Finding the beginning

A friend asked me if there was a beginning to my blog ... A starting point if you will.

So I went back through my archives. And cried. Not just weepy, eye watering tears, but full blown sobbing with tears rolling down my cheeks weeping. So much change over the course of a few short years. So much sadness mingled with so many good memories.

The truth is there is no beginning. The changes in Mom came on gradually. It is not as if one day we woke up and said, "Oh my God, Mom has dementia."

There were lots of little signs that we didn't see at the time but looking back we now understand better. We also know, given the progression of dementia, there would have been little we could have done had we known anyway. Science can delay the onset but it can not prevent it. But the signs were there nonetheless.

There was the letter she sent to me on my birthday: "I know I'm slipping, I do the best I can..."

There was the phych evaluation ordered by her physician, which she failed miserably. The second question the psychiatrist asked was "When is your birthday?" Failing that he asked "What season is this?" Mom looked totally baffled. He looked at me and said, "There is no point in going on."

The thing is, even after that failed test Mom was still Mom. Just a little confused. But she could still tell me stories about when she and Dad were dating. In fact, she was probably a little more open with me than she might have been had she had her full faculties.

She told me how Grandma told her Dad was "out of her league," but how she continued seeing him anyway. She told me how Uncle John convinced Grandma and Grandpa that she should go live with he and his wife in Ann Arbor during WWII. And then, later convinced them  that since Dad was stationed in Europe doing his part for the U.S. war effort, Mom should do her part as well. Mom then went to work for Ford Motor Company dismounting machine guns from bombers, cleaning them and re-mounting them.

"I liked the work," Mom told me. "I could get outside. Some of the women did not like it because it was so hot in the summer and bitter cold in the winter. But I loved being able to be outside. I don't think I would have liked working inside riveting all day long."

She often spoke about the farm where she grew up and how Uncle Jim loved to tease. "Jim loved to tease me, especially, because I was the youngest."

We could still go for rides and she would comment about the places we visited. Yes, for a while Mom was still Mom and while she changed we learned to adapt.

If we took her out to eat we would have to order for her. Although she could still read the menu, it was little more than words on paper.

When she decided she wanted to make a pie for Thanksgiving one year, she could not tell me what kind she wanted to make. "A pie Mom? That would be wonderful. What kind?" She motioned with her hands, indicating a round pie. Ok. So I took her to the grocery store. It was much too overwhelming for her and I decided she wanted to make a pumpkin pie. It was her Thanksgiving staple.

Slowly things began to change.

There was the time we were talking one afternoon and I mentioned something about a former neighbor in our hometown.. "How did you know him?" Mom asked me.

"I lived next door to him Mom."

"No, I lived next door to him," Mom said. Getting a little angry.

"I know Mom. I lived there too. I am your daughter."

By this time Mom was pretty upset. "Well no one told me that."

All I could muster was, "Sorry Mom, I thought you knew."

And slowly Mom faded away. And we watched.

So is there a beginning? Probably somewhere. I just don't know where it is.

Body image

When I was in grade school there were two Mrs. Millers who worked as teachers. One was considerably heavier than the other. As kids when we talked about them the question always was, "Are you talking about  the fat Mrs. Miller or the other one?" Kids are cruel, but adults are even more so.

The fat Mrs. Miller. What a horrible way to describe her. She was my second grade teacher. She was warm and kind and had a great sense of humor. I saw her lose her temper when a student licked the bottom of her shoe during class. (Yeah, I don't know why she licked her shoe either, but I think it would make me  angry if I saw it happen as well).  I watched her cry when she announced President Kennedy had been shot. To put a label like "Fat" on her was not only unkind but it was not even a close description of her.

The other Mrs. Miller. I never had her for a teacher. I don't know much about her. But to be called "The Other Mrs. Miller" is probably equally as bad.

But even today, in this world of political correctness, I hear references to a person's size as a means of identification. A friend's daughter was talking about a classmate. Apparently there were two classmates with the same name. The friend asked, "Is that the heavier one?" At least she didn't ask if it was the "fat" one. Small victories.

Our oldest granddaughter was walking on the pier in a two piece bathing suit shortly after having her second child. A "gentleman" (and I use the word loosely) looked at her and said, "disgusting" loud enough for everyone around to hear him. Sometimes there is just no accounting for class.

Size was extremely important to Mom. Countless times while we were growing up I heard the words, when reaching for a second cookie or helping of whatever, "You better watch it. You are going to grow into a girdle." And yet food was -- and still is -- an integral part of our family gatherings.

There were many times when Mom and Dad would run into someone they had not seen in a long time and the first comment was, "They really put on weight."

Really Mom and Dad?

Did you talk to him/her? What has he/she been up to in the 20 years since you've seen him/her? Where is he/she working? Did she/he had any children? How is his/her mother/father? I don't care if they put on weight. It really doesn't interest me.

When a friend of the family suddenly lost a lot of weight Mom commented on how good she looked. "Mom," I said, "She's hooked on crack. It's not a good thing."

"But she's so nice and thin."

Whatever Mom.

I struggle with my weight. And my poor eating habits as a teen/young adult (crash/starvation diets)  have screwed up my metabolism so badly I may never recover. I exercise. I east right most of the time and when I don't eat "right," I enjoy my food. I have to learn to accept myself the way I am. I'm still pretty much the same me that I was in high school when I weighed considerably less than I do now.

Maybe I'm just a little wiser and a little less judgmental.

Following in their footsteps

Mom and Dad were in to fitness. Even in their 90s they still drove to the mall (in blizzard conditions) to walk. They seldom missed a day. In fact, they were on their way to the YMCA to workout -- using their free trial membership -- when Dad had the stroke that ended his diving days.

It was a debilitating blow to them. To be dependent on their daughters or the kindness of members of their church to go places was very difficult for a couple who were always on the go.

So today, with the thought of my parents in the back of my head, I donned my tennis shoes and decided to start using the workout CD I received in the mail.

Well, donning tennis shoes and starting a workout is not exactly the way it went.

I'm doing this challenge thing. It keeps one motivated to actually stick with the program. And I know from experience being held accountable keeps one motivated. When we lived in Gratiot County I was a member of a small gym with a very dedicated owner. I learned having a set time to workout really did work. I also had the added benefit of Liz, the gym owner, sending me emails asking where I was if I missed a day.  It was not a good thing to have Liz looking for  you.

So this morning I scheduled myself a workout time. I had all kinds of excuses ready: 1) No sports bra -- I found it in the bottom of my dresser drawer under a pile of slips I never use because I no longer wear skirts. 2) No workout shoes -- they were under my dresser and just needed the dust bunnies brushed off them. 3) I can't work out in my home office because it is in our attic and the ceilings are too low to do jumping jacks -- the ceilings in the living room are 12 feet high. 4) I won't exercise in front of King -- I locked the door and closed the blinds.

My last excuse was really lame as I ended up having King, who was next door stacking firewood, come home and show me how to work the CD player. We have a dish and cable so King can get all the sports he needs. I have yet to figure out how to go from dish to cable to video. But like the true supportive person he is, he showed me how to make the thing work (it takes three remotes) and did so with only a few comments. (It's the little black button. Not the blue one. Not the red one. The black one. Push it. See how I'm pushing it?) I had a few barbs of my own and then banished him to the wood pile. "Surely there is more wood to be stacked somewhere. Just 30 minutes, okay?"  And he did leave. Thankfully.

Twenty minutes into my workout, with aching abs and a sweating face I removed my glasses and placed them on the couch. Unfortunately the sweat in my eyes made my aim just a little off and and I missed the couch. The glasses fell off, and skidded under the couch and I heard this disheartening second sound of something else sliding further under the couch. Since I was laying on the ground panting anyway, I reached under and felt around amid he dust bunnies that had obviously escaped the bedroom and multiplied in the living room. My fear was realized -- one of the lens of my glasses had popped out. I'm blind as a bat without those glasses -- even with just one lens.

But 20 minutes is 20 minutes and I had only 10 minutes left in my workout. I was not going to waste those 20 minutes. I finished the workout and sent a text to King, "My lens popped out. Either drive me to get them fixed or see if you can pop the lens back in." At least that is what I thought I sent. I couldn't see the screen. What I sent him was: "My legs pooped out. Estery drove me to find them or see if you can poop them legs back in."

Fortunately he was able to figure out I needed something, came home and fixed the glasses. No legs were used.

Tomorrow's workout is labeled "Upper fix." I can't wait.

I learned self-reliance from my father

If Dad ever felt out-numbered by a household with five women, he never let us know. But I would guess it certainly must have been trying at times.

