Cleaning clutter

Those who knew Mom know her house was always neat, clean, comfortable, inviting and most of all . . . clutter-free.

Everything had a place and we were taught at an early age to put things away -- in their place -- where they always could be easily found. Even the most mundane of things had a place and were kept clutter-free.

Mom had a magazine basket where she kept current copies of Better Homes and Garden, Readers Digest and Early American Life. She read each issue and kept them until the next issue came out. Those magazines that contained articles she wanted to save and re-read were book-marked with a small scrap of paper and moved to the bottom of the pile. But the magazine basket was never overflowing. I have no idea how she managed not to save every issue of every magazine, but other than the recycled Church Herald-turned-flyswatter, magazines were kept for a month and then disappeared from the house forever. No one ever thought to ask where they went. They were simply . . . gone.

The magazines she decided to save might have an article of a place she wanted to visit, a recipe she wanted to try, or a living room decoration she wanted to copy. If a piece of furniture was good enough for Martha Washington, it was good enough for Mom. She would pull our her copy of Early American Life look at photos of Martha's Keeping Room and ask anyone who would listen, "What do you think?"  She would ponder, think and collect things to make her decorations. Then one day her new decoration/piece of furniture would be there in the house and the magazine would be gone. Mom was good at decorating. She made it look effortless. It was tasteful. Elegant. And she seldom spent a lot of money.

She was also very good at eliminating clutter.

I always remember her kitchen as a warm, welcoming space. I can still picture Mom at work at the stove making dinner (almost always from scratch) or making cookies at the counter. Truth be told, Mom's kitchen was tiny by today's "open concept" standards. But Mom knew how to maximize space. She knew how to make limited storage work and she knew that when decorating, less is almost always more.

I tried to find my own style. I think I've got it. It's called early marriage. Our house is still filled with cast-offs, poster art and mis-matched furniture. It suits us. It's not fussy. Not that I'd ever call Mom fussy. She wasn't.

Visitors to my home will find stacks of magazines in corners, two knitting projects on the coffee table (one has been there almost five years), an occasional dust bunny and a plethora of eclectic decorations.

King must have been an interior decorator in a past life as he likes to hang pictures (about a foot from the ceiling) and re-arrange furniture regularly. I recall coming home late one evening after a rather long, boring city council meeting. Visions of writing a news article and going do bed were dancing in my head. King, however, had other plans.  The living room had been moved into the dining room and the dining room into the living room. I had to hunt for the computer and then reconnect everything. However frustrated I may find myself  over our new home designs I have found it's best not to say anything. His heart is in the right place and the more unusual arrangements seldom last.

The truth is, I can live with unusual furniture arrangements. I can live with artwork hanging from the ceiling. I can live with plastic shelving units in my living room. But the kitchen? That is my domain. I often bemoan the fact my kitchen is tiny. But I took a good, long, honest look at it the other day and realized that -- other than room for the kitchen table (I have no space) -- my kitchen is the same size as Mom's. I have exactly the same amount of counter and cupboard space and my stove and refrigerator have an almost identical arrangement as Mom's kitchen. In fact, I have a space-saving Lazy Susan cupboard in a place where Mom had dead space. Score one for me.

But my kitchen is not Mom's kitchen. Canning jars line the counter. Cutting boards lean against the back splash. Appliances need to find a place to stay when not in use . . . What is needed is a major de-cluttering. So this past week I dug in, which of course meant the laundry room also had to be cleaned to make room for the de-cluttered kitchen. It doesn't look too bad and I find myself actually wanting to be in there.

I think Mom was onto something there.  Score one for her.

The long goodbye

Every once in a while I will do a Google search on the various stages of Alzheimer's Disease. I suppose it is a morbid curiosity that keeps me going back. Or perhaps I have a small sliver of hope that something will change and I can announce, "Sorry folks, it was all a mistake. Mom doesn't have Alzheimer's. We just miss-read the signs.She'll be better in a week or two."

But that is not the case. And I have come to realize what many sites mean when they talk about "The Long Goodbye."

Yes, it is a long, painful goodbye.

Mom seems to slip a little further each day. The look of joy when we walk into her room is too quickly replaced by a vacant stare. When she occasionally says a few words, it is a surprise to all of us. It doesn't seem fair that a woman who was so vibrant, so active, so  knowledgeable could be reduced to someone who can no longer spell her name. It's a long, slow march toward the end.

I often miss my father, but saying a final goodbye to him was much easier than watching Mom deteriorate. We often wonder how much further she can slip away, although in truth we know it is going to get worse. Much worse. And we ask one another, "What do we tell people when they ask 'How is your mother?'"  Telling someone, "Mom is still here. She's still with us, but she's been gone a long, long time," doesn't begin to convey how Mom truly is.

Yesterday was our weekly family Mom visit. My sisters and I go individually throughout the week, but we try to get together once a week for a "family" visit.

When mom sees us she doesn't ask to go for a ride any more. I don't know if she's lost the ability to ask or if she is simply too tired. She is at the stage where there is little verbal communication. She can smile, she stands and hugs us when we walk into the room, but she doesn't ask if we came in a car or if it's nice outside. In the past those were indications she wanted to go somewhere. And it is getting difficult to take her out. There is the danger of falls, there is the incontinence, it's the flu season . . .It sounds like excuses to outsiders. But it is a cold, hard reality.

So this week as an experiment we decided to bring our weekly "coffee" to Mom rather than take her out. My sister brought muffins and our granddaughter and I stopped at Starbucks for coffee to go.

Generally when we go out for breakfast we get Mom a hot chocolate or pumpkin spice cappuccino.

Starbucks has a few more choices.

Our granddaughter studied the menu board for a few minutes and decided she wanted some type of iced caramel coffee thingy with whipped cream. It was easier to say "make it two and two black coffees" rather than stare blindly at the menu trying to figure out what Mom would like. 

Mom used to drink her coffee black. Strong. Vile. Gut wrenching awful. She drank it all day long. I have memories of the peculator pot on the back of the stove when I was very small, and in later years, after she discovered instant coffee, her tea kettle could be ready at the turn of a knob.  In the evening when we would gather in the living room to watch TV Mom would sit in her chair with her coffee in a mug on the coffee table next to her and some sewing or mending project on her lap. Apparently caffeine didn't keep her up at night.

As it turns out my Starbucks caramel coffee thingy  was not a good choice for Mom. She took a sip and made a face. I'm not sure what the problem was, but obviously she was not a fan. So my sister offered her some of her coffee.

If Mom was not a fan of the caramel thingy, she absolutely hated the black coffee. She made a grimacing face, grabbed her napkin and rubbed her tongue. Ok then. No more coffee. We'll figure something else out for next time.

Maybe a nice herbal tea?

Family secrets

Last week was King's 60th birthday. As a surprise for him our daughter, her husband and twin sons flew in to Michigan to help celebrate the occasion. Since I knew they were going to be home in December, I decided to host the family Christmas party over the weekend while they were here.

I am sure King wondered why we were having the Christmas party so early in the season. And I'm sure he was a more than a little concerned about our trying to host the event in our tiny house. Having everyone over in the summer when we can gather around the outdoor fire pit is one thing. Trying to squeeze 25 adults and children into our tiny house in December is quite another. Other than telling me a few times there was no way we could fit everyone into our house, he didn't argue too much.. He learned long ago I will defer to him to a point and then I will dig in my heels and say, "This is the way it MUST be."

I couldn't tell him we were hosting the party at a large home near the lake that our daughter and son-in-law had rented for the occasion. So I to let him think I was crazy enough to try to fit everyone in our home.

Despite his misgivings about our limited space he started decorating for the occasion. He put up the outdoor Christmas decorations and helped me decorate the tree (which will be dead long before Christmas since it was put up so early). Much of the fun was working to keep the surprise visit a secret. There were a lot of clandestine meeting with our sons to get portable cribs, gather extra baby toys and get high chairs.

King said he had hoped our daughter and her family would be able to make it to Michigan as they had been in Nashville for Thanksgiving, visiting our son-in-law's mother. Tennessee is much closer to Michigan than California so he had been holding out some hope.

When I left the house last week to set up the cribs at the rental and was gone for several hours, he said he hoped I was on my way to the airport to pick them up. When I arrived home empty-handed, he simply wondered where I had been. Their eventual arrival was a surprise. And King was thrilled.

The family Christmas party is a tradition that started when our oldest son was a toddler -- some 38 years ago.

Those first parties were held at my sisters home in West Bloomfield. By the time our family moved to Glenn the parties had moved to my parents home -- we all crowded into Mom and Dad's house and laughed, ate, played games and ate some more.

Mom loved those parties. It was probably the biggest event of the year for her. She would plan the menu, buy staples weeks in advance and agonize over just the right gift for each grandchild.

Although throughout the year she would tell us she and Dad had to be careful with their money as they were on a "fixed income," when it came to Christmas there were no holds barred. She bought for everyone. (As a sidebar here, aren't we all on a fixed income)? 

One year, as an economizing measure, we convinced Mom we should draw names. Mom went along with the plan -- sort of -- as we were drawing names for the adults she was planning what she would buy for the grandchildren with the extra money.

Amid all the chaos of those events, with kids yelling excitedly about what they had received, and Dads digging through waist high wrapping paper strewn on the floor looking for missing toy parts, Mom would sit down next to Dad, smile at him and say, "See what you started?"

