Now THAT was winter

King and I drove home from the airport late last night after a long, long day of air travel. Seeing the new grandsons was a joy and I miss them already. My daughter and son-in-law and even the dogs are being missed as well.

But life goes on and today is being spent trying to get back into my routine. As if I have one.

I managed to somehow stay awake on the drive home from Chicago . . . until we got to a truck stop somewhere in Indiana. Since the car has been having a propensity to not start of late, King sat behind the wheel with the car running while I pumped gas. For some reason, and I don't know why but I have my suspicions, King has not mastered the art of paying for gas at the pump. So rather than shut the car off and both of us make our necessary pit stops, we took turns sitting in the car with it running. And I pumped gas because King truly can not get the credit card to work at the pump. I've watched him.It never works for him. One would think a person with as much education as he has, it would not be difficult. Apparently it is.

However, I digress as I rant. I dozed off after our stop and woke to find snow hitting our windshield. A lot of snow. Then it stopped. And started again. It continued to snow off and on until we got to just outside South Haven and then the snow stopped. I'm not a big fan of driving through snow. I will whine and complain with the best of them. However, I fear we have all become lazy, complacent and just plain stupid when it comes to winter driving. And come on, this is Michigan. We used to get a lot of snow.

When I was a child winters were always snow-filled. And we walked to school. Five miles. Up-hill. Both ways. In sub-zero weather. With bread wrappers over our socks inside some pretty ugly snow boots.

The area where I grew up generally received a lot of snow. People today talk about lake effect snow. We got it then as well, although we didn't know it had a name. Snow would blow in off the lake, go airborne once more and then dump with a vengeance 10 miles inland. Right on the community where we lived. There were winters when we would have weeks off from school because of snow.

Needless to say there always was a lot of the white stuff. So much so that snow plows were of the road grader variety, not big trucks with plows. They were huge and threw snow up onto banks that were 15 feet high, annihilating  hapless mailboxes and filling driveways with snow along the way.

Walking home from school

Scrambling up these banks to avoid the snowplow was my first
and only experience in mountain climbing.

was a test of determination, tenacity and bravery. Roads were narrow and we would plaster ourselves against the banks when a car passed. However, if we heard a snowplow coming, the panic would commence. Snowplows were big, they were loud and they created a blizzard of snow when they went past. We were certain the driver would never see us on the road and we would be tossed onto the bank along with the snow, never to be found until spring.

My sister and the neighbor kids and I would spend most of our walk home listening for the plow. If we heard one we would would scream, "The plow! The plow!," and  would throw our lunch boxes up onto the snow bank and scramble up after them. The climb was my first and only experience mountain climbing. Once we reached the top, in our minds we still were not safe. There was no telling how far frozen chunks of snow would be thrown. One hit with a chunk of cement-block sized ice and we would be goners.

When the distant growl of a plow was heard, one child would quickly be elected to be lookout, while the rest of us would make a mad dash up the bank and then head for the field on the other side. Twenty feet was considered a safe distance. So after scrambling up the bank, grabbing a lunchbox and rolling down the other side, we would still battle waist-deep snow to get as far away from the dreaded monster as possible. All the while we would scream to the lookout, "Is it coming? Is it coming? Run!" There were many false alarms. The plow would be on the next block over or would turn down another street before reaching us. What was normally a 10 minute walk home would turn into an hour during the winter. We would often arrive home rosy-cheeked and ready for a nap.

No wonder we were skinny.

Let's go for a ride and stop for coffee

I think Mom has settled into a routine at the home. Everyone there seems to enjoy her company and Mom participates in all the activities they offer. I am happy for her but I don't know if I will ever be totally comfortable with her living there. I tend to be a huge fan of the "What if" game.

Last week Saturday the staff at the home had a breakfast for friends and family of the residents. My sisters and I went for breakfast with Mom. I'm not certain Mom understood what was going on, but we were there and that made her happy. After breakfast we took her for a ride to Hamilton. It's really hard to say how much of living there Mom remembers, or if she does remember, what her thoughts are. Mom doesn't say much any more.

We drove past our former home -- twice. It looked tired and the best way to describe it was it was in need of a bath.

We drove out in the country and tried to remember names of people we knew who used to live there. Between the three of us we were pretty good. Mom looked out the window.

We commented on how short the trip between Hamilton and Holland was and how long it seemed when we were kids. Going to Holland was a big deal when we were growing up.

While many families from Hamilton drove to Holland for weekly groceries, Mom and Dad shopped in Hamilton. The grocery store had creaky wood floors, one check out counter and a screen door that banged shut. It was a big deal when our groceries were placed in cardboard boxes rather than grocery bags. Cardboard boxes meant hours of fun making doll houses and furniture. To this day, I still get that "what can I do with this feeling" when I see a cardboard box.

There were two grocery stores in Hamilton when we were growing up. Both buildings are gone now, but one of them has moved to a new location and can boast multiple checkout lanes. Progress. I bet they don't have creaky wood floors and the quiet hiss of automatic doors just doesn't compare with the creak-bang a screen door makes.