Dad always had definite ideas about how a young lady should behave. We were never, ever allowed to call boys on the phone. They could call us and we could talk until he would walk into the kitchen and point at the clock. But call a boy? Never. Ride the circuit on Eighth Street in Holland? Heaven forbid. Drive on a date? Nope. Drive a boyfriend's car? Out of the question. In fact, as far as Dad was concerned driving a boyfriend's car was akin to premarital sex. Both were for after marriage.

Between he and Mom we were always taught to be "lady-like" but  that did not mean "helpless."

Mom taught us to cook, clean and sew. Dad taught us to hammer a nail straight, change a flat tire and fend for ourselves.

I am surprised by the number of women who say if they ever have a flat tire they would have to call road service. My biggest problem with a flat tire would be lug nuts turned too tightly.

Last night while at work I got in my car to grab something to eat during my break. The car would not go into reverse. I drive a car with a manual transmission. The gears ground and generally made a horrendous noise and refused to shift. I finally did manage to back a little way, but then could not get it into first gear. After some consternation and the realization the clutch was simply flopping around uselessly, I did manager to get into first gear and drive to the drive-thru for a salad and cup of soup. (I do have my priorities). I drove it back to work and backed it into a parking space so if it still wouldn't shift properly when I left work (maybe the clutch faeries would come and fix it under the cover of darkness, right?) at least it would be facing in the right direction.

One of my co-workers was quite aghast that King did not drop everything, drive the 30 miles to where I work and "help me out." I'm really not certain what King was supposed to do. I still had four hours left on my shift. Leaving early was not an option.This person obviously didn't know I had been taught self-reliance at an early age and that the depth of my stubbornness knows no bounds.

I called King and told him to sit close to the phone in case I got stranded on my way home. Since this is the third time the clutch has gone out on the car this summer (so far we've only had to pay for repairs once) he really didn't believe me. Both the washer and car dying in one week? He didn't think it was possible.My less than enthusiastic demeanor with him on the phone was probably what convinced him I was not playing a practical joke. But I'm sure he remained hopeful.

"I'm really disappointed in King," I was told later in the evening.

King was doing what needed to be done -- waiting with hopeful skepticism to see if I needed him to come get me.  Truth be told, he had little doubt I would eventually manage to get the car home.

We both are too cheap to have the car towed 30 miles. I decided I would get the little beastie home if I had to push it most of the way myself. I certainly didn't need King to sit there with me. He knew I had it covered and I would call if I didn't. Besides after close to 40 years of marriage we both knew it probably would not end on a high note if  we actually had to try to get it home together.

We had planned to replace the car sometime before I "retire." We had hoped to be able to do it closer to that magical time so I wouldn't be putting 3,000 miles a month on it driving to and from work. We also want to pay cash and aren't quite ready for a cash purchase -- unless we decide we are in the market for another clunker. Our current backup vehicle is a 22 year old rusted out "baby" truck with questionable brakes and brand new tires.We don't need its twin in our driveway. 

So in the end, when I left work around 11 p.m., I played  with the clutch until I could get it into gear. I somehow managed to get it through all the gears and into fifth -- taking a lot of corners much too fast and praying I didn't take anyone out when I did. I made it to South Haven and got off at the exit, the light was green and I stomped on the gas and managed to get home. There was no coasting into the driveway, the clutch was not working so there was no going into neutral. But I did get the car parked in the middle of the drive so it can be loaded onto a flatbed (with a crane maybe?) and taken to the dealership.

And like Dad taught me. . . I didn't need a man to help me do it.

You did NOT just shush my mother

In the months and years before we fully understood the extent of Mom's dementia there were many signs we missed. Many of them we attributed to Mom's profound hearing loss.

I recall shortly after Dad died I took Mom to have her hearing aids cleaned. She and I sat in the examination room together and when the tech came and took her hearing aids, Mom looked at me and said, "I can't even hear myself talk now." Wow. That truly is a profound hearing loss.

It's difficult to know what part of Mom's changed behavior can be attributed to hearing loss and what can be attributed to dementia. Could she not hear us? Could she not comprehend what we were saying? It's one of those things we will never truly know. And after a while you decide it doesn't really matter. It was what it was.

Now Mom and Dad were of the Calvinistic Dutch Reformed persuasion. My sisters and I learned at a very young age you went into the sanctuary on Sunday, sat down and waited for the service to start while keeping wiggling and squirming to a minimum. Whispering was frowned upon so a few sparse words subtly whispered would be tolerated -- but no more than that. Mom could ignore our wiggling better than Dad. If he thought we were too squirmy he would nudge Mom and nod his head in our direction. Most of the time all she needed to do was give us a "look." Occasionally she would put her index finger to her lips, knit her brows together and purse her lips. You knew then you were in deep, deep trouble. At that point it didn't matter if you were sitting on a tack. You didn't move. Not a muscle. Not a twitch.

There was a Sunday morning, years before Dad died, that my younger sister went with Mom and Dad to their church in Grand Haven for the morning service. I'm not certain her reason for accompanying them. It could have been during the time when Dad was no longer allowed to drive. I truly don't remember the circumstances.

But on this particular Sunday my sister -- who was married with children of her own -- sat down with Mom and Dad in their "regular" pew. And Mom started whispering to her. Only it wasn't a whisper. Heaven forbid, Mom talked out loud.

And the woman at the other end of the pew leaned forward, pursed her lips, knit her brows together and put her index finger to her lips.

Lady, you did not just shush my Mother. You did not shush a woman who was old enough to be your mother. She has been a member of your congregation for years. It should be obvious she doesn't fully understand what is going on. You simply could not be that insensitive, could you?  Apparently the answer is yes.

Apparently she was so sanctimonious and self-righteous she felt it was her right, no, her duty to overstep her bounds and take over for my sister.

(And I, obviously,  have work to do in the forgiveness department). 

A few years later, when Mom was living with us we regularly attended the little country church in Glenn. It was the same little church Mom and Dad attended when they lived there.

Mom's dementia had fully set in by then. I don't think she could remember her friends from the years she and Dad were members. I don't know if she could hear the hymns. I have no doubt she could not follow the sermons. But she did remember the offering plate.

One particular Sunday Mom started obsessing early on during the service about the offering. Because she no longer had any concept of money we put away her bank cards and checkbook for safekeeping (mostly because she would lose them) and left about $25 in her purse for her.  This was simply so she could be comforted by the fact that she had some spending money. She never actually spent any of it, but it made her feel better to see money in her wallet. If, on occasion, she would buy lunch on one of our many outings, I would quietly replace the money she spent. Usually on Sundays I would slip and extra $20 in her wallet so she would have something to place in the offering plate. But on this particular Sunday I forgot. I tried handing it to her, but as far as Mom was concerned she no longer had any money and she was not about to take any money from her daughter.

"But I don't have ANY money," she kept saying, getting louder and louder each time she looked in her purse. I tried in vain to slip her money. I tried distracting her while our granddaughter tried to slip extra cash in her wallet. It didn't work. She was so incredibly upset by time the offering was taken I was not sure if we were going to make it out of church without a full-blown anxiety attack.

There is something to be said about her friends in that little country church. No one shushed her. No one put their finger to their lips and glared at her. Instead after the service people hugged her. They talked to her despite the fact she could not carry on a conversation.

In short, they cared.

Turn up your hearing aids

I don't believe Mom suffered from dementia. I think she lost her mind trying to adjust to her hearing aids.

Ok, that was a little overly dramatic, but truth be told, trying to adjust to my hearing aids has been a lesson in self-discipline (resisting the urge to punch King who mumbles when he speaks) and fighting blue tooth technology.

My venture into the world of hearing aids began with a trip to the doctor because I have tinnitus (ringing in the ears) -- undoubtedly from too many years of listening to rock and roll at five million decibels. They discovered I have moderate hearing loss -- again probably from too many years of listening to rock and roll at five million decibels.

Hearing aids are expensive. We were fortunate King's insurance paid for a portion of them, but even then we opted not to go as high tech as we could have because, well, we like to eat and pay rent. At a time in our lives where we are trying not to have additional expenses, making payments on hearing aids was one expense we decided we could do without. I suppose you get what you pay for, but what we paid was still not cheap. Think purchasing last year's used car rather than a brand-new car.

So I have rather low-end hearing aids and even at the lower end of today's technology they have about 5000 times the technology of Mom and Dad's hearing aids. Dad never did adjust to his. He wore them infrequently. Mom was profoundly deaf and could not function without hers.