Mom meets the twins for the first time.

This year Mom sat in the family room and watched the children play. She didn't know who we were, or who the children were, but she was the most animated she's been in months. She kept exclaiming, "Those are twins, aren't they!"

It was bittersweet. Our children remembered the Grandmother who is no more and their children wondered who the old lady in the chair was and why everyone kept telling them to hug her.

And the party was everything everyone had hoped it would be. Lots of food, air hockey in the basement, presents, talking, more food, Trivial Pursuit and Pictionary. Controlled chaos and fun.

The letdown was gradual. First our sons left. Lots of goodbyes and promises to get together later in the month.  It was sad to have it end as quickly as it started.

We spent another two days with our daughter's family, but that, too, ended much too soon.

This morning we helped them load their rental car and watched as they headed to the airport. We walked through their house looking one last time for anything left behind, closed the door and went home.

The forbidden words

Growing up we knew better than to ever swear in front of Mom. Common, vulgar or coarse language was simply not allowed. And taking the Lord's name in vain was never an option. Even the words "Holy Cow" were frowned upon. "Cows aren't holy," she would say. (Well, at least not -- for the most part -- in the United States).

In fact, so ingrained in our tender psyches was the the list of forbidden words that I can still remember the first time I swore. I said sh-- while my younger sister and I were building a snow fort and the carefully mounded snow for our opening caved in. I think I was 12. (A few months later I let loose with a few more choice words when thrown from a horse, but that's another story).

Mom also had a  list of colloquialisms that were not allowed. The list included:

• Yet too -- also, as well (I think I have to peel those potatoes yet too).
• Maint'en -- As in you may not do that. (You maint'en cross the street without the crossing guard to assist you. You might get into trouble yet too if you do).
• Main't -- see above.
• Ain't -- are not, is not, am not. (I ain't going to say ain't).
• Ain so -- As in correct or right? (All the stores are closed in Hamilton on Sunday, ain so)?
• Oh guy or oh ha -- A Dutch colloquialism for Oh my or Oh man. (Oh guy! Now I have to peel those potatoes yet too).
• Whatcha - As in Whatcha gonna do? (Peeling potatoes is a difficult task, but whatcha gonna do?)
• Doncha know -- Don't you know? (Now she has to peel those potatoes yet too, doncha know?)
• Seen -- I seen it on TV.
• Ma - A huge mistake and never used.

My sisters and I also had list of words we would use to tease Mom:

• Palm for Psalm (Biblical)
• Swa-vay for suave
• De-Boner for debonair
• Sop-his-ta-cated for sophisticated
• Fa-cade for facade 

Mom would always admonish, "One day you are going to use those words in front of someone, they are going to correct you, and you will be embarrassed."

Mom was right, of course. One day I let fa-cade slip out in front of an editor, who did, of course correct me. There wasn't much I could do. . . . Busted. By a word-smith.

But, surprisingly one of the biggest forbidden words was "Shut up."

Growing up, we were led to believe that telling someone to "Shut up" was akin to using the most vulgar word in the English language. It was simply not allowed.

In dire circumstances we were allowed to use "Be Quite" or Mom's favorite, "Keep still," but somehow those just don't have the same emphatic emphasis that "shut up" does.

I had forgotten the forbidden word until the other day my sister reminded me. We were having breakfast with Mom at our usual Saturday morning gathering when she said, "Do you remember how Mom felt about saying 'Shut up?'"

How could one forget? One of my siblings loved to tease and tease and tease.



Bellowing "Be Quite" when being teased unmercifully only serves to encourage more teasing.  I fear I was tormented often just so she could see me clench my fists, tense my knees, turn red-faced and yell, "Be Quite!"

Oh Guy! The teasing was relentless, yet too, doncha know.

The start of the season

It is hard to believe Thanksgiving is less than a week away. Next week at this time King will be zoned out in front of the TV watching yet another episode of "Travel down the Gridiron." My eyes will be glazed over and I'll be counting the hours until I can actually GO to work, where--  if they can get the cable fixed -- the sports desk will be watching the same TV show. There will be no escape.

Thanksgiving will be a small affair at our home this year. Just Mom, my sister, King, our granddaughter and myself. Which is fine as I have to work later in the afternoon. So we will have a simple meal around noon and about the time Mom starts wringing her hands, obsessing over something only she understands, it will be time for her to go home and for me to go to work.

Friday some of the kids and their families will be coming over for leftovers. I promised our son, since he is married to a vegetarian, I'd save some turkey for him.  Guess I'll need to buy a big bird.

I will start preparing early next week by purchasing a turkey. I have potatoes in the house, but King prefers instant potatoes and stuffing from a box (I know, I know). My sister will be bringing some pies and green bean casserole. That will be it. A no-fuss Thanksgiving.

Mom would not approve.

She would begin weeks ahead of the holiday. Cookies would be baked. Applesauce made. Cranberries ground into relish. Ingredients for pies purchased. Frozen bread dough stocked in the freezer. Her sterling  brought out and polished, Thanksgiving decorations set out and, maybe, she might hang one tastefully placed Christmas wreath.

King has already put up the outdoor decorations and we've begun our annual discussion of whether the lights around the garden are white or blue. (They are blue). I came home from work one evening and he and our granddaughter had set up my Christmas Village. . . on plastic shelves that had been in storage for years and were not cleaned before being set up. I scrubbed the part facing the front and removed cobwebs.

Mom definitely wold not approve.

But I am my own woman and I kind of enjoy it. I may even hang Christmas stockings from the ceiling fan.

Support the local retailer

Those of you who know me know I come from a small town. The fact that it has it own zip code doesn't seem to matter to some copy editors. It is a gathering of businesses within a township as far as they are concerned. For me, it's my hometown, village, or whatever you want to call it. But Hamilton is where I am from -- where I grew up, what made me a part of what I am today.

And Mom shopped there. Faithfully.

Our material for 4H projects came from the Variety Store across from the grocery store. Both stores had wood floors that creaked. They had screen doors with springs that screeched open and banged shut. It was a sure sign of spring with the heavy winter doors were removed and the wooden screen doors took their place.

Every Mother's Day my sisters and I would go to the Variety Store and shop for a present for Mom. Carnival glass, tea cups, a punch bowl set and numerous other inexpensive gifts came from that store. Today I could pay four times the price I paid then for those same items.

All of our groceries came from a store with one checkout counter and four aisles. My hometown had two grocery stores. One on either side of the river that ran through town. They were all of 45 seconds apart. Mom shopped at the store that was on the south side. I assume it was because that is where we lived -- on the south side. It was only after the store closed that Mom started shopping across the river.

Both stores had butchers and sold fresh ground beef. Mom ordered her Thanksgiving turkey and bought all the fixing for Thanksgiving dinner at that local store.

When Fred Meijer opened a store on the north end of Holland (it was called Meijer Thrifty Acres back then), Mom and Dad checked it out. Such a selection! Such prices! But Mom steadfastly continued to shop locally. Who had time or the gas money to drive to Holland when there was a local store that carried everything you needed?

Every week Mom would sit down and make out her grocery list. Bread, milk eggs, cereal, butter. She made her list in the order things were found in the store so she could cross them off as she placed them in her cart. My sisters and I would add things like: candy, money, toys to the list. She didn't always find humor in our additions. Grocery shopping was serious business. Because if nothing else, Mom was frugal.

I'd love to take a page from her book, but I don't believe King would survive. Or at least HE doesn't think he could. Chips, pop, doughnuts, caramel corn and bologna. Try as I might, I can't wean him off what he considers staples.

I think about Mom and her shopping and her loyalty every time I drive to the grocery store. I've become accustomed to wide aisles, a huge selection and the convenience of big box shopping. It hasn't saved me any money. If I were to take a long, hard, truthful look at my grocery receipts I would probably find I could save more money by paying higher prices at stores with less "extras."

I think it's time to go back to basics.

Happy Birthday Mom

Mom turned 92 Monday. While marking 92 years is quite an accomplishment, had Mom known what

her life was going to be like I don't believe she would have wanted it this way.

Birthdays were always a time of celebration. In the past when any of her siblings marked a birthday they invited everyone to their home to celebrate.

If I try to remember one birthday in particular, I can't. They all sort of blend together. But I do recall bits of Mom's 50th birthday. It must have been a Friday night as Mom asked my sister and I to hang around at home until her family arrived (for appearance sake, I'm sure). After every one arrived we were free to go to the high school football game.

Aunts and uncles arrived from Grand Rapids at the designated hour (are Dutch people ever late?) and Mom greeted them at the back door. Family ALWAYS came in through the back door.

My Uncle Jim, who loved to tease, kissed her on the cheek and said, "Fifty! That's half a century. You are getting old." Mom was the youngest of nine children.

But the celebrations always followed the same general format. Everyone would crowd into the living room -- the men on one end and the women on the other. I never knew what they talked about as we learned at an early age to kind of tune out adult conversations. (And let's be honest here, that skill came from years of sitting for hours on end in church on Sunday -- morning and evening services).  Eyes would glaze over and soon all one heard was a low rumbling of indistinguishable voices while the mind wandered in a million directions.

But time marches on . . . Forty-two years later there are no siblings left to celebrate Mom's birthday. And Mom is not aware that she had a birthday.