Mom was pretty quiet for the trip. She made some indication she remembered the house, but it wasn't much of a nostalgic trip for her. What she wanted, we discovered when we arrived back at the home, was to go out for coffee. Despite the fact we had just had breakfast, Mom wanted to go out for coffee. Who knew?

I'm not certain what the attraction is. I've taken her out for coffee many, many times. There is not  a whole lot of conversation going on as we drink our coffee, stare at one another, pay our bill and leave.

But Mom was clearly upset with us for not going out for coffee. Maybe it's a Dutch thing.

I went back on Tuesday and took her out for coffee. We sat in the restaurant, drank our coffee, ate our pig-in-the-blankets, stared at one another, paid the bill and then left. She didn't want to go for a ride, she thought maybe she should get back home. They might need her.

What is it like to lose your mind?

I've been doing a little research on the web to try to figure out what is going on inside Mom's head. What I have found is there is darn little on the topic.

Oh, there is plenty on how to deal with dementia and the right thing to say and the wrong thing to say. That is not what I am searching for -- what I want to know is what is going on in Mom's mind. Is she aware of how much she has lost and simply can't put it into words?

The other day she introduced me to her dining companion as "her daughter." She didn't call me by name, but she knew I was her daughter. Two hours later when my sister visited her, she didn't remember I had been there. What I want to know is what is it like for the person who no longer thinks clearly. What kind of jumbled confusion is going on in her mind?

I found a letter from Mom, written three years ago on my birthday. It started, "Dear Daughter, I know I'm slipping. I try the best I can . . ."

I don't know how much any of us realized what was going on at the time. One of my older sisters saw it, but it was difficult to tell how much was Mom "slipping" and how much of it was her trying to cover up the fact she could not hear us. Everyone was frustrated with Mom for "not trying."  Personally, I think she was trying as hard as she could and had been for years. She just couldn't hide it any longer.

Mom's letter went on to say she and Dad had joined the YMCA and that she walked a mile on the track (19 laps) and then rode a stationary bike while Dad "gives it all a try." I'm assuming she meant Dad worked out on the weight machines in addition to the treadmill.

A few weeks after the letter was sent, Mom and Dad were getting ready to go to the gym when Dad had a stroke. They thought he wasn't feeling well and decided not to go and Dad napped the rest of the morning. It was later that afternoon that Mom called my sister at work and said she needed help with Dad. My sister called the ambulance while she was on her way to Mom and Dad's apartment. The ambulance was already on the way and we thought Mom had been able to call for help. That wasn't the case. A neighbor had  found Mom in the driveway in a panic and called for her. Mom didn't know how to call 911.

It's hard to believe that was just three years ago. Three years ago, Mom realized she was slipping, but could still write me a letter to talk about it. Today, she can't sign her name. How much of this lost knowledge is still there, trapped inside her brain, trying desperately to come out? How frustrating is it to not be able to tell people what you are thinking?

Mom is pretty quite these days. She doesn't talk much.Is it because there is nothing to say? Has she given up trying to communicate because it it too frustrating to get the words out?

What is it like to lose your mind?

October's bright blue weather

When we were growing up, Mom would often quote to us poems she memorized as a child in school. I can't say for certain, but I suspect they were from the famous McGuffey Readers used in schools throughout the country from 1836 through 1960. (I am a member of the Dick and Jane generation).

Her favorite was by Helen Hunt Jackson: Oh sun and skies, and clouds of June and flowers of June together, Ye can not rival for one hour October's bright blue weather. . . There is more to the poem, but that is all Mom quoted us.

The pond on the property where we are caretakers.

The past few weeks have certainly been bright, blue and beautiful. So yesterday when I visited Mom I decided to take her for a ride. The fall colors are almost at their peak. It was lovely.

We drove through Saugatuck. As we got off the highway and onto Blue Star Highway, Mom suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, I know where we are now!"

My thought was to drive through town and stop at a coffee shop for coffee and a muffin, but it was pretty busy so we opted for breakfast at a diner.

Mom has always been a huge fan of the "clean plate club," and often we would have to remain at the table until we cleaned our plates. She still is a big fan, however, now she has the annoying habit of pawning off her uneaten food on her dinning companions. If she knew what she was doing she would be horrified at her actions. But she doesn't and she can be content in the knowledge her plate is clean, while the rest of us must share the angst of losing our memberships.

We drove to the Oval Beach and watched the lake for a while. I prattled on about spending time there as children. I don't think Mom had any idea what I was talking about but chatter makes me feel better.

I was really, really small when our family and another family from our hometown would picnic on the beach evenings after work. Dad and his good friend would put the speed boat in the water in town and the women would drive to the beach, unpack our picnic dinner and wait for the men and the boat.

It wasn't long and the boat would come around the end of the south pier and Dad would gun the boat and fly up to the beach, killing the motor just in time to land gracefully in the sand. The men would then jump out of the boat in John Wayne fashion. Our heroes.

