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.