I'm with Dad. I hate them and will wear them as little as possible. And that's sad because, as I said,  even at the low end of the budget spectrum, these puppies were not cheap. But I can tell you what a pain in the backside it is to wear them. I have been in and out of the audiologist's office getting mine adjusted more times than I can count. They are simply not the panacea for being able to hear. Case in point: when going out to eat, I prefer hearing the conversation at the table where I'm sitting rather than be able to hear the cook in the kitchen burning his hand on the grill.  When I'm at work, I'd rather be able to hear the co-worker talking to me than to hear the person five desks away crunching potato chips.

And don't get me going about blue tooth technology.

With the simple click of a button I can pair my hearing aid to my cell phone. How wonderful to be able to talk on the phone and hear the conversation through my hearing aids. Never mind that the person I'm talking to can't hear me. If  I want to have a conversation with someone and listen to them say: "What? You're breaking up," then my hearing aids are great. Otherwise I can turn off the blue tooth, pull the hearing aid out of my ear and converse normally. It's a good thing I'm not as stone deaf as Mom was.

Every time Mom talked on the phone she had to remove her hearing aids or they would squeal . . . loudly. We got her a phone with an amplifier so any time she had a phone conversation everyone in the house could hear that conversation. Even Dad without his hearing aids.

And as long as I'm on a rant. . .  Few people can understand the joy of having their ears connected to a cell phone so every time a text message, email or alert comes through there is a little beeping in the ear, the hearing aids go dead for about three seconds and then beep and go back on. Three seconds may not seem like a long time, but when you are in the middle of a conversation with a co-worker and suddenly your ears go completely dead, believe me, there is a lot of missed conversation in those three seconds. Now I can hear reasonably well without the hearing aids, so one might think that when the hearing aids beep off, no big deal, right? No. Hearing aids when inserted in the ears and when not working are essentially like stuffing your ears with cotton balls

I know for Mom the biggest adjustment was learning to filter out background noise. I have been told when my hearing aids are properly adjusted they will do that automatically for me. I have my doubts but I am ever hopeful. Mom did not have that option.

I recall a time when, shortly after Mom got her first hearing aids,  Dad's sister and brother-in-law were visiting. Someone said something and Mom asked them to repeat it. My aunt said to Mom, "Turn up your hearing aids.You spent all that money for them, why don't you use them?"

Pretty rude, right? They were wealthy and figured they could say whatever they wanted. And they often did with little regard to the feelings of anyone else. I find that often to be true with those who feel their social standing is above others. . . Think Donald Trump.

Poor Mom. I can now relate to how frustrating it is to not just have the sound of the person talking to you amplified, but also to have the sounds of water running in the kitchen sink, the blender mixing a smoothie, the washer in the laundry room on the spin cycle and the TV in the living room all competing for amplification in her ears. It's enough to make anyone a little crazy.

It used to be when my work day was done the first thing I removed was my bra. Now it's my hearing aids. Ahhhh. Blessed silence.

So next week, King and I will make yet another trip to the audiologist. He is going in with me this time so I'm hoping the audiologist will adjust the hearing aids to the "understand someone who talks as though he has cotton in his mouth" level.

Random summer thoughts

Some random thoughts about summer. . .

My childhood summers were spent around the sounds of water. Whether it was the sound of Dad's homemade pool filter recycling water back into the swimming pool (think fountain sounds),  the sound of a ski boat slapping the water as it pounded through a wake, or the gentle dip of a canoe paddle -- summers were associated with water.

When the kids were young we lived in a rented farmhouse, which was a short walk through the woods to Lake Michigan. Some of my most fond memories are of the waves lapping the shore, the sound of children's laughter as they dove into the water or played base-runner on the beach with King, and the cry of gulls as they swooped in to check out picnic baskets.

It is that sound, in fact, that I can recall each time I have my blood pressure checked. I close my eyes and picture myself lying on the beach with the warm sun on my face and those happy sounds filling my ears. Works every time. The doctor thinks I have remarkable blood pressure. One day I will have to tell her -- no, I've just gone to my  happy place.
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Today would have been Mom and Dad's 70th wedding anniversary.  Some anniversaries I remember quite well. Their 25th was spent with friends at their cottage near Gobles. Then there is a long space where I know we probably celebrated, but I don't recall what we did. For their 40th anniversary we all met at their home in Glenn and went out to eat. We did the same for their 50th and 60th. Funny how the time between the celebrations seemed to fly by more quickly each decade.

Next spring King and I will mark our 40th anniversary. I still feel as though I'm just getting to know him. Then again, we feel we know one another so well we can often argue because we THINK we know how the other is going to react to something. Marriage is not for sissies.
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We had a small family gathering at our son's home this past weekend. My younger sister rode her bike from Spring Lake to Grand Haven. I get tired walking to the the shed to simply look at my bike. She and I once rode our bikes from Hamilton to our family friend's cottage in Gobles. We stopped in Allegan for a hot fudge sundae. I don't believe we had to count calories back then. That was my last summer home before leaving for college.
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Although we've just experienced some of the hottest days of summer so far, King and our

The woodshed is full but now the
driveway must be lined with wood as well.

granddaughter have been splitting and stacking wood for the winter. The gentleman who owns the farm where we are caretakers heats his home, our home, and his greenhouse with a wood burning furnace. It's a lot of work. And anyone who makes the comment about heating with wood warming you twice (once when cutting it and again when burning it) will probably receive a scathing look from all three of us.

Our granddaughter is using the proceeds from her wood stacking venture to help fund school clothes this fall. Ahh the value of good, honest, hard labor. Or at least that is what I keep telling her. I believe she is dubious at best.

Enjoy the rest of your summer everyone. Fall (which happens to be my favorite season) will be here before we know it.

Selective memories

I'm surprised when people will ask "What did your parents die from?" Some may take it as a crass statement, but I truly do understand the intent and take no offense (although I do find it a strange question).


So to that question I will reply, "Hmmm. Let me think. Dad was 90 when he died and Mom was 92. I think it's safe to say they died of old age."

Yes, I wish they could have both passed away peacefully in their sleep. Dad spent a week in intensive care because his heart was tired of pumping. So I suppose, technically, he died of heart failure. I do maintain he had an old heart and it was through working.

Mom's body outlasted her mind, but it wasn't the dementia that ended her life. Like Dad, her body was tired and ready to quit.

There were many people at Mom's funeral who expressed surprise Mom lived another three and a half years beyond Dad. Mom and Dad had been married 65 years when Dad died and theirs was a deep, loving and committed relationship. To be honest, I think had Mom been in her right mind she may have died from grief. Her first few months alone without Dad were heartbreaking to watch. Mom simply did not know how to live without him.

Then the dementia began to progress. It became clear Mom could not live alone. Not just for the loneliness, but for simple every day things she could no longer handle. She went first to live with my younger sister and then, later, she came to live with King and I before her needs became greater than any family member could provide.

But in those months she lived with one of us Mom would often become melancholy and sob, "I miss Daddy."  We all missed him. We all miss both of them now.

But as Mom's dementia progressed further she began to forget. Or if she did remember she had no words to express how she felt. Toward the end she didn't talk much. There were huge smiles when we came to visit and a lot of hand holding, but few words . . . other than "stay," when it was time for us to leave.

In one of her last conversations with my sisters she pointed to a photo of Dad and asked, "Do I know him?"

We were never certain how to feel about that. Was it good she couldn't remember the man she grieved for? Or was it a blessing that she didn't remember him? Most likely it was a combination of both.

But memories are a funny thing.

Monday marks the 90-day anniversary of Mom's passing. As as the days progress I remember less and less of the mother who sat in the wheelchair, speaking little, wanting much. Instead I remember the mother who stood at the kitchen sink in the morning as we came in from doing chores (feeding the horses). I remember the mother who brought trays of cookies and lemonade out to our screened porch to serve friends who were over swimming. (It was also -- I now realize -- a signal it was time for them to go home). 

I remember Dad pulling in the driveway after work and everyone scrambling to help Mom set the table and get supper ready.

It is those memories -- the little things -- that I hope I can keep forever in my heart.

A rare day alone

Today I find myself having one of those rare days alone. It doesn't happen very often. King is off playing golf with one of our sons and I have six glorious hours before I have to leave for work. I have all kinds of plans that don't include those time-wasters Facebook or Candy Crush Saga.

My attic sewing space.

My kids gave me a sewing machine for Mother's Day and I plan on making good use of the free time I have. But first I have to go to the store to purchase a fan. I've created a workspace in our upstairs attic/bedroom and it gets incredibly hot up there. So for a few minutes I will be a woman on a mission and then I'll be free to create/play.


When we were growing up Mom did all her sewing at the kitchen table. The sewing machine was kept in the space between the washer and the refrigerator. It was an old metal Singer that Mom used for years and years, finally donating it to me after King and I were first married. When the belt on it finally broke and could not be replaced -- unless I wanted to hunt one down in an antique store -- I got a new sewing machine. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I would imagine today -- with the advent of the internet -- it might be easier to find a belt for it.  Unfortunately that old Singer disappeared about 12 moves ago. 