When I arrived at the home Monday she was sitting in the dining room with a few other residents. She was happy to see me -- as always. But when we got into her room and I asked if she wanted to go out for coffee, all I got was a blank stare. She didn't ask if we were going to go somewhere so I sat with her to wait to see what she was going to do. I wish we could have a conversation but that is impossible. I turned on the TV and we sat in silence for a while longer. Mom fell asleep. After an hour I left.

When my younger sister visited her in the afternoon she was more alert and they went out for ice cream. That was the extent of Mom's birthday . . . A sign outside her room wishing her a happy birthday, a few cards from well wishers she no longer remembers and a visit from her daughters.

What a difference for Mom. No planning what she was going to serve. No enduring Uncle Jim's teasing. No adults crowded into her living room. Just a tired, confused little lady.

Life being what it is, I suppose we could dwell on what was and bemoan the fact her life that will never be what it was. But that would get us nowhere.

So today I picked myself up and started in again. Daily routines bring back memories of Mom. And that's okay. Little things will bring a flood of memories.

King brought home a bag of apples the other day. A big bag. I made applesauce and canned some of it. There were still apples left over. Looking at them day in and day out reminded me of Mom and Dad.

After Dad retired they would collect apples from various farmers in the area and store them in the garage until it was time for their church to put together Thanksgiving baskets. Every basket got some of the apples Mom and Dad had squirreled away. Mom made applesauce with the leftover apples.

My bag of apples was still in the kitchen. I was feeling Mom-ish, so I made more applesauce and a pot of goulash for lunch. It was one of Mom's go-to meals.

I brought the apple peels and cores out to the chickens, King was out in the woods planting English walnut trees, the dog was sniffing the chickens, apples were simmering on the stove.

All is right with the world.

We test the limits

I think I may have written about the winter we got a plethora of snow in Hamilton.

My sister and I were talking about it the other day. The two of us remembered different things about that winter. I remember they canceled 4H Snow Camp for my older sister, the never ending snow that sometimes obliterated the view of the row of pine trees behind the pasture and sitting at the kitchen table each morning, listening to the list of school cancellations on WHTC: "All Hamilton Schools will be closed today. All Hamilton schools will be closed."

My sister remembers two weeks of no school and rescheduling exams. She also remembers a phone call from our father. . ."Do you know where your Mother is?"

"I guess she's in the house somewhere, Dad."

"No, she's right here in my office. She walked here to get away from you girls. NOW BEHAVE."

Opps. I guess everyone has their limits. And when Dad cleared his throat or gave a command, we generally gave him our full attention. Apparently he was not pleased with our behavior.

Although my sisters and I are pretty close now, it wasn't always that way. Mom and Dad basically had two families. My two older sisters are close together in age and then there is an eight year gap and my younger sister and I came along in close succession. The older girls shared a bedroom and my younger sister and I shared a bedroom.  It stands to reason we were closer to the sister who was closer in age. But four snow-bound girls can entertain each other only so long and then resort to probably what was pretty obnoxious behavior -- testing the limits of even the most sainted person.

Mom and Dad were the traditional family of their generation. Dad went to work and Mom stayed home and took care of the house and kids. Dad managed a dog food company. There were a few years when Mom worked for Dad in the lab testing dog food (for the uninformed, dog food batches are tested hourly for fat and protein content -- among other things). But for the most part Mom was a stay-at-home Mom.

But that's not to say Mom spent her time in the house cooking, cleaning and sewing. Mom was pretty involved in the community. She was a 4H community leader -- she and a friend started the Riverview 4H Club in Hamilton --  she served on a variety of committees with the church, was active in that conservative political party, served on the county board of social services and worked on a variety of committees at the high school.

Once Dad retired they both became active volunteers. I always thought volunteering was something Mom did because it was . . . well . . . something she did. But apparently they both believed in giving back to the community. In fact, in their much later years they were extremely active in the churches in Glenn and, after they moved, Grand Haven.

And in some small way I'm glad they did that. Otherwise I would have to believe all that volunteering Mom did when we were young was because we had pushed the limits a little to much and she couldn't spend all her time hiding out in Dad's office.

I know I'm slipping

I may have posted this before, and forgive me if it's a repeat, but I was reminded of this once again after finding a letter from Mom as I was cleaning my desk

I have a folder in my desk where I keep birthday cards, special school projects and other mementos. This year as I was putting away my birthday cards, I was thinking about our granddaughter, who is now in kindergarten. She explained in great detail how she had signed her name herself and wanted me to notice the colored hearts she had drawn as well. It is one of those simple memories I hope I can hold in my heart forever.

As I was sliding the folder back into it's cubby, a letter from Mom slid out. It was one she had written on my birthday in 2010. It is hard to believe it was written just four short years ago. It was the last letter I ever received from her.

The letter begins, "I know I am slipping, I try the best I can."

How horrible and frightening it must be to know you are losing your mind -- to realize that things you once took for granted were now becoming more difficult.

Mom's letter included little bits of their daily life. She wrote about how she and Dad had taken a two-month trial membership to the YMCA and they were going every day. She noted she walked 19 laps -- which was a mile -- and how Dad "tried everything," which I took to mean he worked out on all the equipment.

It was a month later, while they were in the car getting ready to the gym, that Dad had a stroke. Mom said they were backing out of the garage when Dad's hands fell from the steering wheel and he told her he really didn't feel much like working out that day. She said he spent the rest of the day napping on the couch. It was later that afternoon that a neighbor found Mom in a panic in the driveway. Dad was unconscious in the bathroom and Mom didn't know how to call 9-1-1. She called my sister at work and left a panicked message on  my son's answering machine. Then she stood in the driveway waiting for help. The neighbor called for an ambulance.

Mom and Dad's life changed considerably after that. We had been concerned with Dad's driving. While Dad would have been content to sit at home and watch Matlock re-runs, Mom needed her daily outing "fix." Dad always obliged. We knew Dad's reflexes were slowing down, but didn't quite know how to take his driver's license away from him. His stroke made the decision much more simple. By law he could not drive. Mom hadn't driven in years.

My sisters and I began chauffeuring them where they needed to go.Shortly after Christmas I took them to the airport and they flew to Florida to spend some time with my older sister and her family.

We all began to notice Mom was not altogether "with it" any longer, but Dad still did a fairly decent job of covering for her. And Dad was slowing down too so it was easy to let ourselves believe it was all part of the aging process. To some extent I suppose it was.

It is also easy  to look back and say, "Yup, we should have noticed this, or we should have noticed that."  But Mom has been hard-of-hearing all her life so it was much simpler to chalk up her confusion to her not being able to hear.

Sometimes, in frustration,  Dad accused her of not trying. And of course it did appear she wasn't trying. But Mom was trying. And she knew she wasn't quite right. And like her hearing loss, she did her best to hide it.

Mom's doctor did what he could. Vitamin B shots, working to keep her thyroid in balance . . . all things that if left unchecked can cause confusion.

But in the end, there is no cure. There is no getting better. All anyone can do is watch a loved one slowly sink into their own little world and try to take comfort in the fact that this would not be their choice, that they are not behaving strangely on purpose and if they could be different they would.

Thank you to the staff

I went to visit Mom early in the day last week. I am truly impressed with the care she is receiving.

I would have to say too often we are critical of those who care for our loved ones and far too seldom we let them know we appreciate what they are doing.

Mom had slept in that morning. Kind of a-typical for Mom as she had always been an early riser. But then lets face it, Mom isn't really Mom any more. So when I arrived staff members were getting Mom dressed for the day.

It takes a lot of patience to have to help someone who can't remember how to pull on pants. It takes a lot of patience to have to repeat over and over again: "Lather your hands, rinse them off, dry them on the towel." We do it with our children, but Mom is chronologically far from a being a child.

Breakfast had already been served, but they were setting a place for her at the table and were getting ready to bring her to the table to eat.

No one was grumpy or cross about the added work. They were accepting and concerned with her comfort.

One of the aides said to me, "She looked so peaceful and comfortable sleeping this morning I didn't want to disturb her."

When Mom moved into the nursing home 14 months ago, she was confused and could not remember a lot of things. . . simple things like how to set a table, or how to measure 12 cups of water into a pot to make humming bird syrup. But she was able to dress herself, take care of her own personal needs in the bathroom and could join in during craft sessions.

Today she can do none of those. It's not because of neglect. It's not because she is depressed. It's simply the progression of the disease. We have been told she still goes to craft sessions, but now she is one of the residents who sits and watches rather than participates.

But the staff is accepting and works to make her as comfortable as possible.

For many months Mom attached herself to the activity aide at the home. Mom would follow her around throughout the day. The aide told us how Mom liked to help get things ready for tea parties and generally seemed to enjoy helping out. Mom doesn't do that any longer either.

She has become needy and clingy. Which is okay. I understand her missing us -- even though she can't fully comprehend who we are -- and not wanting us to leave after a visit.

But when Mom attached herself to the aide and made it difficult for the woman to go home at the end of her shift, I was surprised at the aide's reaction.

She told us, "I hated to see her so upset, so I called home and said I would be a little late. I sat with your Mom until she fell asleep." That is kindness. That is caring. That is compassion.


