I grew up in a small town. I worked in the local restaurant and at the local drug store soda fountain. One could learn a lot by listening. At first I believed everything I heard and then I realized those who would gossip and talk about others were often the most fowl of humankind. I have no use for them.
Dad managed a dog food company in town. It was a small, independently-owned company.
A non-union manager, Dad retired when the union was voted in to his company. It wasn't so much the fact the union was voted in, it was the half-truths and out and out lies that were used as propaganda that tipped the scales toward retirement.
When it comes to unions, I shrug my shoulders and say, "Oh well." I have never paid union dues. One of the newspapers where I worked had a union for the pressmen, not for the reporters. The university where I worked had a union for the clerical employees and faculty, not for the administrative employees. Other places I worked were small non-union businesses. So I offer no opinion for that which I have no experience.
What I do know is Dad always went to bat for his employees. When he was offered a raise and no raise was offered to the hourly employees, Dad tendered his resignation. This was done quietly with no fanfare. I doubt Mom and Dad even knew that I knew. I heard he and Mom working on the letter one evening. That was about about 15 years before his retirement. Obviously the employees got their raise as Dad never quit.
According to the union, Dad had a home along Lake Michigan on "Millionaire's Row." Truth is, Mom and Dad scrimped and saved, sold their home in town, moved to an apartment and built their home along the shores of Lake Michigan -- paying as they built -- for a grand total of $34,000. But that, as they say, is water under the bridge.
Friends and neighbors who came to the visitation when Dad passed away commented on his generosity.
"You always knew if you needed money for a school project or for the year book, you could go to Don Stehower and Dog Life for help," one former class adviser said.
That's true. But what no one knows is the money came from Don, not from Dog Life. And we often ate macaroni and cheese while Mom adjusted the household budget. We had horses that came from my aunt. Hay came from my uncle's farm. Our pool was dug by hand and a cinder block pool would be considered primitive by today's standards. Dad built the pool's filter himself, bartering a load of horse manure for the fine sand for filtering the water. Mom kept the water sparkling clear with household bleach. When the pool was first built, neighborhood kids would call and ask to go swimming, Mom and Dad always obliged. Our barn was built from recycled lumber and the leftover lumber from the barn was used to build one hell of an awesome tree house. Mom sewed most of our clothes.
Except for the mean-spirited gossips and the idiot who broke into Dad's office, stole two saddles and shit on our family portrait (and yes, we know who did it), life was pretty good. In fact, it was a great life. Our parents worked hard to make it fun.
Would I ever go home again? Well, you can't recapture the past . . . but maybe for a visit.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Paybacks are hell
I sometimes have these fleeting moments when I wonder if perhaps Mom is faking it and she really isn't as gone as we think she is. I wonder if, perhaps, this is her form of payback.
Things are slowly returning to normal at our house, or better said, we are adjusting to our new normal. It's all about routine. Up in the morning, help Mom choose her clothes for the day (which I know she will change at least three times throughout the day), out for coffee, pick up the mail, come home, dust and sweep the house, fix lunch, work in the garden, putter around the house, fix dinner, do dishes, watch TV, go to bed.
It's a routine and change is not a good thing.
Yesterday I drove to Hartford to pick up a table and chairs I saw on Craig's List. I had an idea to convert it to some outdoor furniture. I want to create a quiet spot in the backyard where I can sip ice tea and read my Kindle -- should the mosquitoes ever go away.
Mom is always up for a ride, in fact she really likes to ride around aimlessly. So I loaded Mom and our granddaughter, who is on crutches, into the car and we took off for Hartford. Things were fine until we loaded the furniture into the car. The questions began. Telling her I was going to convert it to outdoor furniture didn't mean anything to her.
Unloading it and placing it outside the door was not a good thing either.
"Are you going to leave it outside?" "Do you want me to help you bring it in?" "Do you think it's time for us to take it inside?" "Why is it still outside?"
King warned me before he went to bed I was not to bring the furniture in to appease Mom.