Mom had a dedicated sewing room after they moved to Grand Haven and I've fashioned my sewing room after hers. Mine will never be as neat and tidy as hers, but I have never been as fastidious about cleaning as she was. My hope is someday the dog hair will miraculously roll across the room and out the door on it's own.

By the time Mom and Dad sold their home in Grand Haven and moved into an apartment, I don't believe Mom did much sewing. I don't think she could have remembered how to thread the machine. Routine things had simply started slipping away. I recall how after they bought a new car Dad thought she should know how to drive it. By that time he was doing the majority of the driving, but he thought she should at least know how to drive the car -- just in case.

It was a dismal failure. Mom, who had been driving for years, could not remember which was the brake and which was the gas. Dad was incredibly irritated -- and probably just a little frightened. How horrifying that must have been for both of them.

Dad would say, "She just isn't trying." Unfortunately we now know she was trying. She was trying to hide the fact she couldn't remember things. She was trying to hide the fact that simple tasks were no longer simple. She was trying to continue to take care of Dad the way she always had. Her mind simply was not working.

So in a few minutes I will leave for the store, driving a car that I take for granted I know how to operate. I will purchase a fan and put it upstairs in my sewing room. I will thread my sewing machine and work on another project. But I will no longer take for granted that I can do those things. And I will hope and pray that the time will never come when I can't.

Gardens of delight

We have been without internet for the past week. I am amazed how much I rely on it for a plethora of things. Sadly, the internet will be the demise of the profession I love -- journalism. It was Woodward and Bernstein and their Watergate investigation that sent me to college in 1974 to become a reporter -- much to my father's chagrin. The media was much too liberal for him. But times they are a changing. Advertising dollars are disappearing  -- why buy a print ad when you can generally find what you need on the internet? Revenue is gone and newsroom are shrinking. Reporters are expected to do more with less at a pay that is less than that of a first year teacher's salary. (The pay has always been lousy). As a fellow reporter said years ago, "It's got to be a vanity thing -- to see your name in a byline -- it certainly can't be the money."

However, I digress. On with today's post.

I stood in the rain this morning and picked snap peas. King absolutely hates peas. If I buy any type of pre-packaged dinner and there are peas in it, he will eat around them and I will find a small pile of peas left on his plate.

But my son mentioned he liked snap peas and I was thinking of him when I picked them. I will drop them off as his apartment later today -- after my hair dries.

Mom never grew peas in her garden. I'm never quite certain why. In fact, I can think of a handful of vegetables that she grew -- tomatoes, cucumbers, butter beans, corn and maybe a few peppers. I'm not certain why that was the extent of her garden, but it was.  She told me once about how her mother used to grow eggplant in their market garden. She said grandma wasn't certain what to do with the eggplant, but every night before they took their vegetables to the market,  Grandma would polish them with a rag until they were quite shinny.

I have been told that when my parents first moved to Hamilton they had a garden in the corner of the muck where our neighbor grew celery. I think I may remember bits of it, but I can never be certain if my memories from that young an age are real, or just things I think I remember because I've heard the stories. At any rate, when our neighbor stopped farming Mom didn't move her vegetable garden to our backyard right away.

She told me Grandpa told her she should have a garden but she insisted the ground was not conducive for growing anything. I remember her telling me Grandpa said with all the horse manure we accumulated anything she planted would grow. Grandpa was right. Mom eventually did plant a garden in a corner of one of our pastures and her garden flourished. Years later she told me she regretted not planting a garden while Grandpa was alive. I think we all have those kind of regrets.

In all their homes since moving from Hamilton, Mom never again grew vegetables, but she would spend hours and hours in her yard, planting flowers, making shade gardens, moving bird baths, and trying different varieties of flowers. I would always supply her with the horse manure to make things grow. It became a standing joke ... she could count on me to bring her a large load of horse sh-- for Mother's Day. And she would oohhh and ahhh over it much the same as she did with the macaroni necklaces we made for her as kids.

In the few years before Mom went to live in a nursing home, she spent many hours with me in our gardens. And we have huge gardens. After  King retired as a school administrator I answered an ad in an alternative newspaper to be caretakers on a hobby farm. The gentleman who owns the farm lives in the city and comes to Michigan on weekends. We take care of his yard and gardens during the week in exchange for a free caretaker's home and free utilities. It's a lot of work -- especially since I still work full-time -- but it is something we can check off our bucket list. We've never been exactly mainstream.

With as many gardens as we tend, the weeding is endless. When Mom was with us I would bring lemonade and a big beach umbrella to the gardens and try to get her to sit in the shade and watch me work. Within minutes she would be along side me pulling weeds. At the time Mom was pushing 90. I did not want to have to write an obituary saying she died weeding her daughter's garden. . . although in hindsight it might have been better than her wasting away in a nursing home.

In the backyard of the tiny caretakers cottage where we live I've created a memory garden for our parents. I am definitely my mother's daughter. I've made a shade garden, I've moved bird baths, I try different varieties of flowers. I think Mom would be pleased.

Happy Father's Day

Dad, Patricia and
our granddaughter, Hailey

The other day while cleaning out a drawer I came across a photo of our daughter in uniform standing with my Dad. I actually remember the day quite well.

She was home on leave from being stationed in La Maddalena, Italy. Weeks before she came home Dad asked if she would bring her uniform with her and wear it to church on Sunday. I know how very  much she didn't want to do it, but she did. Sitting next to her in church was probably one of the proudest days of Dad's life and I am proud of a daughter who would do that for her grandfather.

Those from my hometown who knew Dad are probably not aware what a soft-touch he was.  Some may remember the business man who ran a dog food factory. Others may remember the man who danced with all the girls when he and Mom chaperoned after-prom dances. (For the uninformed, during the 1960s and early 1970s dancing was a sin in Hamilton so there were no school-sanctioned dances after proms. Mom, Dad and a few other parents would rent a hall at a different location and chaperone dances). I am sure there are many boys who remember Dad as a terrifying figure who sat in his chair and could grill a young man about his intentions without saying a word.

I remember a Dad who cried when he said goodbye to me at the airport when, at the age of 16, I left for a summer in Finland as an exchange student. I remember that same Dad who, years later,  stood by the window at a hospital nursery and cried tears of joy when our first son was born.

I remember a Dad who would have grounded me for life had I even looked crosswise at a cigarette, but would sneak behind the garage with my sons and smoke with them. "Don't tell anyone. Willy thinks I quit," he would say to them. I remember the guilty look I got when I came around the corner and found them all huddled together, a thick blue cloud of smoke surrounding them. "They made me do it," he said.


I remember a Dad who would stand on the church steps after a Sunday service and announce to the world it was "time for a Hokey Pokey" and then would pile all the grandchildren into his convertible and take them out for a "Hokey Pokey" sundae at Sherman's in South Haven. Mom warning him the entire time, "Donald they haven't had lunch yet."

I miss my Dad. He was probably one of the scariest/kindest men I know. He could have my sisters and I jumping through hoops just by clearing his throat. I don't think he ever raised his voice at us. He didn't have to. One look from him and we knew we had to toe the line or else . . . what that "or else" was I'll never know because we never had to find out. And truthfully, Dad never had to say it. There were never threats.

Were we perfect children? Oh Heavens no. But there was little we could get away with as Dad was fairly well-versed in the ways of misbehavior. Dad missed most of his junior year of high school. Apparently he hung out with friends at a gas station. The next school year he had to have lunch every day with his old-maid aunts.When he would recount the story to us he made it seem as though having  lunch with his aunts was a fun thing. I am quite certain it was not.

So on this Father's Day afternoon I pay tribute to my father. Miss you Dad. But I will always remember the good times you created for us.

What would Mom have done?

We have an ongoing family disaster at our home. It's volatile, heartbreaking and difficult to know what to do. It involves one of our children and his new family. Suffice it to say blended families are seldom Brady Bunch-esque.

After yet another blow-up at our home, which I did not handle very well  I'm left feeling frustrated, guilty and sad. I can't help but wonder how my mother would have handled it.

Mom was the epitome of class. I don't believe she ever engaged in gossip. I don't believe she ever jumped on a bandwagon for a cause she didn't support one hundred percent.

When the high school in Hamilton was new and a group of parents banded together to "get ride of" an individual, the group was rather deflated when mom refused to join.

At the time I had no idea what was going on, but Mom -- when relating the story to me years later -- said she told the person who called her she would not join their "lynch mob." I was surprised at her words. I would have thought Mom would have found a more diplomatic way to say no. But there are times when brutal honesty is probably best. So I asked Mom, "What happened next."