Do I wish I could still care for Mom at home? Absolutely. Do I still feel pangs of guilt for having her move to a nursing home? Of course. Could I take care of Mom twenty-four/seven? Not a chance. My sisters and I know our limitations. We know the limitations of our families.

We are grateful there are those who are capable and can do it with love, kindness and patience.

Art lessons

I spent an enjoyable day this past weekend with a friend from Mount Pleasant viewing the art projects at ArtPrize in Grand Rapids.

If Mom were in her right mind, she would have enjoyed parts of it and would have been completely confused by others. She could sometimes have a closed mind about things that did not fit what she considered "the norm."

I have always been frustrated by art and I hated art classes in school. I had  perfectly good ideas of what I wanted to create. I simply could never go from concept to reality. "Draw what you see," was an adage that did not work for me. I could see fine. It simply would not translate to something on paper. Mom may not have been an artist in the sense of being a painter or sculpture, but she could take an idea and turn it into an article of clothing in an afternoon.

For the most part, Mom enjoyed art. One of the last trips Mom, my sisters and I took together on a "girls weekend out," was to the Chicago Institute of Art to see the van Gogh exhibit.We all enjoyed it, but Mom was especially enthralled.

Years ago when I was an editor of a small weekly paper in West Michigan I was invited to cover the unveiling of an art project at Ox Bow in Saugatuck. For the uninformed, Ox Bow is a part of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. (http://www.ox-bow.org). Ox Bow has a unique history and for many years was somewhat shrouded in mystery which intrigued Mom. When the invitation to attend the unveiling came, I invited Mom to join me.

The project was the creation of an art professor from Western Michigan University who had taken a year sabbatical to work on the project. We arrived at Ox Bow to find him sitting in a lawn chair staring out at the lagoon contemplating. . . something. Students were milling about listening to music.

Suddenly he jumped up and announced it was time. Everyone starting milling around at an increased rate, but there didn't seem to be much getting accomplished.

It took a while but eventually a large sphere was floated out onto the water and filled with helium. Jutting out from the sphere were long cylindrical appendages. With lights shining onto it and shinning from within, it was actually quite impressive. 

We all sat on the shore, swatting mosquitoes, and watched the lights playing on the water and the breeze rippling across the appendages. I did my interview, snapped a few photos and then we left.

"That was odd," Mom said to me.

"Really Mom? I thought it was kind of fun."

"I suppose," she said. "But that thing looked like a cow's udder to me."

Looking for Mom

It's been an emotional few days for me. Our granddaughter, who has been living with us for the past 10 years, moved home to be with her father.

I knew this day would eventually come. We had discussed it. We thought about it. We dissected and analyzed the pros and cons. In the end I wasn't prepared for it. In my mind it wasn't supposed to happen for another four years -- when I helped her pack her bags for college.

So I walked around the house with a huge lump in my throat. I peeked upstairs into her room. It was messy as always. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to know it was unoccupied. Then I walked away and pretended the house didn't have a second floor.

I miss the teen angst. I miss our evenings together watching some of the most stupid teen reality shows ever filmed. I miss hounding her about her homework. I miss listening to her talk with star-crossed happiness about this boy or that boy talking to her. I even miss the adolescent attitude (okay, only a little).

My own angst has not gone unnoticed by King. I think perhaps the red, puffy eyes are a little bit of a telltale sign. He has started going with me on trips to the post office. He has taken me for rides in the country. We even drove past Mom and Dad's former house along the lake.

He's trying. But what I need is my mother.

I know Mom's mind is gone. There would be no way to explain to her that her great-granddaughter moved home to be with her grandson. But I still needed her. So I went to visit her and took her out for pumpkin pie and coffee. We sat in silence. Every now and then she would look up, smile and say, "I love you." 

I don't know if she knows I am her daughter or if I'm simply someone who comes to visit and takes her out for coffee.

It doesn't matter.

I watched her eat her pie. I remembered how she would make two pumpkin pies, an apple pie and banana cream pie for Thanksgiving. I thought about the traditions we always enjoyed during the holidays. I watched as she sliced the whipped cream with her knife. I wondered what was going through her mind to make her want to do that. I wondered why her mind can't process the simple task of washing her hands (she lathers them up with soap and then forgets to rinse them off) but she remembers to say "Thank you" when someone holds a door open for her.

I imagined what she would say to me if I could tell her how sad I was.

She once told me when she was living in Ann Arbor and Dad was in Europe during World War II, she would go for long walks when she was feeling sad.

I remember her talking about the lump in her own throat when the house emptied after the holidays. "It's (the lump) always there when everyone leaves," she told me. "But I get busy and it goes away."

Taking Mom out for coffee wasn't the solace I was looking for, but it was comforting in it's own way. Even though I wasn't able to tell her what was going on, the memories of her as she was and what she might have said helped ease the hurt.

And I keep holding tight to those memories because I fear when she is gone all I will remember is the woman she has become.

The battle with the squirrels and acorns

It's funny how a simple walk across the lawn can bring back memories.

We have several large, old oak trees in our yard. This fall the ground is filled with acorns -- much more than in past years. I've watched the squirrels hoard the nuts. I suppose they are readying for either the worst winter ever or one with little snow at all, depending on which prognosticator you would believe.

King and I don't pay too much attention to the acorns. They keep the squirrels busy and out of the bird feeders and I guess that's a good thing. I think our neighbor stays up nights working on plans to keep them out. I've seen him put cages around the feeders (it gives the squirrels a place to rest as they reach in to spirit away the seeds); I've seen him use expensive squirrel guards (they don't work) and I've even watched as he electrified the feeders (I don't get it either).

My parents were as adamant about keeping squirrels out of their bird feeders as well. I think the best deterrent  was Mom's wooden spoon.

They had a bird feeder hanging outside their kitchen window. Mom could wash dishes and watch the birds eat as she was working. Apparently one day an enterprising squirrel climbed down from the roof and onto the feeder. Mom said he appeared to enjoy swinging on the feeder as much as he did stealing the food inside. Regardless, having the little thief stealing from her right before her eyes would not do, so she quietly slid the window open and wrapped the the offensive thief on the nose with a wooden spoon.

"He just ran off and rubbed his little nose, but came right back for more," Mom said.

It's not as if my parents were opposed to squirrels. They set out food for them as well, but I guess the squirrels had a difficult time distinguishing between their food and the food for the birds.

If Mom and Dad didn't like squirrels and birds co-mingling their food, they abhorred the abundant acorns that filled their yard each fall.

When I was growing up we had a mixture of oak and maple trees in our yard. Toward the end of October Mom would announce that the upcoming Saturday would be leave raking day. We were all expected to pitch in and help rake leaves. It was a big yard. But fortunately back then leaves could still be burned and we would have several piles burning in our gravel driveway and would roast hot dogs over the fire for lunch. I still love the smell of burning leaves.

Mom had a little pronged stick which she would use to dig acorns out of the lawn. She didn't want seedlings starting to add to our front yard forest, and she also maintained the acorns damaged the grass. She didn't spend a lot of time on it, but she did remove many of the offending nuts.

When they moved to their first retirement home, their yard was kept natural, so the acorns were not much of a concern.

Then came the second move. Mom and Dad once again had a large yard filled with oak trees. An invitation to visit them in the fall meant one thing: time to rake the leaves. By this time Mom and Dad were in their 80s and truly needed all the help they could get. So we were happy to do it. But there was no pleasant smell of burning leaves -- they had to be bagged and hauled away. And there were a lot of them. One round of raking netted us 90 bags. And that was simply round one.

And Mom and Dad absolutely obsessed about the acorns. Dad bought a lawn vacuum. Now these things are touted to be the best thing in the world for sucking up and mulching leaves. In theory it probably works. But my parents yard was sometimes buried under a foot of wet, slippery oak leaves. There wasn't a Hoover built that could put a dent in their yard. Instead Dad used his vacuum to suck up acorns after the lawn was raked. He would store those bad boys in their garden shed by the bushel -- many, many bushels. Had we been thinking we could have bagged the up and sold them to craft supply stores and made a small fortune.

So as I walked across our yard today, kicking the acorns as I went, I thought about grabbing a handful to give to Mom on my next visit. I quickly discarded the idea. On the off chance she would remember how hard she and Dad worked to rid their yard of them, bringing her some now simply would not seem right.

Have I become my parents?

Now do you believe in rock and roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow? -- Don McLean, American Pie

Dad hated Rock n Roll. Or at least he claimed to. Those lyrics he could understand, he ridiculed. Those he couldn't understand me made fun of for being unrecognizable. Dad could be exasperating and for the most part we just learned to roll our eyes (behind his back) and ignore his rants.

When the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan in February 1964, Dad went ballistic. He ranted about the long hair. He made fun of the screaming fans. He told us a song about wanting to hold someone's hand was stupid.

Yet, he must have been someone curious about the musicians from Liverpool. I recall rushing home from church on Sunday evening to watch the show.  I was eight at the time, which means my older sisters were in high school.

Church started at 7 p.m. and Ed Sullivan aired at 8 p.m. so we must have cut it fairly close. I've often wondered (although I never pondered it seriously) if later in my childhood when the evening church service was switched from 7 p.m. to 6 p.m. if it was so the service didn't have to compete with the likes of Ed Sullivan and Walt Disney.

But I digress -- again.

Mom and I talked once about how Dad would have handled it if he had had sons who wanted to grow their hair "long."