And I didn't. But Mom was up early and the questions began again. Same questions, part two.
After our routine trip to the post office and to get coffee she started asking me when were we going to do something with the furniture rather than when were we going to bring it inside.
"I'll get to it Mom. Not right this second, but I'll get to it when I am ready."
That's when it hit me. I have heard these words before. It was the same answer I got when I was a kid and pestered Mom for something. Was this payback of a cosmic design or was it a well-laid plan by my mother?
I have to believe it is of the cosmic design as tonight she asked me if I was going to spend the night with her or was I going to take the furniture home with me.
Yes, paybacks are hell.
Things are slowly returning to normal at our house, or better said, we are adjusting to our new normal. It's all about routine. Up in the morning, help Mom choose her clothes for the day (which I know she will change at least three times throughout the day), out for coffee, pick up the mail, come home, dust and sweep the house, fix lunch, work in the garden, putter around the house, fix dinner, do dishes, watch TV, go to bed.
It's a routine and change is not a good thing.
Yesterday I drove to Hartford to pick up a table and chairs I saw on Craig's List. I had an idea to convert it to some outdoor furniture. I want to create a quiet spot in the backyard where I can sip ice tea and read my Kindle -- should the mosquitoes ever go away.
Mom is always up for a ride, in fact she really likes to ride around aimlessly. So I loaded Mom and our granddaughter, who is on crutches, into the car and we took off for Hartford. Things were fine until we loaded the furniture into the car. The questions began. Telling her I was going to convert it to outdoor furniture didn't mean anything to her.
Unloading it and placing it outside the door was not a good thing either.
"Are you going to leave it outside?" "Do you want me to help you bring it in?" "Do you think it's time for us to take it inside?" "Why is it still outside?"
King warned me before he went to bed I was not to bring the furniture in to appease Mom.
And I didn't. But Mom was up early and the questions began again. Same questions, part two.
After our routine trip to the post office and to get coffee she started asking me when were we going to do something with the furniture rather than when were we going to bring it inside.
"I'll get to it Mom. Not right this second, but I'll get to it when I am ready."
That's when it hit me. I have heard these words before. It was the same answer I got when I was a kid and pestered Mom for something. Was this payback of a cosmic design or was it a well-laid plan by my mother?
I have to believe it is of the cosmic design as tonight she asked me if I was going to spend the night with her or was I going to take the furniture home with me.
Yes, paybacks are hell.
Memorial Day
The following probably would have been better had it been written closer to Memorial Day. My mind was in another place when the holiday rolled around. Given that we are approaching my parents anniversary, I've been thinking a lot about Mom, Dad, and their lives in the 1940's.
In a few weeks my parents would have celebrated their 68th anniversary. When Mom was able to tell me stories, she loved to tell me about Dad coming home from the war in Europe and their wedding.
The war in Europe had ended. Dad was coming home on leave before shipping out to Japan. Mom was working at Willow Run airport in Ann Arbor when she received a call from Dad saying he was coming home. Dad had been gone three years.
"The phone went dead before I could find out when he would get home (to Grand Rapids)," Mom has told me. "I packed my stuff, gave my immediate notice and came home."
At home Mom waited. And waited. And waited.
"I spent two days sitting in a chair all dressed waiting for your father to call again," Mom said. "When the phone finally rang I was so excited I jumped up to get it. My heels had been hooked on the rung of the chair and I snapped the heels off my shoes."
Dad finally arrived at home. They got married August 4, 1945 and while Mom and Dad were on their honeymoon, the United States dropped atomic bombs on Japan. The Japanese surrendered on August 15. Dad returned to the army to finish his hitch, but he served it in Seattle.
While in Europe Dad was a fireman stationed at an airfield in London. He put out fires on bombers as they returned from their missions. That's all I know about his time in the service. He never talked about it.
