a word. 

Baxter is buried with his blanket next to the woods where he loved to romp, collect ticks and get muddy. We will miss him. 

Is this payback?

I remember, when as a child, I needed something done NOW, I would pester and pester. Mom would tell me, "I will get to it when I'm ready," but I would keep pestering until Mom would give up, throw her arms up in the air and say "Ok. Ok. I will do it." The anger in her voice would make me wonder why I didn't stop when I knew I should have.

I thought the payback was when my own children did it to me. I was wrong.

When Mom needs something done, she needs it done now. It's an insistent, drop what you are doing and do this for me now type of demand. Or it could be slightly more subtle. She will want her hair curled and I am in the middle of sorting laundry, or looking for King's keys, or trying to find our granddaughter's favorite bathing suit bottom.

"Let me do (whatever) Mom and then I'll get to it."

I don't know if she can understand what I'm saying. I don't even know if she can hear me. But I will continue with my task. Mom will wait for a few minutes and then get the curling iron, sit in her recliner and start to curl her hair herself. It's not been plugged in. It's not warm. It could even be the big fat one my daughter used to straighten her long hair when she was 16. Doesn't matter.

I have to wonder if she knows what she is doing and hopes she can guilt me into dropping everything to curl her hair or if she is really that confused.

Today it was her laundry. A shirt was thrown in the dryer, the dryer worked for a short while and then turned itself off (it does that occasionally). When I discovered it, I turned the dryer back on, but unfortunately the shirt dried wrinkled. Badly wrinkled. Mom wanted to iron it. Now. Right now. And while she was at it she wanted to iron her nightgown as well.

I was trying to feed the dogs and do the dishes. She kept following me around the house with the shirt and night gown in her hands.

"I can iron it. Just show me where the ironing board is."

"I know that Mom, just let me finish these few pots and pans from last night."

"Do you keep it in the closet."

I finally threw my hands in the air and stormed off to get the ironing board. Even the dogs cowered in the corner.

I set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron and told Mom to wait a few minutes for the iron to warm up. She did.

Our Mangle was green. I shamelessly
borrowed this image from the internet. 

She ironed her nightgown. She even ironed her underwear. This isn't unusual for her. Some of my most vivid memories of Mom are of her standing at the ironing board or sitting at the old Mangle, ironing. She ironed everything: Dad's boxers, our sheets and pillow cases. Bras (but you had to be careful not to iron the hooks, they got hot). Dad's shirts. I really mean EVERYTHING. Granted these were the days before permanent press clothes, but socks and underwear? Really?

But I digress again.

She came into the living room and paced back and forth. "The shirt. The shirt."

I went into the kitchen. The shirt was a wrinkled mess. One that I might be inclined to throw back onto the washer to re-wash and then re-dry. But I knew she would not want that.

Mom indicated she wanted water for the shirt.

Are you kidding me? I knew she meant steam. So I filled the iron with water and when it started hissing I started ironing the shirt for her.

It's funny how she doesn't know I am her daughter, but she can remember how she likes things ironed. I quite obviously was not ironing the shirt to her liking. After a few shifts of her feet and feeble attempts to reach in and take the iron from me, I decided to let her take over and relinquished the iron.

We were supposed to be at Menards by 9 a.m. Doesn't look as though we are going to make it.

Paybacks are certainly hell.

Road trip

One of the things Mom and I enjoy doing together is our daily jaunt to the post office and stopping for coffee afterward.

King and I get our mail at a rural post office about 10 miles from where we live. Not always convenient, but it has certainly cut down on our junk mail.

So, most mornings Mom and I hop in the car and take a drive through the country. Our meanderings almost always take us along Lakeshore Drive to look at the lake and check out the progression of the seasons. I mentioned in my last post Pier Cove is one of our favorite spots. Our daily jaunts almost always include a drive past the Lake Michigan vista at Pier Cove.

Pier Cove, looking north.

The spot used to be a shipping port. According to a historic marker at the site: Surveyed in 1839, the village of Pier Cove was once hailed as "the busiest port between St. Joseph and Muskegon." Before the Civil War, Pier Cove was a bustling community and a major point for lumber distribution  with ships departing daily carrying tanbark and cordwood to Chicago and Milwaukee. With the exhaustion of the lumber supply in the late 1880s, the fire of 1871 and the coming of the railroad, the sawmill was moved to Fennville and Pier Cove's prosperity diminished. In the late 1880s, however fruit became a major shipping commodity. This site once overlooked the warehouse and two piers that revived the village's economy. In 1899 a freeze killed much of the local harvest and shipping at Pier cove was reduced to passenger traffic. Commercial activity ceased in 1917.