"Nothing, I guess," Mom said. "I think I kind of took the wind out of their sails."

How cool is that?

I'm not certain how Mom would have handled this situation. But I kind of have a sense that even if she were still with us and in a normal state of mind, she would not get involved. I honestly believe she would tell me to step back and stop trying to fix things.

I have this uncontrollable need to make things better. To fix it. And I can't. I would give anything to have Mom give me instructions from the great beyond and tell me how to handle it. But I guess in a way she has. That still small voice is telling me . . . Let it go.

Never say never

Never say never again, is a James Bond film. The title is a references to Sean Connery's declaration that he would never again portray the character James Bond in a film. . . . I'm still not certain what more I can say about Mom and her dementia, but quite a number of people have asked me to continue with my blog. I'll start it and see where it leads. But as with all things in life there are no guarantees.

It's been a month now since Mom passed away.

I suppose we all grieve in our own way.

My sisters and I continue to meet for breakfast on Saturday. The first meeting was the day before Mother's Day.We agreed Mother's Day didn't hold any special significance in Mom's passing. We all have families of our own and had started our own Mother's Day traditions. Although we always had included Mom, for the past several years she hadn't known what Mother's Day was.Or Christmas. Or Thanksgiving. Or her birthday.

Our Saturday morning breakfast outings will probably continue for sometime. Much like Mom and her sisters would meet once a month for some type of  "sisters day out," my sisters and I will continue to forge sibling bonds that  had weakened while we raised families, attended soccer games and horse shows, held jobs and worked at being responsible adults. Time now to return to our roots as it were.

I miss my mother. But I've been missing her for years. The woman we visited regularly in the nursing home was not our mother. And we often ask one another, "What would Mom have really wanted?" There is no way of ever knowing. Oh, we know a nursing home was one of Mom's biggest fears. But none of us -- including her -- could have ever imagined she would have become the woman sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a diaper, not knowing who we were.

Mom had started showing signs of dementia long before Dad passed away. We chalked it up to her lack of hearing. I think in the beginning Mom -- in an effort to hide her problem from us -- would let us believe it was a lack of hearing that was causing confusion. But after a trip to Florida one spring Mom and Dad came home and Mom could no longer balance her checkbook. It had been a task that Mom had taken very seriously and their finances were accounted for right down to the last penny. (I, on the other hand, will check my balance with the bank and figure they are more right than I am and call it good).

There were plenty of other signs to which we turned a blind eye. Dad knew. And Dad was scared and concerned.

After returning from Florida Dad insisted they both go in to the doctor for physicals. Mom had had several debilitating panic attacks while in Florida. She had had several at home prior to their trip as well. Dad was adamant we find out what was wrong with Mom. So I told Dad I would take them to the doctor and go into the examination room with Mom, freeing him to talk to the doctor alone.

Dad, being of the generation he is, never told the doctor his concerns. He assumed the doctor would be able to tell what was wrong with Mom simply by looking at her.

A shame? Possibly. But truth be told there is little to nothing that can be done to stop the progression of dementia. It can be slowed, but the ultimate end is you end up in a nursing home in a wheelchair wearing a diaper.

So yes, I miss my mother. I miss her warm smile. I miss her understanding ways. I miss her sarcasm. I miss her hugs. But I've been missing them for years. So when you tell me what I'm feeling is the "normal grieving process," (and please, you have no idea how aggravating that phrase is) I guess you might be right. But it's been a long, long process.

Come on Willy, lets go for a sail

I think I may have mentioned a time or two that Dad loved sailing.

He and his friend Don Mac had a sailboat that they sailed on a small inland lake near Gobles. It was easily the largest boat on the lake. The two Dons would take the boat out and tack back and forth across the water, often tipping the boat on its side as the wind caught the sail. (In sailing terms it's called heel). More often than not they would tip completely over -- definitely too much heel. It was considered a badge of honor to end a sailing session with the boat on its side.

Mom would sail with them occasionally and if it happened to be an outing with too much heel we could hear her "whooping" across the lake. Trust me. It was not a "whoop" of pleasure. It was Mom's way of screaming.  Given the fact that Mom could not muster more than a dog paddle in the water,  one would have to assume she never learned to swim properly. Looking back I can say with some confidence water terrified her. But Mom was always up for whatever Dad wanted to do.

I believe I also have written about the time Mom traveled to Kansas to visit my older sister and while she was gone Dad purchased a 21 foot sailboat for sailing on Lake Michigan. Mom, ever the frugal housewife, was not impressed.

We named the boat Willy -- after Mom whose middle name is Wilhelminia -- and painted Willy on the back of the boat. Depending on Mom's reaction we were going to add the words "Surprised," or "Sweet" before the word Willy. Mom's reaction to seeing the boat in the driveway was not printable and the boat remained just plain "Willy."

But Mom never stayed angry with Dad for very long and by the end of the summer she had learned to rig the sails and man the tiller. She and Dad had some marvelous adventures on Lake Michigan.

Willy sailing.

Dad purchased the boat the summer before King and I married.  I went out with them a few times that summer. There is something quite peaceful about being miles from shore with just the wind pushing the boat along. If one goes out far enough the water becomes an amazing blue. We would sometimes drop anchor and swim off the back of the boat. Mom never joined us in the water.

King never took to sailing. He managed to take one sail with us and never stepped foot on the boat again.

It was October and he and I were home from college for one of my high-school friend's wedding.

The day after the wedding Mom, Dad, several of their friends, King, my younger sister and I packed a picnic lunch and headed for the dock where Dad kept the boat.

For Mom, there was nothing better than showing her love by packing a picnic basket full of food -- sloppy joes, potato salad, lemonade and a pan of homemade brownies. We would eat her picnic lunch all the way out the channel, stow the leftovers below deck and head to the open waters for a day of sailing. . . At least that is how it generally happened.

This particular day the lake was rather rough. I'm guessing the swells were about six feet high -- rather rough sailing for a smaller-sized boat. We were all pretty busy helping Dad keep the boat on an even keel. I crawled to the front to untangle some lines and turned around, took one look at King and said, "Gee, you look kind of green." Anyone who knows Mom knows what a mild-mannered woman she was. In an uncharacteristic move Mom whapped me across the legs and said, "Keep still." (Mom never said shut up). Poor King, who had eaten more than his fair share of sloppy joes, potato salad and slabs of brownies, was deathly ill.  In fact, I think it took him at least three days to feel human again.

I believe that was the last time King ever sailed. I'm not certain if he's even ventured out onto the water in an inner-tube since then.

But Mom continued to sail with Dad for the next several years until one day when they were several miles out and the shore line had disappeared from view that Dad looked at Mom and said, "Willy, if I had a heart attack could you sail this boat in to shore?"

Dad lived another twenty-five years, but it kind of put a damper on Mom's enthusiasm for sailing. They sold the boat the next summer and although they might tell you it was because it was becoming a rather expensive hobby (slip fees are VERY expensive) I suspect Mom's fear had a lot to do with it as well. They purchased a travel trailer and spent the next few years as snowbirds, heading south for the winter months. Mom found the highway a little less frightening than open water.

__________________

This is my last blog about Mom and her struggles with dementia. Mom remembers us now. She knows who we are. Dad finally came for her last night. I'm sure he took her by the hand and said, "Come on Willy, lets go for a sail."

Adult content

Sometime in the late 1960s - early 1970s -  a young couple rented the farm house next door to us. He was just out of the military, having served in Vietnam, and she was a young housewife. They had three children, a couple of dogs, and a motorcycle that would have made Easy Rider green with envy.

They also hosted some pretty amazing parties with bikers from across the Midwest descending on our little neighborhood. (I should add here, their children were sent to their grandparent's home when they hosted these parties). There was lots of music, lots of drinking, lots of smoking (both kids) and a lot of naked people sleeping in sleeping bags in the field between our house and theirs.

Mom was mortified. The rest of us were not. My younger sister, Dad and I sat on my bed and watched the activities through my bedroom window until Mom chased us away and drew the shades. But that didn't keep us from sneaking back occasionally to have another peek at the festivities.

It was quite an event in our little town and was much fodder for the talk in the coffee shop for days to come. It was an interesting couple of summers to say the least.

Now, one of the dogs this couple owned had a propensity to bring us gifts from next door. Unusual things. A hairbrush. A loaf of bread. Old horse blankets. . . . A pair of women's jeans with the belt attached and "Sue" engraved in the belt.

At least that is what Mom and the neighbor told us.

