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.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, July 14, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
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.
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.
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