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.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Thank you to the staff
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
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."
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."
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
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.
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.
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