"I don't think your father could have managed," Mom said. It was her way of saying: I'm grateful I never had to find out.

My father never realized how fortunate he was. If my older sisters ever enjoyed music by the Stones, Hendricks, The Who, etc., they never brought it home. Playing it safe, they listened to the Lettermen, Peter Paul and Mary, the Kingston Trio, and others of a more mellow genre. What they listened to once they left for college is anyone's guess. Although I can speculate.

My younger sister and I didn't purchase a lot of albums (or eight-track tapes as it were). We listened to the radio while doing homework and getting ready for school. And we learned at an early age how to keep peace at home by following Dad's few rules. . . Although we had no curfew, we knew better than to test Dad's limits. Makeup was to be used sparingly -- and removed before Dad came home from work. Boyfriends needed to have hair neatly trimmed. By the time we were in high school that same hair length the Beatles sported in 1964 was considered conservative.

And we learned to ignore Dad and his rants. He was fairly harmless and we could roll our eyes at him when his back was turned. But truth be told we didn't do the eye-roll very often,  because despite his irritating, stubborn, pig-headed opinions about our music and his insistence we be vigilant about our appearances to the neighbors -- Dad could be pretty cool. And he did know how to have a good time.

Now there are times when I find myself making fun of the music our grand-daughter listens to.

Good grief the music is stupid. And I'm not talking about rap that denigrates women (that music is never, ever okay). I'm talking about country music that promotes the wonders of drinking beer, wearing short shorts and t-shirts, and riding around in pickup trucks. Stupid. Stupid, Stupid. Or how about the sad girl music about life being over because the boy has moved on to another. . .

Oh dear Lord. I have become my father.

Mom always did hate flies

We lived in the country. Not on a farm, but we were surrounded by a Dahlia farm, a poultry farm, a Christmas tree farm and and a celery farm. We had horses and occasionally had a steer or two that we raised from babies for beef. (Calsie I, Calsie II, Daisy and Ralph -- Daisy was not a steer, obviously).

Needless to say, there were occasions when the flies were thick on our back screen door. Every time we went in or out of the house Mom would admonish, "Don't let the flies in." Of course an occasional 10 or 20 would find their way into the house and Mom would go on a search and destroy mission.

She would run through the house with a can of Raid in her hand spraying the offending insect. She had also been known to track them down with a can of Aqua Net. I'm not sure if it was a mix-up or if she thought she could stick their wings together to make them an easier target for her favorite method of extermination -- the dreaded Church Herald.

If you were Reformed, you received the Church Herald in the mail every week. Those of the Christian Reformed persuasion received the Banner.

So every week a new flyswatter made its way into our home. Dad would deliver it with the mail and Mom would place it next to her chair in the living room to be read in the evening. Once it was read, it was rolled up and placed next to the washer -- which was in our kitchen -- and the old one was sent to the burning barrel behind the swimming pool fence. I don't ever remember having a real fly swatter in the house. The Church Herald was the perfect weight and when rolled up, fit nicely in the hand. After a day or two it even retained its rolled-up shape.

Even if the flies didn't have sticky wings from hairspray, Mom's aim was deadly accurate. We could hear her attack from any room in the house. . . Whapp! And then swish, swish as she scraped the remains off the ceiling. Then the kitchen cabinet under the sink would open and she would discard the corpse into the waste basket. Any that fell to the floor were swept up immediately.

Funny how little things can make your remember small details from childhood. We went out for coffee this morning and a fly landed on our table. Mom went after it with a vengeance, but it got away.

"I hate those things," she said to me -- her first complete sentence all day.

"Really Mom? I never knew."

Where is the Church Herald when you need it?

Generations

Last week I spent some time with our daughter and her family in San Diego.

Her twin sons turned one and she and her husband celebrated with a "We made it without killing each other and are still married" birthday party. The guest list included about 40 adults and their children. I arrived a few days early to help them get ready as our daughter decided to incorporate every party idea she saw on Pinterest. That's fine. At one point in my life I enjoyed throwing parties as well. And she really outdid herself with decorations and food.

I haven't seen our grandsons since shortly after they were born so this was a very special visit. We played on the floor, read books, went to museums (okay, so they are a little young to appreciate art), sat in fountains and played some more.

In between I watched my daughter as she made baby food, entertained her sons, cleaned house and ran errands. I marvel at the woman she has become, and wonder if my own Mother felt the same about me.

Our daughter's children are the great-grandchildren Mom will never know. She has met and played with our three sons' children and somewhere in the recesses of her mind their memories linger. Although they are too young to remember her, she still had the opportunity to read to them, bake cookies for them, and show them where Grandpa kept the candy. Only the two oldest great-grandchildren, however, will remember Great-Grandma as she was -- the woman who could play board games, sing songs and would listen as they practice reading for hours on end.

For the younger children, their memories will be the stories they hear about their great-grandparents. Often times we remember those who are gone with fondness though it is only stories we remember. I never knew either one of my grandmothers, but that doesn't necessarily mean I never knew who they were. I can look at photos of my Grandma Daling and those photos -- combined with the stories Mom told me -- help me know who the woman was. And I hope that is how our grandchildren will remember their great-grandmother.

Mom Update:
After a two week absence from visiting Mom, it was evident I was an "extra" in the company who joined her at our weekly "breakfast with Mom." If there were ever a glimmer of recognition during these meetings, it was gone during this visit. Or mostly gone. When I kissed her goodbye at the end of our visit, she gripped me tightly and held me for a moment. "I'll see you soon, Mom," I whispered to her. She may not have heard. She may not have understood if she did hear, but the thought was there.

Mom's sewing machine

One of the things I acquired when we dispersed Mom's possessions was her sewing machine. It was a much needed item in my house -- although I am not the seamstress Mom was, I do enjoy trying my hand at it.

Yes, I do have a sewing machine of my own. King and I purchased it when I was pregnant with our daughter -- she is now 34. The stupid thing never worked right. Bobbins jammed, it skipped stitches, or needles cracked. I sent it off for repairs at least three times, hoping each time the company would replace it. They never did.

So Mom's sewing machine is a welcome addition to our house.

I remember well the day we bought it.

I was home for Thanksgiving my freshman year of college. Dad, my younger sister, Mom and I were Christmas shopping at Woodland Mall in Grand Rapids. Dad was at a loss as to what to get Mom that year. It really bothered him that he could not think of something special for her.

Mom was off shopping on her own and my sister and I were sitting with Dad in the middle of the mall, right across from a Singer Sewing Center. Now, I should mention there was nothing wrong with Mom's old sewing machine -- other than it was old. But Dad was desperate to get Mom something "big" for Christmas and there we were across from the sewing machine store . . . "I know," I said. "Let's get her a sewing machine."


Dad loved the idea.

And Mom got a new sewing machine. One she really didn't need, but Dad was so tickled to give it to her it made the giving something special.

Mom put it to good use -- maternity clothes for her daughters, baby clothes for her grandchildren, crafts for church bazaars. Mom could always be counted on to have some sort of ongoing sewing project.

I still think of it as "Mom's new sewing machine," although we bought it 40 years ago.

I'd like to tell Mom I have her sewing machine but there is no way to make her understand what I am saying when I talk to her. She can't hear and there is no comprehension if she does hear. And besides, Mom can't sew any longer. I don't think she would remember how. So I have taken over for her.


King is dubious about my sewing ability. In our 38 years of marriage I have more dismal failures than I have success and although I always blamed the sewing machine I know he knows better. However, now that I have Mom's sewing machine I've started making messenger bags -- straight seams, there is not much to mess up there -- and to my surprise King suggested I make one to bring to our daughter when I visit next week in San Diego.

I think I will. It will be a gift from Mom and I.

A letter to my children

Dear Children
I went to see your Grandmother today. I might encourage you to visit her, but truthfully I'd rather you didn't.

I would rather you remember Grandma as the woman who could pack a picnic lunch on a moment's notice, would take you down to the beach, feed you lunch on a blanket spread on the sand and watch you play all afternoon. I would rather you remember her as the woman who would walk you down to the tennis/basketball court and run after your missed shots for hours on end. I would rather you remember her as the woman who always had the cookie jar filled with your favorite cookies, the woman who served you hot chocolate after a day of sledding on their hill and the woman who attended all your high school sports events. Please remember her as she stood, camera in hand, taking years to get the shot, shaking the camera between shots because she believed it made the flash recharge more quickly. Remember the yearly photo albums she put together that contained all those moments she caught on film. Remember that woman.

Today I had to change your Grandmother's soiled underclothing. Today I had to take an ice cream cone away from her as she tried to eat the napkin wrapped around the cone. Today we sat in silence as she stared vacantly off into space with no words forming in her mind. If her thoughts were trapped inside her head she gave up trying to make them come out long ago. I love this woman, she is my mother, but she is not the woman I want to remember.

And I would rather you remember her not as she is, but as she was.

There are so many things I remember about her: I remember her infuriating words, "Yours will be the moral victory." I remember her having a snack waiting for me after school. I remember her sitting at her sewing machine at the kitchen table and making dresses, pants, tops and even winter coats. I remember her campaigning for Barry Goldwater and Richard Nixon (we all make mistakes). I remember her organizing the local 4H club. I remember her getting dressed up simply to go to the local grocery store. I  remember all the things that made my childhood good, and fun and safe. All those and more are things I want to remember.  I do not believe, if she were able to put a coherent thought together, she would want us to remember her as she is now. I know she would be mortified if she knew what she was doing.