Despite his reticence to talk about his experiences during the war, I've always had a penchant for stories from those who have served in the military. I think veterans were some of my favorite interviews I did when I was an editor. The interviews were not easy, and I generally let the veterans tell me their stories by whatever means they felt comfortable. Some spoke from the heart, some had lists of things they wanted to share, others just talked and talked and talked. I would listen, take notes, wipe my eyes and listen some more. Some, like my father, did not want to tell their stories, others found it was the catharsis they needed.
What struck me with each and every one of them was these were boys. . . young men who were the same age our (King and I) sons were when they were just starting out in life. Fresh out of high school and ready to explore the world. The men I interviewed never had that chance to do the kind of exploring the way our sons did. They saw the world through the sight of a gun.
They spoke about the fear, the constant gripping fear. The cold. The heat. The idiosyncrasies of the military. These were not John Wayne movies where dying was glorified and heroes rode off into the sunset with their women watching adoringly. These were real, honest men who did what they had to do and considered themselves lucky to come back home.
I sat with these men and listened to their stories. World War II vets, Korean War vets, Vietnam War vets. Stories of storming the beaches at Normandy, wading to shore pushing bodies out of the way. I learned about the Battle of the Bulge as no history book can ever describe it. I listened as they described the heat of the jungles where danger hid behind every tree and bush. I listened as they spoke about transport ships that criss-crossed the Atlantic to avoid submarines and felt their helplessness while watching other ships in the convoy sink. I learned of the horror of being among the first to see the concentration camps and witnessing the worst of humanity. I rejoiced in the heroes welcome home for some and felt the anger of trying to avoid picketers for others. . . They all came home with one thing in common; they were young men who witnessed some of the most horrific things one can imagine and now they were home and had to try to pick up their lives and continue on as if nothing had changed. As if they were the same young men who had left home two and three years before.
The war for these young men did not end when they laid down their weapons. For some of them the battles were still being fought 30, 40, 50 and 60 years beyond. It's something to be cognoscente of with veterans returning home now.
In a few weeks my parents would have celebrated their 68th anniversary. When Mom was able to tell me stories, she loved to tell me about Dad coming home from the war in Europe and their wedding.
The war in Europe had ended. Dad was coming home on leave before shipping out to Japan. Mom was working at Willow Run airport in Ann Arbor when she received a call from Dad saying he was coming home. Dad had been gone three years.
"The phone went dead before I could find out when he would get home (to Grand Rapids)," Mom has told me. "I packed my stuff, gave my immediate notice and came home."
At home Mom waited. And waited. And waited.
"I spent two days sitting in a chair all dressed waiting for your father to call again," Mom said. "When the phone finally rang I was so excited I jumped up to get it. My heels had been hooked on the rung of the chair and I snapped the heels off my shoes."
Dad finally arrived at home. They got married August 4, 1945 and while Mom and Dad were on their honeymoon, the United States dropped atomic bombs on Japan. The Japanese surrendered on August 15. Dad returned to the army to finish his hitch, but he served it in Seattle.
While in Europe Dad was a fireman stationed at an airfield in London. He put out fires on bombers as they returned from their missions. That's all I know about his time in the service. He never talked about it.
Despite his reticence to talk about his experiences during the war, I've always had a penchant for stories from those who have served in the military. I think veterans were some of my favorite interviews I did when I was an editor. The interviews were not easy, and I generally let the veterans tell me their stories by whatever means they felt comfortable. Some spoke from the heart, some had lists of things they wanted to share, others just talked and talked and talked. I would listen, take notes, wipe my eyes and listen some more. Some, like my father, did not want to tell their stories, others found it was the catharsis they needed.
What struck me with each and every one of them was these were boys. . . young men who were the same age our (King and I) sons were when they were just starting out in life. Fresh out of high school and ready to explore the world. The men I interviewed never had that chance to do the kind of exploring the way our sons did. They saw the world through the sight of a gun.