A couple of days after one of their parties Dad noticed the neighbor walking around in the field, obviously looking for something. Mom had hung the jeans on the clothesline, so Dad pulled them off the line and brought them over to the neighbor and asked, "Did a woman named Sue lose her jeans the other night?" (That was our Dad, always direct).

I'm sure there was a nod and a wink and the neighbor replied, "Why yes she did. She got caught in the rain and we hung her clothes on our clothesline to dry. The dog must have pulled them off."

It wasn't until many years later and I had children of my own that Mom finally confessed they found the jeans in our hayloft.  Even then Mom couldn't bring herself to directly say the obvious.

"They must have been having 'relations' in the barn. That's why your father and I would not let you get hay for the horses after their parties," she told me.

Poor Mom, always trying to protect her daughters from what she considered "coarse behavior."

That's okay Mom, thanks for trying. I'll always love you for your attempts.

But the cat came back the very next day . . .

We lived in a small town. A tiny town. No traffic lights. No party stores (at least not when I lived there). No stores open on Sunday . . .  Everyone knew everyone else -- and often everyone knew everyone's business. It can be annoying, but it isn't always a bad thing.

Neighbors kept track of neighborhood children. And few things were kept secret. My sisters and I could seldom get away with anything naughty as it would almost always be reported back to Dad. As a consequence we seldom did (major) naughty things. Nothing was worse than being the recipient of Dad's ire. His disappointment in us was more than enough punishment.

Being trustworthy did have its benefits. Although Dad never bought any of us a car, once we were old enough to drive there was always a car available for our use. And they were generally fun vehicles to drive as well.  At different points in our youth we had a 1964 Plymouth Fury convertible,  a 1956 Willys Jeep, a 1972 Fiat Spider and a slew of other fun or sporty cars. But, they were hardly something one could drive around town and remain anonymous. Ahhh, Dad's master plan.

The Plymouth convertible was basically Mom's car. It seems as though we had it for a long time, but it had been sold to a neighborhood kid before I was old enough to drive so I never had the pleasure of driving it -- legally. When I came of age, I had the pleasure of driving the Willys Jeep. A big, boxy thing with a gear ratio that was so forgiving one could start out in third gear and still make it move down the road.

I taught my friend from Finland to drive in that jeep.  We literally bounced across the bridge in town, singing the Beatles song Yesterday, while I showed her how to use the clutch, brake, gas and shift. Even today I think of her every time I hear that song.

Although I never got to (legally) drive the Plymouth, I do remember that instead of a shift, it had buttons to the left of the steering column for shifting into reverse, park and drive. Mom never saw a car as a status symbol, she did enjoy driving that car. Who wouldn't have? It must have been quite easy to drive.

So Mom scooted around town in that little white convertible with the red interior. She delivered forgotten gym uniforms to school. She took us to dental appointments. For a long time she was the only one of her sisters with a driver's license, so she was the designated driver when they got together for shopping trips. Mom was also the designated mail pick-up person. On those days when Dad didn't have time, or when the mail had not been sorted yet when he went on his daily coffee run to the local restaurant, Mom would dutifully drive to the post office to get the mail.

Everyone in town knew Mom and her little white convertible. It was early one spring  that she noticed the neighbors were especially happy to see her as she drove around town running her endless errands.

"Everyone was waving and smiling. It was so nice to see so many friendly faces," Mom said at dinner that evening.

It turns out the cat had been sunning itself on the roof of the car when Mom left for the post office. Apparently Mom hadn't noticed him and drove from our house to the post office with the cat clinging to the roof for dear life  -- his nails dug deep into the convertible's roof.

"He took off as soon as I got to the post office," Mom said. "I don't think we'll ever see him again."

The cat did turn up a few days later. He was sitting on his usual spot in the window of the barn waiting for his breakfast. From that point on he gave the car a very wide berth.

All that was going on in life and we never noticed

As I may have mentioned a time or two, Mom has always been one to enjoy an adventure.

Mom always enjoyed taking golf
cart rides on the trail behind
our house.

When she could still verbalize, a visit with Mom meant a trip somewhere and would also include -- 99.9 percent of the time-- going out for coffee before retuning home.

Mom no longer asks to go anywhere. Even if she could put into words what she so desperately wants, there is no way with her mending hip we could venture out of the confines of the nursing home. Although Mom is walking -- with assistance -- she is very unsteady. None of us wants to be responsible for another fall and another broken hip.

But even in her wheelchair-bound state, Mom still likes to travel. Apparently this past week she spent much of her time scooting around the the nursing home. In fact, she scooted so much that one morning when I went to visit I found her sleeping soundly in a recliner. Apparently she was exhausted from a day of wandering prior to my visit. The staff at the home said they could not wake her for breakfast. She was dressed and clean and looked comfortable. But she was sound asleep. At 92 I think she deserves to do whatever she wants so I spent my visit holding her hand.While she slept I studied her face.

I was frustrated with myself because I can't remember what she looked like while I was growing up. Oh, I can picture her dressed for church on Sunday. I can picture her at the ironing board ironing everything -- including Dad's boxers. But I can't remember what her face really looked like.

I would prefer not to remember Mom as the little old lady sitting in the recliner with her mouth open and her head leaning back. I would prefer not to remember Mom as the little old lady who tried to open her eyes to see who was holding her hand but was just too exhausted to accomplish that feat. I want desperately to remember the face of my mother when she was whole -- when she still knew who I was.

Like Emily Webb in Thorton Wilder's play Our Town, I wish I could go back and really pay attention to what she looked like. The line from Emily's monolog plays over and over in my head: I didn't realize. All that was going on in life and we never noticed.

But it's not just Mom I can't remember. For the life of me I can't remember what King looked like the day we were married. Just as Mom was always Mom, Dad was always Dad, my children were always my children and King was always King, I never really noticed what was really going on. I never memorized their faces.

I know that after Mom is gone I will have an occasional flash of memory. Just as I  have with Dad. For a long time after Dad died I remembered him as the tired old man lying in a hospital bed. Now I occasionally will think of him on his sailboat. Or sitting at his desk in his office. I don't see his face clearly, but I remember him.

And now it's time to really notice.

Marriage, adding machines and new homes

While some -- in their study of history -- learn about battles, events that led to wars, or who signed what and when and where, I was always interested in what ordinary people who were living during those times were doing.

I am grateful Mom told me stories about her life on the farm, about life during the depression, about getting electricity on the farm, about dating Dad, about what she did during World War II, and about their life when they were first married. Mom had hundreds of stories and I'm glad I listened. I am grateful I have a memory to write them down.

When she could still converse Mom talked a lot about the early years of their marriage.

Dad was home on leave from Europe when they got married on August 4, 1945. While they were on their honeymoon the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. And the war ended.

Dad was going to ship out to Japan after his leave, but instead he spent six weeks in Washington state before coming home. Mom stayed with her in-laws while Dad was gone. It was while she was staying there she learned the importance of not using a man's razor to shave her legs.

Mom told me Grandpa came downstairs one day with pieces of toilet paper stuck to his face with his razor in hand asking if anyone had used his razor.

"Did you tell him you had," I asked her?

Mom was surprised. "Of course I told him. I had to. I did it."

I think if it had been me I may have kept my mouth shut. But that's just me.

Dad returned and I would imagine life slowly returned to normal. He got a job and they settled into married life. They rented a farmhouse -- with no running water -- near Mom's sister and brother-in-law. I can only imagine what life must have been like living in that house. Mom said it wasn't so bad in the summer, but running to the outhouse in the dead of winter was not fun. Heating water on the stove to wash diapers was a lot of work as well. My two older sisters were born while they lived there.

Life continued and eventually Mom and Dad built their first home in Grand Rapids. The house was had in-floor radiant heat and my sister remembers a breakfast nook where Mom and her brother Jim sat and had coffee a couple times a week.

When King and I were first married our rent payment for married student housing at the university was $165 a month (including utilities) Mom told me the house payment for their first home was $42 a month and she worried how they were going to afford the payment. She also tells how the house was so new they hadn't yet laid the carpet when Dad was offered the opportunity to move to Hamilton and help manage a dog food company his brother-in-law had started.

I'm not certain if I actually remember that first factory or if I remember seeing photos of it. But it was in a Quonset-style celery coop. I do remember the juniper bushes in front of the office and the stairs to the office with a pipe railing that my younger sister and I would play on while visiting Dad at work.

I also recall going to work with him one afternoon while my mother and younger sister went to the

doctor. I was a wonderful afternoon filled with interesting people and a remarkable adding machine with lots of buttons and number. I merrily punched buttons and listened to the machine as it made a clacketedy-clack sound and numbers would appear. The more buttons one pushed the more noise it made. . .That is until the unthinkable happened. I pushed too many buttons at once. The machine whirred a little and then stopped. I hid under the desk. I may have still been hiding there when Mom arrived to take me home. Dad was pretty unflappable.