And I would ask the same for me if my time comes. Remember the fun times. Remember the good times. Do not try to have me come live with you. I will be demanding. I will be confused. I will panic when left alone. I will disrupt your life in ways you can not imagine. And you WILL resent me.

I am asking you now. If the time comes, put me in a nursing home. And don't feel guilty about it. And don't come to visit me. I really won't be aware that it is Christmas or a grandchild's birthday. And it will break your heart to know I don't know who you are.


So, dear children, I am letting you off the hook now.  If I should fall victim to dementia as your grandmother has, please do this one thing for me. I will bear you no ill will. I won't even know who you are.

Mom likes pancakes

The nursing home called my sister earlier this week with a report on Mom.  Seems she is becoming more withdrawn and more incontinent. It is a difficult process to watch. But all we can do is deal with it. Ringing one's hands and worrying only causes callouses and frown lines.

So we continue with our usual routine as much as possible.

On Saturday we had our weekly meet-up breakfast with Mom. I arrived at the nursing home first. Mom was sleeping in her chair when I walked into her room. I let her sleep, deciding it was easier to let her continue to doze rather than wake and try to explain to her there were more people coming and we had to wait for them.

It is fairly evident Mom doesn't really know who I am. When my sisters arrived she hugged each one of them and then turned to me and wrapped her arms around me, but the look was: "I don't know who you are, but you are here and you are going to take me somewhere so I will hug you too."

It's okay. I can deal with it.

We always go to the same restaurant and I think we have become "one of the Saturday regulars."  Before Dad died, my older sister took my parents out for breakfast every Saturday. They became such "regulars" at the restaurant in Ferrysburg that the staff reserved a table for them each Saturday morning. We have not yet met that status at this particular restaurant.

Mom likes our outings, although I'm not entirely certain she is always aware of her surroundings, simply getting out makes her very happy.

When the nursing home told us Mom was having difficulty swallowing we followed their instructions and eliminated bread from her diet when we went out to eat. We generally ordered something easy to swallow -- usually yogurt parfaits. That gets old. So now we have taken the attitude of "She'll be 92 in November, let her eat what she wants," and we order pancakes for her. She eats them all and hasn't choked or died yet.

Bolstered by our success with the pancakes, we then made the bold step of telling the nursing home no more "thicket" in her beverages and no more mush for meals. They were not very happy with us, but we are paying the bills.  Mom now drinks regular liquids and eats regular food. I think meal time has become pleasurable for her once again. If she chokes we can always write on her headstone, "She died with her bib on."

The dog days of summer

I took Mom out for breakfast yesterday. I had to work Saturday so I missed the traditional weekly family outing -- work is such an inconvenience.

Mom and I sat and ate our breakfast in companionable silence. If she was deep in thought those thoughts were trapped inside her mind. My mind was racing. I kept looking at her trying to decide if her appearance had truly changed or if it was her diminished mental capacity that simply made her seem different. In the end I decided I didn't know as I had never really paid that close attention to Mom's appearance. It's one of those things you never really notice until it's too late.

After breakfast I took her for a ride to Hamilton, where my sisters and I grew up.

We drove past the church we attended and I slowed down as we drove past the sledding hill that spilled out onto a pond. All the neighborhood kids would go sledding or skating on that hill/pond. But I'm told the new owner isn't inclined to let people use it. I can understand. In this days of liability and lawsuits, who wants that responsibility?

Mom stared out the window. If she knew where we were she didn't let on -- until we came to the house. She still didn't speak, but pointed to the house and tried to say something. "Yes, Mom. That's our house. I'll drive past it again." I turned the corner and turned around at the dahlia farm (so glad to see that's still there) and drove past again -- slowly. Mom looked a long time.

The first couple who bought the house after Mom and Dad sold it thought the pool Dad built in the backyard would be perfect for therapeutic use. I think they kept the pool for about a year and then realized how much work it was and filled it in. I can understand -- a little. Dad was handy and could fix almost anything so when the filter (another homemade invention by Dad) clogged Dad could tinker and it would be fixed in an hour. Mom's daily routine included skimming the bugs and leaves floating on top and then attaching a vacuum to a filter hose and cleaning the bottom of the pool. It was a tremendous amount of work.

When we first built the pool there wasn't a lot of information out there on pool maintenance. And there weren't pool stores or local stores that carried pool supplies. We had a test kit and tested ph balances and purchased chemicals for this and chemicals for that. I'm sure it was expensive and we often had pool water that varied from dirty brown to green to clear. By the time I was in high school Mom was buying a few bottles of bleach at the grocery store and dumping a bottle in every two days. The water was always crystal clear. No more testing. No more fancy chemicals. Just Mom, a vacuum and and a bottle of Clorox.

I remember those long hot dog days of summer: The sound of the water running into the pool. Mom in the kitchen, usually at the ironing board with "Talk of the Town" blaring on the radio, an industrial-sized fan sitting on the floor keeping the kitchen cool, the curtains closed to keep the afternoon sun out. We would invite neighborhood kids over to swim in the afternoon. Sometimes Mom would join us for a quick dip. She would climb down the ladder, stand on the bottom step for a minute. We would quit splashing and diving long enough for her to dog-paddle across the pool once or twice. She would get out, dry off, go back inside to change her clothes and get back to her ironing.

Around 4 every afternoon she would bring a tray of cookies and lemonade out to our screened porch and we would take a break. It was our signal that we had time for one last swim and then it was time for friends to go home.

It was a routine that was repeated week after week, year after year. One of those simple memories one tucks away and pulls out to examine and recall with fondness. I just wish I could remember Mom's face.

Getting into the unpleasant stuff

Our older sister came from Florida to visit Mom last week. While she was here we decided to go through Mom's things and divide them.

It may sound cold and hard, but the reality is Mom will be 92 in November. We know she will not live forever. It seemed easier to do it now rather than during the emotional time following a funeral.

There was another reason we decided to divide and conquer now rather than later. After Dad died we tried having Mom live alone in their apartment for a while. It was a dismal failure. My son would often stop by to visit Mom only to find her sitting in the dark. She could not handle the loss of the man she had been with for more than 65 years. So she moved in with my sister and her husband for a while and later she came to live with King and I. During this transition period all her worldly possession had to be consolidated into the basements of two homes. My basement floods regularly and my younger sister wanted to reclaim the space my mother's possessions had taken over. One can  wind ones way through boxes and boxes of "stuff" just to get to the laundry room for so long.

Mom is long past the time when she can tell us who she wants to have what, so it was left up to us to decide. And fortunately, although we may bicker occasionally, my sisters and I get along well enough that we didn't fight over possession. They are, after all, only "things."

So last weekend we went through a lifetime of fine china, sterling silver, a variety of collections and photographs. We spread them out in my younger sister's living room and spent an afternoon remembering. . . "Those were the Christmas dishes she bought in Plainwell."  "That Christmas punch bowl set was unclaimed freight that they sold at the IGA." "One of Mom's sisters gave her that egg plate as a wedding gift. She couldn't remember who it was when she told me about it." "Look at this photo album I found with pictures of Dad in the army."

It was a bittersweet day. We tried to remember Mom as she was rather than the Mom she is now. Still our Mother, but not.

Meanwhile Mom is beginning to make those tentative steps toward total oblivion to her life as it once was. This past week she slipped a little further away from reality. We observe, take note and discuss, but there is little we can do but wait to see what happens next.

We take pleasure in the simple things like taking her for rides in the country and going out for coffee where we feed her pancakes and sausage, taking pleasure in thumbing our noses at the dietary restrictions she is on at the nursing home.

Sometimes it's the simple pleasures that make it easier.

Role reversal

When we were young Mom and Dad took us to church every Sunday.

My sisters and I sat and squirmed through long sermons that were impossible to understand. Stood when the congregation stood. Closed our eyes and pretended to pray through a pastoral prayer that lasted for decades (or so it seemed) and sang with gusto songs that became standard church favorites as we grew older.

All of this was under Mom's watchful eye. Wiggle and squirm too much and Mom would get a nudge from Dad. Mom would crease her eyebrows together, turn the corners of her mouth into a frown, look directly at the offending wiggler (so there would be no mistaking who she was silently reprimanding), and shake her head ever so slightly. We knew we had to straighten up and behave. Fold our hands and sit quietly. There were never repercussions when we arrived at home, so I don't know what our fear was, but there was no way we were ever going to test the waters to find out. It was a scenario that played out many, many Sundays.

This past Monday we took Mom to a family night at the nursing home. The entertainment was a gospel band that played all the old traditional hymns.It was a sing-a-long affair and they played songs that Dad would sing in the shower every morning and Mom would belt out -- off-key -- in church every Sunday.

I don't know what we expected. There are days when Mom doesn't know us, but somehow we thought she would perk up as the songs were sung. That there would be some spark of recognition.

It wasn't as we imagined. Mom was ready to go within 10 minutes of the start of the concert. She kept looking at her watch, leaning over to me and saying "If you want to get up and leave, you may." And I kept telling her, "No I think I'll stay a little longer." I knew what she wanted. We all did.

After spending 20 minutes telling me I could leave any time she gave up and started in on my sister. "Don't you think we should go?"