They spoke about the fear, the constant gripping fear. The cold. The heat. The idiosyncrasies of the military. These were not John Wayne movies where dying was glorified and heroes rode off into the sunset with their women watching adoringly. These were real, honest men who did what they had to do and considered themselves lucky to come back home.
I sat with these men and listened to their stories. World War II vets, Korean War vets, Vietnam War vets. Stories of storming the beaches at Normandy, wading to shore pushing bodies out of the way. I learned about the Battle of the Bulge as no history book can ever describe it. I listened as they described the heat of the jungles where danger hid behind every tree and bush. I listened as they spoke about transport ships that criss-crossed the Atlantic to avoid submarines and felt their helplessness while watching other ships in the convoy sink. I learned of the horror of being among the first to see the concentration camps and witnessing the worst of humanity. I rejoiced in the heroes welcome home for some and felt the anger of trying to avoid picketers for others. . . They all came home with one thing in common; they were young men who witnessed some of the most horrific things one can imagine and now they were home and had to try to pick up their lives and continue on as if nothing had changed. As if they were the same young men who had left home two and three years before.
The war for these young men did not end when they laid down their weapons. For some of them the battles were still being fought 30, 40, 50 and 60 years beyond. It's something to be cognoscente of with veterans returning home now.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
It takes a little time
It's hot out. And the bugs are bad.
We have retreated into the house and King has, for the second time in three years, turned on the air. It's not working correctly, but if we don't move around a whole lot, it's relatively cool.
Our first morning since Mom's arrival at our house she slept until 9:30 a.m. Mom is usually an early riser, so yes, I went into her room to check to see if she was breathing. When she finally got up she came out dressed in wool slacks, a turtle neck sweater and a sweatshirt.
"Too hot Mom. You need to wear something a little cooler."
Of course she doesn't understand what I am telling her so I helped her choose some capris and a knit top and we were good to go. The week was off to a great start.
We are slowly adjusting and getting into a routine. We go out for coffee and get the mail each morning and, other than riding around in the golf cart changing sprinklers, we don't venture out into the heat very often. One can work up quite a sweat just walking out the door, add waving arms in the air to shoo away the meat-eating deer flies and it's understandable why we don't go out often. But Mom doesn't get it.
She asks daily, "So, what are we going to do today?" And telling her not a whole lot of anything until the weather turns cooler doesn't really mean anything to her.
So we do what we can to keep busy without expending much energy.
We've picked the last of the peas and shelled them. I wanted to make a peas and peanut dish that Clarence Tuma in Mount Pleasant made famous. His recipe was supposedly secret, but I've seen several variations of it online and in church cookbooks. The dish calls for raw peanuts, which are easy to find in Mount Pleasant. If it's not the holiday season they are not so easily found in southwest Michigan. I settled for Peas and Macadamia nuts. Expensive but pretty good.
That was one day. We learn to spread things out so as not to cause too much excitement.
We drive around looking at the beach. She sleeps. King watches golf. I play mindless games on Facebook.
I know Mom isn't entirely with us as she is still looking for the woman with the two little girls. We still have no idea who this woman is, but I've quit trying to figure it out. Her obsession has turned to concern that the woman is angry with her and does she know where Mom is? I keep telling her the woman is happy she is with me and is not mad. The conversation is repeated at least six times a day.
We will get there . . . it's just going to take a little time.
We have retreated into the house and King has, for the second time in three years, turned on the air. It's not working correctly, but if we don't move around a whole lot, it's relatively cool.
Our first morning since Mom's arrival at our house she slept until 9:30 a.m. Mom is usually an early riser, so yes, I went into her room to check to see if she was breathing. When she finally got up she came out dressed in wool slacks, a turtle neck sweater and a sweatshirt.
"Too hot Mom. You need to wear something a little cooler."
Of course she doesn't understand what I am telling her so I helped her choose some capris and a knit top and we were good to go. The week was off to a great start.