"Take a look at what little Iodine did," was all he said. But I remember that dread feeling and the crushing realization that I had done something very, very bad. I'm sure Dad, being the ever-resourceful person he was, removed the cover and used a paperclip to un-stick the buttons.

That same adding machine was still in use when I was in sixth grade. I know because I tried to do my math homework on it. It was a dismal failure. . . Perhaps he never did fix it.

The little old lady in the wheelchair

My daughter called the other day and asked if I could dig up a photo of her with Mom and one of her brothers.

"Do you know the one I'm talking about Mom" she asked. "It's the one where we are walking down the trail with Mittens (our dog)."

Yes, I knew the photo -- it was taken when our youngest son was about a year old. We had just moved to a new house -- it was in the woods east of Mount Pleasant, several miles from where the Soaring Eagle Casino is today.

Mom and Dad came to visit to check out our new digs. It was a big house and they spent the weekend with us -- for the first time not having to kick the boys out of a bedroom so they could have a place to sleep.

The entire family wasn't in the picture as King, Dad and our oldest son were playing golf. I was carrying the baby in a backpack. Funny how some photos can bring back memories like they were yesterday.

Mom arrived with a measuring tape in hand, ready to measure windows and sliding doors for curtains.

She almost always made the curtains for wherever we found ourselves living. For years our curtains were always made of unbleached muslin. They go with any decor -- especially my decorating schemes, which tend to be  Early Marriage. Even today, on the eve of our 39th wedding anniversary, our house is decorated in furniture cast-offs.  Our one piece of new furniture is a rather large recliner that King has claimed as his throne. It is only after he retires for the evening that one of us reaches for the Scepter of Power, claim the throne, lean back and watch television shows of our choosing.

Dad was the same way. He watched television in the evening, switching from channel to channel, watching a little bit of everything. Mom would sit in the living room next to him and mend clothes or hem curtains. (We moved a lot).

When I look at Mom today -- hunched over in her wheelchair, staring at Heaven knows what, absently folding her napkin over and over again -- it's sometimes difficult to remember the woman who took our children for walks and sewed my curtains.

Photographs like the one I dug up for my daughter are a good reminder of the woman who was in them. May we always find comfort in these little reminders.

Church Ladies love to cook

After my sisters and I went through Mom's things last summer, I brought home several boxes of odds and ends that I promptly put in the spare bedroom to go through at a later date.They've stayed there until this week when a son moved home temporarily. I pulled out the boxes to make room for him. It seemed like a good time to see what was in them. Inside were Better Homes and Garden cookbooks and a lot of church cookbooks -- created by the women of  whatever church Mom was attending. . . Haven Reformed, Glenn United Methodist, First Reformed.

Church Ladies love to cook. And nothing says love like a Church Ladies cookbook.

Whenever the Church Ladies decided to write a cookbook as a fundraiser Mom always contributed. She had a list of her favorite "go to" recipes that she would pull out and send off for the fundraising effort.

Buried in her pile of cookbooks was the source of her recipe inspirations -- a spiral-bound notebook with "My Favorite Recipes" on the cover Not a very original original title. The notebook looked as though it had been purchased from a school fundraiser. But inside that little unremarkable spiral bound notebook was a lifetime of recipes clipped from newspapers and pulled from magazines. Some were glued to the pages, some were simply stuffed between the pages. There were some pages with recipes written in Mom's neat handwriting.

I spread it all out on our dining room table and looked through them all. It was like having a little bit of Mom right there with me. I could almost hear her say, "I like this one. I served it at the Glenn Church breakfast," or "Dad didn't like this one, but I might try it again with less seasonings."

The pages also contained little notes from Mom: Use 1/2 cup butter instead. This one is a keeper. You Bet! (I'm guessing it was a particularly good recipe).

There was a long hand-written page with the recipe for "Friendship Cake" or, as we called it, "Herman Cake." The margin had "From Don Mac" written in it. . . Don Mac was a very dear friend of Mom and Dad. Mom used her "Herman Starter" to make zucchini bread, which Mr. Mac particularly liked.

There were letters from my sisters with recipes they shared with Mom. It was a little piece of everyday life that was so very much a part of Mom. There were recipes from the Wayland Globe and The Gratiot County Herald (I never worked at the Globe, how she got the recipe I'll never know). There were recipes from neighbors written on notebook paper and recipes written on bank scratch pads. There were recipes from the 1970s, 1980s and some from the 1990s. I wish I could find some older ones but I'm guessing those are long gone.

My how things have changed. I have a collection of recipes as well. Unfortunately mine are on my hard drive. When I am gone or demented my children won't be able to go through them and see my handwriting and my notes about how to tweak a recipe or what works and what doesn't. There is something definitely lost in the age of hard drives, Pinterest and Facebook.

I thought about transferring everything from my hard drive to paper and making a recipe box for the kids. But my handwriting is anything but neat. And as much as I'd like to preserve things for my children, it seem like a lot of work. However, the other day I found a program on the computer that can create a font with my handwriting. . . one click and drag of a mouse and everything is there . . . almost written by me. 

Pookie and Pineapple

It was 10 years ago this month our daughter graduated from the Naval Air Technical Training Center in Pensacola, Fla. She was an air traffic controller in the Navy for a number of years. It seems like yesterday and it seems like a lifetime ago.

King was in the middle of the winter semester and could not get away for the graduation so the plan was I would drive Mom and Dad to Pensacola to watch the graduation and then we would drive across the state to stay at one of my sister's condos in St. Augustine. I would drive them down, leave the car with them and fly home. My sister would drive them back later in the spring.

We made a vacation of it and I took our two granddaughters with us. They were 5 and 10 at the time. Mom and Dad were in their mid-eighties. 

In truth,  Mom and Dad made the trip almost every winter, but my sisters and I decided the drive to Florida was bit much for Dad to handle. Mom had quit driving sometime in her 70s.

So we packed the car and got ready for an adventure.

I never quite understood why, but Mom and Dad seemed to think they didn't have grocery stores in Florida. So they packed about four weeks worth of food. That's food for five, plus suitcases and entertaining games, books and puzzles for two children and three adults packed into a Nissan. I had to insist they leave their food behind, but I promised Mom and Dad I would take them grocery shopping once we reached our final destination. They were dubious and Mom did manager to smuggle a couple of boxes of cereal into the trunk that promptly exploded once the trunk was closed. We vacuumed Rice Krispies for weeks.

We traveled slowly -- making a lot of pit stops and visiting whatever sites were available between Grand Haven and Pensacola. I did most of the driving. My one mistake was allowing Dad to drive around Nashville. He decided since there were five of us he could travel in the commuter lane -- at 80 miles per hour. Has anyone ever ridden in a car with an 85 year old man driving 80 mph? It's terrifying. I sat in the passenger seat praying. He looked over, "What are you doing?" "Oh, nothing Dad, just singing to myself. Could you watch the truck in front of you?"

I drove the rest of the trip.

We spent several days in  a hotel in Pensacola. And we developed a routine . . . Mom, Dad and I would get up in the morning and make our way downstairs for coffee and bagels. When the girls got up later in the morning we took them to iHop.

The girls on the beach in St. Augustine.

We were eating second breakfast one morning when the girls announced they needed different names for great-grandma and great-grandpa. Having two grandmas on the trip was too confusing for them and calling them great-grandma and great-grandpa was too much of a mouthful. So they decided Dad would be called Pookie. I have no idea where the name came from, but Dad rather enjoyed it. But finding a name for Mom was a challenge. Our oldest granddaughter watched as her sister slathered her waffle with a load of pineapple syrup. "That's it! We'll call her Pineapple."

Dad loved it. Mom was quite offended. "Do I look like a prickly old pineapple?" Nonetheless, the name stuck for several years until the girls outgrew nicknames.

Those are the memories that endear our hearts to our grandchildren.

The little old lady in the bread aisle

This month King and I will celebrate our 39th wedding anniversary. Yes, it is a long time. We've been married longer than most of my co-workers have been on earth.

Thirty-nine years. Wow. And what do I think about the accomplishment? That's 39 years of trying to come up with meals. King does not cook. I was amazed the other day when he made himself a fried bologna sandwich with a fried egg. (Ok, he's not good at healthy choices, but the point is -- he cooked).

Mom and Dad were married 66 years when Dad passed away. That's 66 years of cooking and meal planning. Dad did not cook. Not even a fried bologna sandwich. If Dad wanted a dish of ice cream, Mom got it for him. If Dad wanted a lemonade, Mom jumped up and poured him a glass . . . with ice.