The spot is now a public beach. It's not a very long swatch sand, but it is one of the prettiest spots on the lake and is easily accessible for old arthritic knees. (That would be mine, Mom seems to manage the stairs with no problem).

This is the type of rock/stone found
along the beaches in southwest
Michigan.

Mom loves to look for rocks in the creek that runs into the lake at the site. In this part of southwest Michigan, the rocks have an unusual formation and have white cracks on them. These are not fossils. It's just the way the hard water leaves "stains" on the rocks. I guess that is the best way to describe them. Someone once told me the correct name for them, but I've stored it away along with how to avoid split infinitives.

Collecting unusual stones along the beach is something Mom and Dad did together when they lived in Glenn. The ones they particularly liked they polished. Somehow I have acquired these rocks. I have them in baskets on end tables in my house. It's as artsy-fartsy as I will ever become.

Mom and Dad loved to walk along the beach. Dad would tell us the story of coming along some nude sunbathers/swimmers one summer evening.
.
"I wasn't quite sure what to say," Dad related to us. "So I looked at the woman and said, 'I see the water is cold.'" That was my father. Ever the observant man.

This is one of the polished stones Mom and Dad
found years ago. They thought the marking on it
looked like a "D" for Don.

This is another stone they found.
They thought it looked like a lighthouse.
I think it looks like something else.

These are the rocks in the stream that runs into Lake Michigan
at Pier Cove.

The beginning of the end

Mom had a doctor's appointment yesterday. Not surprisingly she's in pretty good health for a 90-year-old. Which makes the decision we are about to make all the more difficult.

While at the doctor's office we learned there is a room available at one of the nicer nursing homes we picked out.The doctor will submit his evaluation and I have to take her for chest x-rays. The forms will be sent to the nursing home and they will make a decision as to whether or not they will accept her as a resident. Yippie. The day we were waiting for is here. Why do I feel like shit?

With Mom's dementia it is easy to talk about her while she is in the room, and we often do. It may not be right, or polite, but it happens. That doesn't mean she is totally oblivious to what is going on as she can be astute if she needs to be. For the past two years I have gone into the examination room with her as she is incapable of answering questions. If she is put on the spot she panics and simply shuts down. She trembles, stutters and gives up. She truly has no clue what medications she's on and in her mind she sleeps through the night, despite the fact I often find her sleeping in her recliner in the morning. Yesterday the doctor and I discussed the progression of her dementia and what I was doing for myself for respite care.

While Mom was in the examination room, the doctor called the nursing home and then asked me to talk to the director of the home as well. We left the door to the examination room open so Mom could still see me. I went across the hall to speak on the phone. But that didn't help Mom. She knew something was amiss. The look of horror on her face and the absolute terror in her eyes was more than my heart could take. It is something that will be etched in my mind forever.

She may not know exactly what is going on but she can guess.

"You are sending me somewhere, aren't you?"

"No Mom. You are going home with me today." It was the best I could do.

I held it together for most of the trip home. We got off the highway at the Fennville exit and took Lakeshore Drive to Glenn. Mom loves to drive along the lake. I might have been fine if not for the breathtaking view of Lake Michigan as we rounded the curve at Pier Cove.

The waves were rolling in, the water was a brilliant blue and the sun's reflection made the surface sparkle.  And I found myself longing to see Dad's sailboat on the horizon. The tears, which I had managed to keep in check, flowed.

I don't know if I can do this. All the exhaustion. All the frustrations. All the anger. It is still there, but can I really agree to this? Have I reached my limit? Has she really progressed to the point where we can no longer take care of her, or is this simply something that makes life easier?

There are no answers.

I find myself longing for a Hollywood ending. Dad would come to Mom in the night and say to her, "Come on Willy. Let's go sailing."

Time to set sail

I am going to California in a few weeks to help our daughter, who is pregnant with twins,  move from Riverside to San Diego. Her husband is at U.S. Marshall school in Georgia so she needs extra help.

