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.