We are slowly adjusting and getting into a routine. We go out for coffee and get the mail each morning and, other than riding around in the golf cart changing sprinklers, we don't venture out into the heat very often. One can work up quite a sweat just walking out the door, add waving arms in the air to shoo away the meat-eating deer flies and it's understandable why we don't go out often. But Mom doesn't get it.
She asks daily, "So, what are we going to do today?" And telling her not a whole lot of anything until the weather turns cooler doesn't really mean anything to her.
So we do what we can to keep busy without expending much energy.
We've picked the last of the peas and shelled them. I wanted to make a peas and peanut dish that Clarence Tuma in Mount Pleasant made famous. His recipe was supposedly secret, but I've seen several variations of it online and in church cookbooks. The dish calls for raw peanuts, which are easy to find in Mount Pleasant. If it's not the holiday season they are not so easily found in southwest Michigan. I settled for Peas and Macadamia nuts. Expensive but pretty good.
That was one day. We learn to spread things out so as not to cause too much excitement.
We drive around looking at the beach. She sleeps. King watches golf. I play mindless games on Facebook.
I know Mom isn't entirely with us as she is still looking for the woman with the two little girls. We still have no idea who this woman is, but I've quit trying to figure it out. Her obsession has turned to concern that the woman is angry with her and does she know where Mom is? I keep telling her the woman is happy she is with me and is not mad. The conversation is repeated at least six times a day.
We will get there . . . it's just going to take a little time.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Learning to live with a new normal
Mom came back from Florida yesterday. Notice I said back and not home.
I am fairly certain she no longer regards this as home. I am no longer certain where home is for her.
My younger sister and I picked her up from the airport. My older sister flew with her from Florida, turned around and went back on the next flight out. I am certain she giggled manically all the way back. I know I would have.
My younger sister and I took Mom out to eat before parting ways. Mom can no longer put a cohesive sentence together but it was fairly evident something was bothering her. Several times during the meal she started to cry. The first few times we did our best to try to understand what it was, but eventually changed the subject, trying to get her to focus on something else.
For a few brief moments on the way home, Mom was almost lucid. She asked me about the farm. She asked what vegetables were ready. She asked about the grass King spends three days cutting every week. But then she slipped back into whatever world it is she lives in and lost touch with reality.
The closer we got to home the more frantic she became. I got off the highway thinking perhaps if we drove along the lake shore she might start recognizing things and calm down a little. It didn't help.
"This isn't the right way. We aren't going the right way."
"Yes it is Mom, I thought you might like to look at the lake."
But she became more and more agitated.
She kept saying, "We were all there in Grand Rapids. What did I do wrong? Why did everyone leave?"
I tried to explain to her that everyone went home. But names have no meaning for her. Telling her Kay went home to her husband in Florida meant nothing. She didn't know who Kay was. She didn't know what Florida was and she certainly didn't know what a husband was.
Then the frantic tears started. I pulled over twice to try to reason with her. Finally I gave up and ignored her. It is so very, very difficult to know whether the tears are real or a ploy for attention. I don't think she's cognoscente enough to use the ploy, but patience was wearing thin.
Then she started pleading, "Please God, help me."
I lost it. I should have continued to ignore her. Instead I took the low road. "Mom, I sincerely doubt God is going to turn this car around and take you to some imaginary safe haven. We are going back to the farm."
Then she started, "Please God, just take me."
Hmmmm. Yes, the thought was there. I am that horrible.
While she was gone we had moved all her bedroom furniture -- a beautiful set she and Dad received as a gift when they got married -- from my younger sister's home where Mom had lived prior to moving in with us to her room at our house. I had hoped things would calm down when she got into the house and saw all her furniture. She barely acknowledged it.
I let her wander for a while and then suggested we unpack.
"I have to wait to make sure it's okay."
I assured her it was okay. If she didn't unpack she would have no place to sleep as her suitcase was taking up the entire bed.
"But I have to go to Grand Rapids to help that woman with her two girls."
Well, now I was lost. Mom was quite adamant about it. The girls were 10 and 11 years old and Mom was supposed to help take care of them.