I'm a little nervous about this. Not about moving or flying or being gone for three weeks. No, I just recall the time my mother went to Kansas to visit my sister. While she was gone Dad purchased a sail boat.

It wasn't a little Sunfish, good for skimming across the water on a small  lake. No this was a big, 22-foot boat complete with trailer, a main sail, a jib, a spinniker, anchor, a cabin with a berth . . . you get the drift. (drift, ha ha). It would not be good if King decided on a similar purchase while I am gone.

I don't believe Dad was in the market for a sailboat at the time. He co-owned a small C-scow with friends from Chicago and Dad did a lot of sailing on a small lake near Gobles. But his sister called and said her son was selling his sailboat and did Dad want to buy it? If  Dad didn't buy it she was afraid he -- her son -- was going to sail it to his cottage in Naubinway. She was worried about him undertaking such a voyage.

I should interject here, my cousin was just a few years younger than Dad. He wasn't a kid. He was married, ran his own successful multi-million dollar business and had several children my own age.

But I don't think Dad ever said no to anything his sister asked. If my aunt was concerned for her son's safety and Dad could help out, there was no question he was going to do it. The thought that perhaps a major purchase such as this should be discussed with Mom never entered Dad's mind.

The timing was not good. Mom and Dad had just sold their home and had moved into an apartment while they were building their retirement home in Glenn. To avoid any major expenses they were paying cash as they built, so a purchase such as this was quite possibly not the greatest of ideas.

Dad out on Lake Michigan in his boat, the Willy.

That was the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years in college. I was working in the factory Dad managed and one one evening after work -- about a day into Mom's visit  to Kansas -- Dad, my younger sister and I drove to Grand Rapids to pick up the sailboat. We brought it home and parked it in the parking lot of the apartment building where we were living. Picture a sailboat with all its rigging resting on a trailer in a parking lot. The fact that it was parked next to Dad's Fiat convertible made it seem all the bigger.

Now, my mother's full name is Christina Wihelmina. I don't know if she was named after Queen Wihelmina of the Netherlands or if it is part of a family name. Regardless, that's Mom's name. Dad liked to call her Willy. So my sister painted Willy on the back of the boat. We were going to complete the name after Mom got home. The boat's full name would be based on her reaction. Dad's thought was "Surprised Willy," "Happy Willy," "Shocked Willy."  It never occurred to him the name might be "Really Pissed-off Willy."

Mom eventually got over it. She was a real trooper and learned to hoist the main sail. She figured out how to raise the spinniker. How learned how to drop anchor and even managed to man the tiller while Dad undid whatever mistakes she made while hoisting said sails. The woman whose swimming skills didn't go beyond a dog-paddle even took sailing vacations with Dad.

They kept the boat for about eight years until Dad sold it. He decided his grandchildren needed to learn to water ski so he bought a jet boat . . .

A new day

My Calvinistic Sunday School teachers taught us God would not test us beyond our endurance.

To that I offer a raised eyebrow and say "really?" After yesterday's epic fail I would assume I had reached my level of endurance.

Not so.

If all this is true, then I imagine the creator of the Duck-billed platypus is laughing manically and setting me up for yet another day of failure.

Only this time I am resolved not to take the bait.

I got up early this morning to do some online banking.

Mistake one.

Mom was already up and dressed: Capri pants, brown socks, brown oxfords and a knit top.

I'm not quite certain why she insists on asking me questions before she puts her hearing aids in, but she does.
"Is this okay?"

Now to respond to her when she is hearing aid-less you have to cup your hand around her "good ear" and shout. Shout to the point of giving yourself a sore throat.

"Put on white socks and tennis shoes."

"Change my socks?"

I bookmarked my page and walked into her bedroom and placed her shoes and socks on her dresser.

Busy Day Ahead

I had been saving our schedule for the day until morning for fear she would obsess about it all night. It is easier to give her a list so she can hold it in her hands and read it. She can't remember from one moment to the next what someone has told her, so a list she can hold helps. She refers to it like a NASA itinerary.

Our list read:
1. Bloodwork at the labe in Grand Haven
2. Breakfast in Grand Haven
3.Visit Aunt Evelyn in Grand Rapids

She took one look at it and said,  "I need to change my clothes."

I was afraid of that. She went into her room for about 15 minutes and came out with a wool blend pant suit. The forecast was for 75 degree weather. Normally I would not care what she wears, but heat is heat.