She fidgeted and squirmed, shifted in her seat and talked out loud. If we thought giving her "the look" would work we might have tried using it, but we knew it wouldn't so we didn't try.


I'm not certain the saying, "What goes around, comes around" was intended for a situation like this, but it certainly fits. And it has me rather concerned as to what type of role reversals our own children will witness.

Karma has a way of biting you in the backside.

My father liked to sail. My daughter was a sailor. I just swear like one.

I grew up in a household were there wasn't much swearing.

On occasion Dad may have called someone a "dumb shit," or a "big shit." But that's about it. I sure there were more instances when Dad did swear -- he wasn't a saint -- but I wasn't there to witness it. And Mom . . .  when she was mad, would yell at us in Dutch. None of us are certain what it was she said, but I'm guessing it wasn't something polite.

But all-in-all, swearing was not an option when we were growing up. Mom would not allow it. So we seldom, if ever, did.

So it's little wonder that the first time I swore in front of my mother remains forever etched in my memory.

We had horses when I was growing up. They were pretty much knot-headed, ill-mannered, equines. But my sisters and I loved them and three of the four of us enjoyed riding. (I don't think my oldest sister was ever a big fan).

One fall day after school my younger sister, a friend and I decided to go riding. We saddled the horses and were ready to take off when my horse suddenly reared up and flipped over backwards. (The theory today is I probably pulled back on the reins while he was on his hind legs and pulled him over . . . but that is the theory of hindsight some 45 years after the fact).

I dove to the side, the horse rolled over, and then the mighty steed took off for the neighbor's chicken coops. My friend took off after him. I stood up, dusted myself off, and started down the road as well. My sister must have run and told Mom.

I met up with my friend somewhere down the road. She was leading my horse back to the house. He seemed rather pleased with himself and was kind of prancing around her horse and generally acting obnoxious.

I took the reins from her and the horse pranced over my foot. It was more than I could take. My butt was sore, my hip was sore (I must have bounced from my butt to my side) and now my foot was mashed.

I took the reins and whapped the horse across the chest. Several times. Swearing with each whap. "You!  #$#@#!  Stupid! #$$#@! Ignorant $%$#@$! Son of a %$#@#!"

I remember the look of horror on my friend's face. Her eyes were as big as saucers. I turned around and there was Mom. There was only one word for it.  Busted.

Mom took one look at me and said "You get down on your knees and pray for forgiveness. Right now."

I remember thinking, "Sure. Here. You take the reins." But I didn't.

In the grand scheme of things, it was an incident soon forgotten by Mom (even before the dementia), but for me it has remained one of those "forever" memories.

Not one of my prouder moments, but a moment nonetheless.

Recording the family history

When Mom was a young woman she and my grandmother (whom I never met) and an uncle tended a market garden on the family farm. They sold their produce at the farmer's market on Fulton Street in Grand Rapids.

Grandpa was a rather successful dairy farmer. The market garden not only provided extra household income, Mom said my uncle used his share to help pay his college tuition. Mom has told me little bits about selling their produce and what life was like during the depression. She said life on the farm continued fairly much as normal, but times were tough for married brothers and sisters who had moved off the farm.

"Mum often invited my brothers and sisters for meals. Nothing was ever said, but I think it was a lot of help," Mom told me.

I'd like to ask Mom more about her memories of the depression, but it is impossible to communicate with her. That information is locked away in her mind forever.

I'm not saying it is difficult to communicate with Mom, I am saying it is impossible.

There is no comprehension whatsoever now. Just asking her if she needs to use the restroom is a frustrating task. There have been times when leading her into the bathroom and pointing at the toilet leaves her looking looking at you with a blank stare on her face. It would be logical to assume she does not need to use the facilities, but there is no logic as far as dementia is concerned. Take Mom away from the nursing home and within five minutes she is indicating we should have been insistent she use the facilities before we left.

So we carry on as best we can and I try to remember things she has told me so I can record them.

It is interesting how each of my sisters will remember the same event differently. I guess it's all a matter of personality, perspective, and age.

I am certain Mom's recollections would be different from those of her siblings . . . unfortunately all of Mom's siblings are gone. Her last remaining sister passed away this past spring, just a few short days from what would have been her 100th birthday.  So our stories are left for verification with cousins -- each of them with memories passed down from their parents, each with their own perspective.

Mom was the youngest of nine. So assuming each sibling took their turn working in the garden, Mom's turn obviously came during the depression. She told me about how at the end of the day at the farmer's market, as many were packing up and heading back to their farms, mothers with young children, or sometimes just children alone -- with a note tucked inside their jacket pocket -- would come and ask for any leftovers.

Mom told me, "Mum always had something for them." I don't wonder. When my grandparents immigrated to the United States from the Netherlands in the early 1900s they were penniless as well.

"We grew all kinds of vegetable," Mom once told me. "Onions, beans, peppers, squash, tomatoes . . . Mum even grew eggplant -- although I don't think she knew what to do with it. She would polish it each night before the market. I think she thought it looked pretty."

As I grow older there are many things I remember Mom telling me about her youth. Things I wish I could ask her about now. It doesn't seem fair that a woman who was so fond of storytelling can no longer remember her name.

Do you see that elderly person over there?

I took my granddaughter to watch the fireworks in South Haven last week. For those of us who don't like to walk five miles to watch the the display, it takes a lot of pre-planning and forethought to get there.

There was a time when our plans for watching fireworks meant we headed toward town about an hour before sunset, found a spot to park as close as as possible and walked 15 blocks to the beach.

As we age, battling traffic, walking miles and miles and being in crowds simply is not that appealing. So this year we tried something different.  King and I got up early so we could find a parking space near the beach. At 7 a.m. there were those who had already found their spot long the bluff overlooking the lake -- some were in motorhomes and tents -- obviously having spent the night. But I found a perfect spot, parked the car and left it there for the day.

We took full advantage of the spot and came back later in the day to go swimming while our granddaughter hung out with friends, trying her best to pretend she didn't know us. Somehow during the past year and a half we have become an embarrassment to her. It is as if she suddenly realized we were, well, old.


King is not one for crowds or traffic and opted to skip the fireworks this year. So after spending several hours on the beach just relaxing,  we went home for dinner and later in the evening he dropped us off at the car again so we could watch the fireworks. He has given up dealing with people .. . I have not reached that point . . . yet.

Dad was in his 80s when he gave up.  The last time he went to the fireworks in Grand Haven was the year some idiot (and I don't use that term loosely) made a disparaging remark to him as they were trying to make their way through the throngs of people converging on the waterfront. Dad was angry, hurt and offended. And he never went back.

I am amazed at the number of people who make fun of older adults. In fact, it makes me downright mad as hell.

I had a co-worker tell me how much she didn't like old people as they were old, slow, and in the way. The unfortunate thing is, there are many who feel the same way.

Old, slow and in the way? Excuse me? Sorry folks, we are all headed that way. Older adults have been there and done that. They have lived full lives. Those who are left from my father's generation stormed the beaches at Normandy.  It wasn't a romantic scene from a John Wayne movie. They swam ashore pushing bodies of those who fell before them out of the way. And now we make fun of them? Tell them by our actions it would be better for them to stay home?

I looked around at the people who were attending the fireworks last week.There were plenty of young families with young children, plenty of kids playing with sparklers, lots of teens like our granddaughter worrying about who was talking to whom (ahhhh, teen angst). . . but I didn't see many senior citizens.Were they absent because they had no one to take them to the event or were they afraid to venture out, concerned they might simply be too old, slow and in the way.

I once interviewed a World War II veteran who told me, "I sometimes feel as though I'm just taking up space and maybe it would be better for everyone if I were gone."

It's a shame we treat our senior citizens that way. It's a shame we are so busy with our own lives and our own concerns we no longer see the elderly person next door as someone who might still want to be a part of life. Someone who might still want to venture out and enjoy a few simple pleasures.

Peer pressure

When my father was in his late-60s he bought himself a moped. It wasn't something he was actually in the market for, it was more of an impulse buy . . . mixed in with a little bit of peer pressure.

It seems Dad and his golfing buddies were on their way home from their weekly match when they found a moped for sale. I have no idea if it was sitting in someone's front yard or if, for some reason, they stopped at a moped store. Regardless, Dad came home with a moped.

I can picture it. Dad looking at the moped trying to decide if Mom would be thrilled or dismayed. I am sure the memory of the surprise sail boat he purchased years before was fresh in his mind. I can almost hear his friends tell him he really needed a moped.

"Think about it Don. Your grandchildren can ride it around the block. You can use it to take garbage to the dumpster. I bet Chris can ride it down to the beach."

I don't think Mom ever sat on it. But Dad's friends were mostly right. The grandchildren loved riding around the block on it.  And I can still picture Dad riding to the dumpster, a trash bag perched on the back.

All was well and Dad thoroughly enjoyed his new toy. Until the day he showed up at my backdoor with blood dripping from the bridge of his nose and a huge scrape on his arm.

"The brakes didn't work on the moped. I didn't want your mother to see this. Can you help me clean up and send the boys out to get the leaves out of the headlight?"

It was difficult not to laugh at him, and I pointed out Mom was certain to see the cut on his nose, but we cleaned the scrape, stemmed the flow of blood and checked to make certain no fingers were broken. Dad was none the worse for wear. The moped had leaves stuck in the headlight and the mirror was bent a little, but the boys were able to make it look almost like new.