And no, Dad was not demanding. He did not insist. But they were of the generation where cooking and cleaning was Mom's job. That is what a housewife did. Mom laid out his clothes every morning. She cooked all their meals. She made the bed. She cleaned the house. She paid the bills. She balanced the checkbook.

After Dad retired they started doing more things together. Dad helped with the dishes. He helped make the bed. They even shopped together. There were times when Mom commented on the fact she would like to do some things by herself. But I don't believe she EVER told Dad that. She would never have wanted to hurt his feelings.

As they got older and Mom started having memory problems, their shopping together became somewhat of a chore. Mom had a very difficult time making decisions. Looking back, we should have seen the signs, but we didn't.

Dad liked raisin toast for breakfast. Mom would stand in the bread aisle and contemplate the type of bread to purchase. While she was agonizing over bread, Dad would become impatient and march down the aisle ready to move on to the next item on their list. Mom would get angry at his leaving her behind and march behind him and tell him he should wait for her. Dad would look irritated, shake his head, and continue on to the soup aisle where the process would start over again.

Mom, being deaf, would kind of be in her own little world. She would do her contemplating in the middle of the aisle. People would become irritated at the little old lady standing in the middle of the aisle and huff around her. Mom had no idea. Dad could see this and it bothered him that she was so oblivious . . . it was an exhausting, vicious circle.

After being married 39 years there are plenty of things King does that makes me crazy. Not being perfect (although King claims I think I am perfect) I am sure there are things I do that drive him insane. I can only imagine what it will be like after 66 years.

But oh, how Mom and Dad loved each other. On what was to be our last trip to the Golden Brown Bakery in South Haven before Dad died, we sat in the dining room and had our coffee and pastries. Mom and Dad used to bring our children there for a treat when the kids were small. We talked about those visits and the things small children do that endear themselves forever into the hearts of grandparents. On our way out I stopped and purchased some pastries for King and our granddaughter. Mom and Dad continued out the door -- holding hands. The cashier looked at me, tears in her eyes.

"Sixty-six years the end of this summer. We should all be so lucky," was all I said.

For those who have never lived it . . .

Few things are as hurtful as those well-meaning (and I use the term loosely) people who will say things like, "We kept Mom with us to the very end. I would never put her in a home," or "I don't think I would have been much of a child had I sent Dad to a nursing home."

Really? Is that what you think? We don't love Mom enough to keep her with us? To them all I can say is: "If you haven't lived it, please don't say anything.You have no clue." And if I were to wish to be as hurtful as they are I would add: "And you are the meanest jerk on the face of the earth." I might even add some expletives, but I'm trying to cut down on my swearing. Mom always said: Swearing is the sign of a weak mind.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than having to visit Mom in the nursing home. My heart aches every time I walk into the building and search for her (she likes to wander) only to find her sitting in her wheelchair staring absently at a television screen. She has learned how to scoot around the building (in her wheelchair) and one evening my sister found her in a lounge area staring at a wall. Apparently she could not figure out how to move backwards.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could bring Mom home and assimilate her into the household once again. But Mom isn't Mom any longer. She can't do simple things like bathe herself, brush her teeth, use the toilet or get in and out of bed. Mom can't even communicate with us. We have no way of knowing what she is thinking. What she wants, or what she would like to do. We sit and hold her hands. That is it.

Mom needs round-the-clock care. She needs things one family can't provide for her.We know. We tried. It is exhausting. It is a strain on marriages.

Mom could not be alone. Ever. She panicked when we went into the bathroom. She panicked when meals were not on time. She couldn't sit through grandchildrens' sporting events. Someone had to stay home with her. And guess what? Babysitters for an adult are impossible to find. So your Mom/Dad stayed with you for a month? How nice for you. Did you have to bathe him/her? Did you have to change his/her diaper? Could you still go to a grandchild's sporting event? Did you and your husband/wife have the opportunity to have dinner out? Did you give up a paying job to care for her/him? I thought not.

I don't write this as a means for alleviating the guilt we feel for not being able to care for Mom. It is a cold, hard reality. We could not do it.

I've heard people suggest hiring in home care. If Mom and Dad or my sisters and I were rich, maybe that would have been an option. But at $112 a day (average cost) and the care not covered by insurance -- who would shoulder that responsibility?

I wish there were easy answers. I wish our Mother did not have dementia. I wish our Father were still here to help take care of her. I wish "well-meaning" people would just keep their mouths shut.

P.S. I should mention I do know a family that opted to hire in-home care. I admire them. I envy their resources. And am impressed by their tenacity and dedication. Kudos to them.

When does one know when they are a grownup

While visiting Mom at the nursing home the other day I ran into one of my former high school teachers. I've been out of high school forty years. The teacher, I am sure, has been retired for quite some time.

Our exchange was brief and I avoided calling him by name. I didn't know whether to call him Mr. or by his first name. The lessons Mom and Dad taught about respecting our elders is forever ingrained in my physche.

But the person who was my elder when I was in high school is closer in age to me than my parents' friend and our neighbors were as I was growing up. When one thinks about it, that 15 to 20 year age difference when I was in high school was much greater than the 15 to 20 year age difference today.

A few of Mom and Dad's friends often told us we could call them by their first  names. It never flew with our parents.

"No, you will refer to them as Mr. or Mrs," Mom would say. A Mom saying "no" always trumped a friend saying "yes."

I was not so insistent on proper titles when our own children were young. Instead I insisted their friends call me by my first name. To me Mrs. McCrossin was a a little old lady who lived on the east side of the state. I am, and always have been, Phyllis. Those who were uncomfortable with calling me by my first name usually referred to me as "Momma Phyllis." It worked for me. However, young visitors  always referred to King as Mr. McCrossin. I'm guessing they have the same problem deciding what to call their former principal as I do deciding what to call a former teacher.

And I still don't know what to call a former teacher.

The delicate art of saying "no"

Mom doesn't talk much now when we visit. There is an occasional "Don't leave me!" Which is heart-breaking. Or an occasional, "This is hot," when her hot chocolate has not stood long enough to be tepid.

Today our oldest sister flew in from out of state. Mom was the most talkative she's been in a long, long time. None of what she said made sense, but we filled in the blanks and answered her as best we could. It was good to see her so animated even if we could not follow what she was saying. Much the same as she can not follow what we say.

But otherwise our visits are met with long periods of silence. I will chatter on about finding a letter from Mom's brother -- written to her on her 18th birthday. The letter admonishes her to be "happy and virtuous." (Although my uncle was a college professor and had seen much of the world, I think he feared that at 18 Mom would never leave the farm and never marry. Evidently he wanted her to be a happy spinster). I also will talk ad nauseam about how our granddaughter is doing in school or about watching our grandson's latest basketball game.

All my chatter is met with the same smile and the same vacant stare. So one has to wonder if she heard, didn't hear, comprehends but can't find the words to respond, or is simply so mad at us she doesn't want to respond.

The staff at the home seem to genuinely like her. They tell us what a "sweet lady" she is and how she always has a smile and will hold their hand when they talk to her. Mom receives excellent care. They are very caring and compassionate.

But I imagine she misses her other home. It was smaller, more intimate and she had more one-on-one time with the staff. But life is what it is and we all have to make the best of situations we don't necessarily like.

During a visit earlier this week we sat in the lounge next to the fireplace.  It was a silent visit but Mom kept looking at a small bag I had made -- I've been sewing a lot lately.

Mom inspected the seams, the lining, the stitching on the decorative button, the stitching on the snap . . . She didn't say anything but kept picking it up and looking at it. I guess it was given her seal of approval as she smiled and said, "Nice."

Mom, as I have often mentioned, was the one who taught me to sew. She was a 4H sewing leader and taught first-year sewing to many young women in Hamilton.

The first-year 4H project was generally an apron. One that tied around the back and had a small pocket in front.  Years ago while going through Mom's cedar chest I found an apron one of my sisters made. It was so tiny it may have tied around my left thigh. I can't believe any of us were ever that small.

I have never found my apron, but I distinctly remember it.

Mom took me to the Variety Store in Hamilton to purchase the material for it. She led me to the table with the bolts of daintily colored calico and told me to choose the one I wanted. What I wanted was a solid purple apron.

"I don't think a purple apron is a good choice," Mom said.

It was as good as saying, "No. I will not purchase purple material for your apron."

So I chose a dainty green and yellow calico print. Mom purchased some additional dainty green and yellow calico print to make a blouse for me and also bought solid mint green material to make a jumper to go with the blouse.

And I made an apron made of daintily colored green and yellow floral calico print and earned a blue ribbon at the fair.

I sill would have rather had a purple apron.