We finally settled on a pair of slacks and knit top.

For the next hour we drove to Grand Haven and she read her list. The same questions came over and over again.

"What is my sister's name?"

"Evelyn Van Mannen."

"What is my name?"

"Christine Stehower."

I now see the disconnect, but didn't at the time.

We got to the lab for the blood work and while completing the forms the tech told me she needed a stool sample.

Are you kidding me? The woman can't remember her own name and the doctor wants her to poop in a bucket? Please.  The nice lady gave me a bag full of collection supplies. They are in my car where they will remain until I remember to dump them in the dumpster.

So we pass the blood test and move on a breakfast of pigs-in-a-blanket at Russ' in Grand Haven. They are one of Mom's favorite. Two things off our list.

We got back in the car and Mom indicated she was worried about going to visit her sister in Grand Rapids.

"Does she know we are coming?"

Aunt Evelyn lives in a nursing home. Although her family visits daily, new familiar faces are always welcome.

The discussion over whether or not to visit Aunt Evelyn continued for several minutes and finally I told Mom we'd visit on Monday and I would call Aunt Evelyn's son first to make sure she would be around.

"You are going to take your son with us?"

Big sigh.

By this time were were driving down US 31 heading for home. I pulled into a parking lot at a bank in Grand Haven and asked Mom, once again, if she wanted to go to Grand Rapids today or go home. It was a difficult decision but she finally decided she wanted to go home.

Mom and her sister Evelyn had a good visit. They are the
last of the Daling siblings.

We headed for Holland with her asking me over and over again if I would call to make sure it would be okay to visit on Monday.

We got to James Street in Holland and Mom asked, "Why do we have to wait until Monday?"

Seriously?

I turned around and headed back.

From Grand Haven we took country roads to Grand Rapids. We drove past the homes Mom's brother Harm built, past my cousin Robert's home and past the farm where Mom grew up. It was a good trip.

And the visit was equally nice. Neither Mom nor Aunt Evelyn hear very well and they conversed about different subjects at the same time, but the sisters were happy to be together. Aunt Evelyn will be 99 this summer. Mom will be 91 this fall. They are the last surviving Daling siblings.

King later told me I should never assume Mom knows what she is talking about because she can't make a decision. We've all figured out she usually tries to figure out what WE want and bases her decisions on that.

And I know he is right, but hope does spring eternal.

Dirty little secret

People have been commenting on how patient I am with my mother.

Guess I have you all fooled.

I have been told it it rather common for people with dementia to fixate on something until it becomes an obsession. My sisters and I have noticed this is true with our mother. When we see a fixation coming we do whatever we can to get her mind on something else. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

Today was a day when it did not work.

When Mom moved in with us, we brought some of her living room furniture with her. She and my father purchased their sofa when they moved into their apartment, I'm guessing it was about eight years ago. Although the sofa looks nice, it has not worn well internally and kinda sags in the middle. There is nothing like sinking down into a sofa and hitting your chin with your knees.

Now, when Mom lived with my sister, they placed a board under the cushions to help bolster the springs. We did the same thing. But for some reason Mom insisted there had never been a board there before. In fact, she started obsessing about it. It has been building for a couple of days. It started with her mentioning it. Then it proceeded to her shifting the cushions. Then she flipped the cushions. Now, mind you, this is a process of a few days, but it grew from there.

Today she was in tears about the stupid board under her cushions. So I told her as soon as King finished his lunch he would remove it. Didn't matter. She fretted, she wrung her hands, she paced. She moved cushions. She did everything a toddler would to to get what she wanted.

Both King and I dug our heels in. He ate slowly and I pretended not to notice. But in the end I lost it. I went outside to cool down. I watered the flowers. I toured the gardens. I yelled at the rooster. He flapped his wings at me. I threw sticks at him.

I went back in the house. One look at Mom and I was mad all over again. By this time King had given in and pulled the stupid board out from under the cushions. I grabbed it and walked out the door with King admonishing me not to pitch it in the river.

When I came back inside Mom looked at me and said, "You're mad at me."

Oh and then comes the Piece de resistance, "Yes Mother. I am."

I could have said anything. I could have taken the high road. I could have done any number of things. But I didn't. I told her I was mad . . . at her.