Mom and Dad had a home in Grand Rapids before they moved to Hamilton. My sisters were probably seven and nine when they moved. Was she talking about going back to Grand Rapids to take care of her own children? No one is certain who this woman and the children are, but Mom was quite convinced she needed to be there to take care of them.
I finally convinced her to unpack and left her to her own devices as to where things were to go, surreptitiously going into her room to figure out where things were so I could help her find them later. My granddaughter and I took her for a ride to the pier and then out to eat. She still kept asking me if the woman said it was going to be okay if she stayed with me.
"Of course it is Mom. She was delighted you had a place near the beach."
"She's not mad?"
"No she thinks you need a good, long vacation."
And so the new normal begins.
I am fairly certain she no longer regards this as home. I am no longer certain where home is for her.
My younger sister and I picked her up from the airport. My older sister flew with her from Florida, turned around and went back on the next flight out. I am certain she giggled manically all the way back. I know I would have.
My younger sister and I took Mom out to eat before parting ways. Mom can no longer put a cohesive sentence together but it was fairly evident something was bothering her. Several times during the meal she started to cry. The first few times we did our best to try to understand what it was, but eventually changed the subject, trying to get her to focus on something else.
For a few brief moments on the way home, Mom was almost lucid. She asked me about the farm. She asked what vegetables were ready. She asked about the grass King spends three days cutting every week. But then she slipped back into whatever world it is she lives in and lost touch with reality.
The closer we got to home the more frantic she became. I got off the highway thinking perhaps if we drove along the lake shore she might start recognizing things and calm down a little. It didn't help.
"This isn't the right way. We aren't going the right way."
"Yes it is Mom, I thought you might like to look at the lake."
But she became more and more agitated.
She kept saying, "We were all there in Grand Rapids. What did I do wrong? Why did everyone leave?"
I tried to explain to her that everyone went home. But names have no meaning for her. Telling her Kay went home to her husband in Florida meant nothing. She didn't know who Kay was. She didn't know what Florida was and she certainly didn't know what a husband was.
Then the frantic tears started. I pulled over twice to try to reason with her. Finally I gave up and ignored her. It is so very, very difficult to know whether the tears are real or a ploy for attention. I don't think she's cognoscente enough to use the ploy, but patience was wearing thin.
Then she started pleading, "Please God, help me."
I lost it. I should have continued to ignore her. Instead I took the low road. "Mom, I sincerely doubt God is going to turn this car around and take you to some imaginary safe haven. We are going back to the farm."
Then she started, "Please God, just take me."
Hmmmm. Yes, the thought was there. I am that horrible.
While she was gone we had moved all her bedroom furniture -- a beautiful set she and Dad received as a gift when they got married -- from my younger sister's home where Mom had lived prior to moving in with us to her room at our house. I had hoped things would calm down when she got into the house and saw all her furniture. She barely acknowledged it.
I let her wander for a while and then suggested we unpack.
"I have to wait to make sure it's okay."
I assured her it was okay. If she didn't unpack she would have no place to sleep as her suitcase was taking up the entire bed.
"But I have to go to Grand Rapids to help that woman with her two girls."
Well, now I was lost. Mom was quite adamant about it. The girls were 10 and 11 years old and Mom was supposed to help take care of them.
Mom and Dad had a home in Grand Rapids before they moved to Hamilton. My sisters were probably seven and nine when they moved. Was she talking about going back to Grand Rapids to take care of her own children? No one is certain who this woman and the children are, but Mom was quite convinced she needed to be there to take care of them.
I finally convinced her to unpack and left her to her own devices as to where things were to go, surreptitiously going into her room to figure out where things were so I could help her find them later. My granddaughter and I took her for a ride to the pier and then out to eat. She still kept asking me if the woman said it was going to be okay if she stayed with me.
"Of course it is Mom. She was delighted you had a place near the beach."
"She's not mad?"
"No she thinks you need a good, long vacation."
And so the new normal begins.
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