I am certain the scrapes and cut didn't go unnoticed by Mom, but to her credit, she never said anything. And Dad learned to slow down a little while driving to the dumpster.

The cold, hard, reality

Note: this is a very honest and frank appraisal of what is going to happen to Mom. There is no sunshine and roses here. If this makes you uncomfortable, I suggest you skip this blog today.

There is a cold, hard, reality to dementia. . . one does not get better. Yes, they have drugs that can slow the progression, but there is no cure and in the end the person you love is simply a shell of the person you once knew.

That fact hit home this week while I was visiting Mom.

I was looking for her toothbrush and opened her medicine cabinet door. Taped to the inside of the door was a list of Mom's needs -- a handy reference list for staff.

Mom is fading quickly. Or maybe not. Maybe it is a slow, painful deterioration. I suppose it depends on the day and the perspective.

The list inside Mom's medicine cabinet  included things like: needs to be reminded when it is time to eat; needs assistance in the bathroom; needs assistance dressing. It also lists her mental state as: severely mentally impaired. 

Wow. That's a hard one to take. We all knew it. But there it was, written in Bic pen blue -- severely mentally impaired.

To be honest, we don't know if Mom has dementia as a result of several strokes or if she truly does have Alzheimer's Disease. The only way to tell if she has Alzheimer's Disease is to do an autopsy after she passes. Since that is simply not going to happen I guess we will never know. Does it really matter?

We look back and say to one another, "Remember when Mom (fill in the blank)? We should have known then there was something wrong." Well, yeah. But deep down we all kind of knew there were things Mom was doing that were not normal. Even Mom knew she was "slipping." She wrote me that in a birthday card six year ago: "I know I am slipping, but I do the best I can."

But what could have been done? Very little, actually.

The reality of all this is this: Mom is a pretty healthy individual -- except for the dementia. What will happen, probably sooner than we expect, is Mom will eventually not recognize us. She may become delusional. She may become short-tempered and hostile. She will eventually lose the ability to swallow. She will, eventually, lose all motor function, she may also lose the ability to smile, to sit without support and to hold her head up. Her reflexes will become abnormal and her muscles will become rigid. It's not a pretty picture.

Frankly it seem pretty unfair.

Happy Father's Day

Today is Father's Day so naturally my thoughts have turned to my father, a man who did everything for his daughters.

So many thoughts, so many memories. The trips we took, the expectations we would always be on our best behavior, the eyebrows that knit together when we weren't, the toys, the unusual vehicles and his building projects . . .

I was in eighth grade when Dad came home from work one day with a wooden, creosote-soaked utility pole in the back of his pickup.

"I think we'll build a tree-house," he said.

It was a matter-of-fact comment and, knowing our father as we did, my younger sister and I were not that surprised. Of course. Dad had another project.

I have no idea how he came up with this plan. I have no clue as to what made him look at a utility pole and decide, "Hey, I think I'll a tree house." But Dad's mind never seemed to stop planning and designing so when he showed us his rough sketch of what our tree-house would look like, we never doubted it would be awesome.

It was going to be an A-frame, built on cross-beams which were bolted to the pole and braced by two-by-fours. There would be windows on each end and a trap door built into the floor for access.

I recall there was some debate as to where the pole should be placed. I think Mom would have liked it to be out in the middle of the pasture away from the house, but Dad convinced her it would blend in nicely with the maple trees in the backyard. He was right. In the summer when the leaves filled the trees it was like we were sitting in a tree and not on a pole 15 feet off the ground.

The pole was placed in the ground -- rather deeply as Dad didn't want the thing to sway -- and the next week the cross beams were bolted to the pole.

Everything was built with scrap lumber. The roof was plywood with round holes cut into it. Something that had probably outlived its usefulness at the factory Dad managed. The beams for the platform and two-by-fours for the roof were left-overs from the barn building project we had completed years before as was the wood for the sides. Even the tar paper for the roof was left over from some project -- probably our screened porch, which had been completed before I started kindergarten.

My sister and I helped Dad along the way by holding wood, handing him drills and looking for dropped nails.

The most frightening part of the project was when Dad nailed the plywood for the roof to the frame. Dad looped a rope through one of the holes in the plywood and threw the rope over a branch of a tree. My sister and I hoisted the plywood up and Dad swung around the open end of the platform, slid the plywood into place and drove a couple of nails in to hold it until he could use a ladder to nail the rest of it.

To this day I can remember holding that end of the rope, watching Dad grasp the frame, swing around the end of the tree-house, drive a nail in place while hanging by one arm and then swing back onto the platform. All the while I was muttering under my breath, "This isn't worth it. This isn't worth it."

But we managed to get the roof up with Dad remaining unscathed.

The project took several weekends, punctuated by late-spring snows, freezing rain -- you know, your typical miserable Michigan spring.

Just before we put the end pieces in place, Mom produced an old bookshelf from the basement, which we decided would look best under a window. We placed a lamp on it and ran a heavy-duty extension cord from the barn for electricity.

Every week that summer we would ride our bikes to the local drug store to scope out the latest editions of Archie comic books or Tiger Beat magazine and spend countless hours in the tree-house reading. We also spent many summer nights sleeping up there, listening to music (WLS out of Chicago) and eventually drifting off to sleep.

Years later, when our own children were small, Dad and the boys built another A-frame tree-house in an apple tree in the yard of their retirement home. I've driven past both homes and the tree-houses are gone. Ravaged, I am sure, by the elements and age. They are now distant memories.

I have searched all the photos Mom so carefully preserved over the years and I can't fine one photo of either tree-house.


Ahh, but the memories, they linger.

But there is a catch . . .

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. If he flew them, he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to, he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.  -- Joseph Heller, Catch-22

_____

When it became obvious we could no longer care for Mom at home, the decision to place her in a nursing home did not come easily. I still have dreams where my father tells me that my sisters and I didn't do enough for Mom. It's a guilt thing, I know, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Living a nursing home had been my parents biggest fear. We all knew they did not want that. So it is easy to think, "I should have done more. I can probably do it again. Maybe I should bring her home."

But no one imagined Mom would have dementia and the care she would need. And looking back, it is easy to forget the never-ending care. It was constant and unrelenting. From the time she got up in the morning -- generally 6 a.m. -- until the time she went to bed at night, someone had to be with her or very real panic attacks would ensue. It is far, far different from taking care of a small child with separation anxiety. Trust me on that one..

So we spent a lot of time looking at homes for Mom. There were those we checked off the list immediately as not a place for Mom to live out her remaining years. There were those with waiting lists. There were those that would not return our calls to set up an appointment to visit.

In the end we are quite happy with the home we chose. The staff is friendly. It is open, airy, pleasant, there are plenty of activities, the common areas are set up to look like home and her room has a large bay window.

And it is not cheap. Few nursing homes are.

Few people realize the cold, hard reality of financing a stay in a nursing home.

If you have a lot of money (and I mean a lot of money) then there are probably few financial worries, but if you are like most of us, the concern is very real.

As my parents grew older, Dad always said he was afraid he would out-live his money. That wasn't the case for Dad as he passed away in 2011 at the age of 90. But there is a looming concern of what is going to happen to Mom when the nest-egg she and Dad scrimped and saved for is gone.

And of course there is a catch.

When we were looking for a nursing home for Mom, one of the first questions we asked was whether or not the home accepted Medicaid residents. Some do. Some don't. The home Mom is in does not. Which means when Mom's money is gone my sisters and I will have to make up the difference between her income (social security and her surviving veteran's benefits) and the actual cost of the home -- about $2000 a month. Or we can move her to a home that accepts Medicaid.The waiting lists to get in are years long.

So needless to say we are careful with Mom's remaining money. We don't begrudge Mom the best care we can afford, but there is the concern of providing for our own nest-eggs once she runs out of money, verses the concern of having to disrupt Mom's life again. It's a blurry line of where one responsibility ends and where the next begins.

The cost of a nursing home is based on the amount of care the resident needs. A point system is used and when a resident reaches a certain point level, the cost increases. Mom is about 15 points away from going up a level.

And there is another catch.

When we brought Mom to the nursing home last August we were asked if we wanted to use the pharmacy the nursing home uses. It sounded like a great idea. They would keep track of her medication needs, we would no longer have to run to the pharmacy at various times during the month and everything would be wonderful.

It is and it isn't.

Mom has supplemental prescription insurance that covers the cost of her medication -- that is, it covered the cost of her medication at the discount pharmacy we were using. The pharmacy the nursing home uses is a little more expensive. Between the premiums for prescription insurance and the cost of the medication, it's about $200 a month. It's a long way from what the medication would cost without insurance, and we are grateful for that, but it still is an expense and we are watching our nickles and dimes. So my sister talked to the nursing home about switching pharmacies -- telling them we would pick up Mom's prescriptions.

Nothing is life is that simple or cut and dried. It seems if we switch pharmacies, the pills would be dispensed in pill bottles, not the blister packs the current pharmacy uses. It would mean additional points to Mom's point tally, bringing Mom up another level of care and adding $300 to her monthly bill.

Sigh. Joseph Heller's book, Catch 22,  is one of my favorites. I never thought I'd be living it.