Mom disappeared into her bedroom and when I calmed down some I followed. I found her on her knees praying. Talk about guilt. Even with her dementia she's good at it . . . and I don't think she was trying. But the killer, the real killer was when she said, "Don't be mad at me, you're my best friend."

Are you kidding me? How do you respond to that? What can one say to make the hurt go away? There is no going back. There is no turning back the clock. One can only apologize and move on from there.

Sometimes life really sucks.

The one that you think, that's a nice thing that you thought.

“The one that you think, that’s a nice thing that you thought.”   - Chris Stehower

Who would have thought my mother could rival Dr. Seuss?

Not sure, but I believe she was telling me the shower invitation I made for our daughter’s baby shower was nicely done.

Our daughter lives in California. She met a nice young man in the Navy and when they left Hawaii (and the Navy) they settled in California. He’s in training to be a US Marshal (his name is Dylan so we can call him Marshal Dylan), and she graduated a year ago with master’s in elementary education.

All great accomplishments, but the big news is they are expecting twins this fall. We are all pointing fingers at King. Since his family background is an unknown, it must be his family that has the twins somewhere.

Once again, I digress.

Although we've told Mom many, many times “the girl in California who used to be in the Navy is going to have twins,” it really doesn't mean much to her. And the concept of our daughter coming home in June and our hosting a baby shower is totally foreign.

So I printed out a shower invitation for Mom.

She ooohhhed and ahhhed for a couple of days. The card was so nice and did I really do that on my computer? She kept it on the dresser in her bedroom. Then one day she came out with it in her hand.

“Is she really having twins? Two babies?”

“Yes, Mom. She really is.”

“Wow, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it? And we are going to have a party here in June?”

“Yes, right here. In June.” And I knew what was coming next.

“We better start cleaning.”

Now you must understand by most people’s standards my house is clean. There are no piles of clutter, the dishes are always done, fresh towels are always in the bathroom and the beds (except for our granddaughter’s bed) are always made.

Every morning Mom sweeps the floors (we have wood floors) and dusts the living room. She even keeps the dust cloth stuffed in a cubby next to the DVD player so she can always find it.

Some would be bothered by it; in fact I took great umbrage to it when she first moved here. But it’s something she still can do and she enjoys it. So every morning she sweeps and dusts before we head to the post office and then out for coffee.

I will never, ever, ever be able to keep my house as clean as her house was. That is because when we were growing up we were taught (drilled) to be fastidious in our cleanliness. I tried when we were first married and when the kids were little. It was too much work. So I simply closed bedroom doors and when I found junk, moved it to the offending child’s bedroom. Cleaning was done.

The dogs are still trying to figure out what they have
done wrong.

But now Mom is stuck on the fact we are going to be having company and the house hast to be clean. Which, in her mind, means furniture must be moved and the space behind them cleaned, the dogs must be killed (they shed) and we need to find the arm rest covers for the sofa.

The poor dogs have no idea what they have done wrong. Where they once had free roam of the living room, they are now no longer allowed within five feet of the furniture. I don’t mean sitting on the furniture, I mean they are not allowed within proximity of the furniture.

Mom glares at King and our granddaughter when they leave their muddy shoes on the mat by the door. Apparently they need to take them off outside, hose them down and leave them in an inconspicuous space outside. Preferably at the neighbor’s house.

I've decided I need to act quickly or life is going to become unbearable.  So the other day while she was outside shaking out the dust mop, I went into her room and hid the shower invitation.

Life is slowly returning to normal.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

In May, 2010, Michigan Legislators passed a law offering early retirement incentives to teachers. Call it what you will, the law was a way to get older, higher-paid educators out of the system and encourage the hiring of younger, less expensive teachers to take their place. (Okay, that’s a simplification, but it’s the jest of it). 

King was one of those who jumped at the opportunity. I think after 10 years of disciplining young people (at the time he was a high school assistant principal) he was ready to go.

Long story short, within a year we ended up as caretakers on a gentleman’s hobby farm in southwest Michigan. It’s a great retirement gig.

King has traded his sport coat and tie for a Carhartt and work boots. This is the man who grew up in Redford Township, Michigan (outside Detroit) and didn't  know the difference between soybeans and field corn.

He now tends the chickens and rabbits, prunes fruit trees (we’ve yet to get any fruit from them), chops wood and mows an enormous lawn. The gardens are my contribution to this venture.

