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.