It’s the chickens that have me the most amazed. From hatching them in an incubator to moving them into the chicken coop and culling the old hens and disposing of overly aggressive roosters, King is quite handy at his newfound career.

Although I grew up in a rather rural setting (not a farm) we had just one chicken while I was growing up. Her name was Henny Penny and I’m sure we got her from the poultry farm next door.

One day Henny Penny became sick and it was decided she should be put out of her misery. The task fell to my father.

Now Dad was not a hunter. I often wondered how it came to be that he had a rifle for putting Henny Penny down. Mom explained to me when they first moved to Hamilton Dad noticed that everyone hunted. He decided he should try it as well and purchased a hunting rifle. Mom had no idea what kind it was. So suffice it to say it was some type of rifle. Turns out Dad did not enjoy hunting so the gun was eventually sold. However, he still owned it when it came time for Henny Penny to meet her demise.

After his retirement Dad worked to compensate for sending
Henny Penny away by keeping the bird feeders filled all
winter long.

Dad was a little squeamish about handling a dead bird, so he dug a hole, mounded the dirt in front of it and placed the sick bird on top of the dirt. It was his plan to shoot the bird, have her fall into the hole and then cover her quickly.

Henny Penny sat demurely on top of the dirt pile. Dad fired, missed the bird and shot the dirt out from under her. Henny Penny gave one horrific squawk and took off for the neighbors across the street, where she lived happily ever after in their barn.

In our family we always knew why the chicken crossed the road. 

Happy Mother's Day

I don’t think Mom thought of herself as a peacemaker, but she was one of those rare women who seemed content to remain neutral when trouble brewed. In fact, Mom was quite fond of saying, “Yours will be the moral victory.”

I would often come home from playing with the neighborhood kids full of self-righteous indignation over some perceived injustice. Mom would give her usual speech and admonish, “Yours will be the moral victory,” to which I would wail, “But why can’t I just haul off and smack him/her . . . just once?”

Mom never took sides.

Neighborhood kids will always bicker and snipe at one another, go home and tattle, hoping their parents will get involved and “make it right,” but Mom never did.

“There are no sides,” she would say. “You’ll be friends again soon enough.”

Of course she was right. Why stir the pot? Kids will argue and fight, but they can make up and be best of friends just as quickly. Adults, on the other hand, hold grudges for a long, long time.

Mom was smart that way. I often wonder how she would have survived in the backstabbing corporate world of today. It’s difficult to imagine. I can’t picture her being manipulative or playing games or trying to make her way to the top. It was not her style. But that is not to say Mom had a sheltered life. No, Mom’s life was filled with volunteering and working for others.

Mom was a Sunday School superintendent, a 4H community leader, a 4H project leader, was very involved in that very conservative national political party, a member of the county board of social services and served on any number of community committees.

In addition, all our meals were made from scratch – a TV dinner on a TV tray in the living room was a rare treat – and she sewed most of our clothes.

In fact, Mom taught my three sisters and I to sew. I think my sisters are fairly good at it. I am not. I have to confess, I was the one who carved “I hate sewing” into the case of our old Singer.  And, surprisingly enough, I am the one who inherited that old Singer from Mom when King and I were first married.

And I did try to use it. But after my first few attempts to make curtains for our new apartment(s) Mom decided it might be better if she simply took me shopping for material and made the curtains herself. If she was disappointed I can’t sew a straight seam, she never said anything.

It is sometimes difficult to remember that woman. The one who told me to take the high road. The one who made three-piece wool suits for her daughters. The one who could campaign with the best of them. It’s difficult to watch her as she struggles to find words or to watch as she panics because she knows she is supposed to remember the name of the person who just sent her a Mother’s Day card and can’t quite place who this person is.

But sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, a little bit of that smart, classy woman comes to the surface and she’ll tell me a story about when she was a child. Or she’ll help me get dinner ready and tell me her secret to great-tasting potato salad. And in those rare moments I can peak into those pale blue eyes and say to myself, “Oh, there you are. Thank you Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.”

Remaining calm in the face of adversity

When you grow up in a small community such as we did, everyone truly does know everyone else. I am reminded of this fact each time I post something about my mother on Facebook, and long-ago friends and neighbors post comments in return. It's not a bad thing and it certainly does keep us connected.

As much as people complain and make fun of Facebook. I think we should be honest and admit it is a fun way to stay connected with those who have crossed our paths -- friends, acquaintances  and co-workers. They don't call it a social network for nothing.

A young friend posted  the other day about her soon-to-be four year old daughter going on an adventure with a neighbor . . . to the next block over. My friend was mortified, as I would have been as well. The story had a familiar ring to it as it reminded me of my first foray into independence.

It was early spring. My neighbor and I would be heading to Kindergarten in the fall. We were wise beyond our years and decided we needed to assert our independence and go to the store for some Bazooka Joe Bubblegum. (Yeah, the rock-hard pink stuff that made your jaws ache). To be honest, I don't think we thought of it as asserting our independence. We simply wanted some bubblegum.

We hoisted my younger sister into a doll buggy and set off down the road to to grocery store. I recall pointing out that we didn't have any money, but was assured we could charge it. I was skeptical as I didn't think my parents charged anything, but decided it was worth a shot.

The bottom of the buggy dragged along the grass as we pushed, pulled and dragged it across the lawn to the road, but once we hit the smooth surface of the tar, the going was easy.

We lived in the country, about a half mile from the store. There were no sidewalks so we clung to the edge of the road. It was an uneventful trip until we reached M-40, the busy highway running through the middle of my hometown.

It was lunchtime and as was customary those days, young boys from the local scout troop acted as crossing guards. Three times a day they would man their post -- before school, at lunch and after school.

We stood shyly at the crosswalk.

"Where are you going?"

"To the store to buy bubble gum."

"Prove it. Show us your money."

Of course we didn't have any and the young men indicated they were disinclined to help us across. We bravely looked both ways and it was obvious we didn't have a clue what we were doing, so we were eventually escorted across the highway.

We stopped at the grocery store first. The store owner was as dubious of our excursion as were the Boy Scouts. She immediately picked up the phone to call my mother. While she was on the phone  we hightailed it out the door and across the street to the local Variety Store.

Mrs. Strunk, the owner of the Variety Store gave us some gum, but refused to let us leave until one of our parents came to retrieve us. By this time I knew were were in deep trouble and was hoping against hope that it would be my Mom or Dad who came to rescue us rather than my neighbor's father.

The man had a vile temper and was prone to yelling. We could often hear him bellowing to his children from the chicken coops at the back of their poultry farm. He even prayed in a frightening way. His voice would rise to a threatening crescendo and then lower to barely a whisper. Back then families had devotions after every evening meal. I had been their guest once or twice. My neighborhood friend was never allowed to join us for evening meals since we were Reformed and they were Christian Reformed. I think the neighbors  considered my parents a little lax and feared our after dinner relaxation might include a deck of cards or a board game that required dice.

It was the neighbor's station wagon that pulled up in front of the Variety Store. We were yelled at the entire way back to our homes. His ranting included phrases like: "Ought to be locked up," "Tie you to a clothesline," and "Beaten with a yard stick."

Mom came out to the driveway when we pulled in -- he was still yelling and generally letting us know what bad kids we were and how we would never amount to anything useful.

He started to tell Mom what he thought she should do, but Mom looked at him and said, "I think I can handle my children from here."

He left in a cloud of dust.

My sister ran into the house and hid in Mom's closet. I was looking for a hiding place in the garage when Mom walked in and asked if I wanted grilled cheese and tomato soup. Confused, I slunk into the house to find my grandfather and his brother sitting at the table.

"I do not wish to discuss this," I bellowed in a voice that would have put my neighbor to shame.

Grandpa blinked and then started to shake with laughter. Tears were rolling down his face as he tried to keep his composure. Mom continued to act as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

That was it. No punishment. No discussing it. Nothing.

Later that evening, at my mother's insistence, I went to see how my neighbor friend had fared. Definitely not as well as I had.  Her brothers and sisters were sitting under a tree with smug looks on their faces.

"Did you get spanked?"

"No."

Clearly they were disappointed.

"Did you get yelled at?"

"No"

Wonder and awe crossed their faces.

"Well, what happened?"

"We had tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with my Grandpa and Uncle Andy."

"And nothing else happened?"

"Well, I did hear my Mom tell my Grandpa that she thought we had been yelled at and frightened quite enough and she saw no reason to add insult to injury. Whatever that means."

The beginning

It's been more than a year since my sisters and I initiated "Mommy Day Care" for our aging mother. But the story of our search to find a place for Mom began almost two years ago and as I reflect the changes during the past months, I am amazed at the way the wheel of time has turned and changed our lives in some fairly dramatic ways.

Mom and Dad on their wedding day,
August 4, 1945. 

It started with the phone call on a Tuesday in September, 2011. Dad was being taken, yet again, to the hospital by ambulance. I think we all knew it was the beginning of the end. Dad was 90 and had led a full life. Lenient and strict -- a sort of contradiction, but that had been our father. We all knew -- except for my mother -- that this day was coming.

I won't bore everyone with the details. Dad passed away surrounded by family on September 27, a week to the day he was admitted to the hospital. Life goes on and we all do what we need to do to continue.

Mom had a difficult time dealing with Dad's death. They had been married 66 years. Mom was lonely and somewhat afraid of living alone. My two sisters who lived closest to her visited every evening after work, I drove up to visit her once or twice a week and my son and daughter-in-law took her out for dinner or coffee once a week. Friends from church visited. But Mom wasn't doing well. She hated being alone. My son said when they would visit she would be sitting in her chair in the living room with the lights off.

Mom worked at Willow Run Airport
dismounting, cleaning and remounting
machine guns on bombers during WWII.

So we moved her into my sister's house. But Mom was still alone during the day. And it was becoming more and more apparent her  mind was slipping. So we initiated a plan where Mom would ride with my sister to her place of employmnt in Holland and I would meet them there and transport Mom to our house. That way Mom could spend the day playing on the hobby farm where King and I are caretakers (ahhh, retirement). I would drive Mom back to Holland in the afternoon and my sister would take her home.

We called that Mommy Day Care, phase one

The plan worked well for about six months. I can only imagine what a nightmare it was for my sister to try to get Mom up and ready while trying to get herself ready for work. Mom tends to putter when getting ready in the morning.

It has always been that way. Mom was always the last in the car whenever we went anywhere, but it was never more apparent than on Sunday mornings when we were leaving for church. We would joke she was always late because it took her a long time to button her Sunday coat. Mom never saw the humor in it.

But I digress. It was in September, a year after our father's death,  that Mom started making noises that she didn't want to get up early any longer and did she HAVE to do this every morning?

Enter Mommy Day Care phase two

So I started driving to Grand Haven to watch Mom at my younger sister's home. The days were painfully endless. It's one thing to cater to Mom in our own home. It's entirely different when sitting in someone else's home nine hours a day. Trying to come up with entertainment for a 90-year-old demented woman isn't always easy. Oh how I hated it. But it was for Mom.

It was about this time a cousin decided she needed a purpose in life. Things had not been easy for her since the passing of her husband and daughter and she said she had been thinking she needed something to feel useful. She added she was waiting for a sign but God had not handed her a script written in stone, so she decided maybe her purpose was to help us out two days a week. She may not have received a commandment, but for me it was a gift from Mt. Sinai. Oh blessed relief.

This plan worked for another seven months. During this time Mom's dementia was progressing rapidly. If this weren't my mother we were talking about, I'd say watching the progression of this disease is interesting in a morbid sort of way. But this is my mother we are talking about and it's more heartbreaking than interesting. Mom has had several strokes, and although she walks with a barely perceptible shuffle, the damage done to the brain is unbelievable.

Mom knows we are the people who take care of her. She doesn't know we are her daughters. She has no idea our cousin is her niece. We've created a photo album for her with photos of all of us and our children, but it really means nothing to her. She remembers Dad and definitely knows he's no longer with us. After that it's just a matter of taking it day by day. Don't ask her to make a decision - not even a simple one such as: Would you like toast or cereal for breakfast? She often asks me what her last name is.

Enter Mommy Day Care, phase three

This winter it became more apparent it was time to start looking for a home for Mom. My older sister and I started looking, just to see what was out there. In the meantime it was become rather difficult for Mom to stay at my younger sister's home. Her family is going through plenty of changes -- a college graduation, a high school graduation, trips to an out of state college. Senior year activities . . . So it was decided Mom would move in with King and I until there is an opening in one of the three homes we have selected. It could be six months, it could be a year.

And so begins the waiting game. Our lives here have changed drastically, and that is part of what this blog is about. The good times and the bad. The memories. Our hopes for the future. And the way we cope with change.