One evening they made a spectacular landing and Dad's friend jumped out of the boat, stripped off his shirt and removed his pants, expecting, I believe, to be standing there in his swimming trunks. Only he wasn't. He stood there in his whitie-tighties. No one said anything for probably a full 20 seconds. Finally Mom picked up his swim trunks and said, "Maybe you want to put these on."

Ahh the memories from our childhood that remain with us.

I think it's safe to say Mom is gone

Mom has been in "care facility" almost two months now. I don't know if she is adjusting or not. I can't tell because, well, Mom is pretty much gone.

She is always so happy to see me when I visit. She springs up from her chair (as much as an almost 91 year old can spring), throws her arms around my neck and cries for a moment.  She does this with each of my sisters when they visit as well. There is no way of knowing if they are tears of joy or tears of sadness.

I don't think Mom knows who we are -- we simply are familiar faces. She likes Jennifer the young woman who cares for her during the day. She pats Bob, the gentleman who sits across from her during meals, on the arm when she sits down. She sits with the other women in the lounge area and watches television with them. Today they were watching the Brady Bunch. She asks us if we are coming again when we leave. But there is no conversation. There is nothing to say. She can't tell you what she did yesterday. She can't tell you what she ate for lunch. The other day she didn't remember who Dad was.

Having no conversation is okay. Comfortable companionship is fine.

That's not to say we don't try to converse.Sometimes you grasp at straws to see where it gets you. I tried once. I decided to engage her in some small talk about our hometown and asked her something about our neighbor.

Mom became indignant and asked, "How did you know Mr. Albers?"

"I lived next door to him Mom. He was our neighbor."

"No. I lived next door to him."

"Yes Mom. So did I. I lived with you. I am your daughter."

"Well, if you say so. I'll take your word for it." Those were her words anyway. Her face looked more like she was thinking, "You are a lying sack of shit."

I think life has settled into a routine for her. My older sister visits and they work on puzzles together. My younger sister visits after work and stays until dinner time. I arrive and the first thing that comes out of Mom's mouth is, "Where are we going?"

Mom loves to go places. She doesn't care where. She just wants to go out for coffee and take a little ride. There are no familiar places to go so we drive around. Sometimes she remembers things. Sometimes she does not.

My granddaughter and I take her to the little country church in Glenn each Sunday. Glenn is a tiny town that consists of a deli/party store, a restaurant, an old-fashioned hardware store, a hair salon, two antique stores, a real estate office, a three-room school and the Methodist church.

When Dad retired they moved to Glenn and became very active in the church. Mom loved it there. She always was one to be involved in the church and the community, and with Dad retired the two of them did a lot together. And the church community embraced the newcomers.

Dad and several of the men in church built the handicap ramp so the elderly woman who ran the hardware store in town would not have to use the stairs each Sunday. It really offended Dad when she never used the ramp.

Mom baked cookies for church bake sales, hosted fund-raising teas and worked at church rummage sales. The months leading up to the annual Christmas Bazaar both Mom and Dad were busy making craft items to be sold.

The other Sunday as we rounded the curve into town Mom saw the sign designating the entrance. I watched her mouth the words "Glenn."

We pulled into the church parking lot and she said, "Have I been here before?" I assured her she had been there before and she usually enjoyed it.

"Okay," she said. "I'll take your word for it."

Life's little changes

I've discovered a few things over the past few days: 1) employment is a major drag, 2) the internet is as much a boon as a bust, and 3) no matter how old they are, little girls still need their Mommas.

My daughter and son-in-law brought their sons home from the hospital yesterday. I can only imagine what it is like to bring home two babies. I remember the uncertainty I felt when I brought our first son home. Thankfully my mother was there to help. She stayed a week, went home for a few days and came back for another three days. I think Dad thought she was running away from home.

Those first few days/weeks home I spent an inordinate amount of time with my nose buried in Dr. Spock's book. (For the current generation, that's Dr. Spock the pediatrician, not Mr. Spock, the pointy-eared, logical, first officer/science officer on the starship Enterprise).

I believe I read the book religiously for a few weeks and then it was relegated to evening out the coffee table in the living room of our apartment in student housing.

Today, Dr. Spock has been replaced by the internet -- and the electronic advice comes complete with dire warnings of doom and hopeless failure. If the babies are too hot they may die of SIDS. If the babies are to cold their little fingers and toes may fall off (okay, I made that one up).Immunize. Don't immunize. Put alcohol on the umbilical cord stump.Don't put alcohol on the umbilical cord stump. Dress them. Don't dress them. Put them on a schedule. Don't put them on a schedule. (By the way someone entrepreneurial genius is making a killing with the creation of swaddling jackets. They kind of look like straight jackets and are the best thing out since sliced bread, according to the young mothers offering advice to my daughter during a baby shower earlier this summer. I used receiving blankets. They worked great).

So my daughter and her husband are home with two darling little boys. The uncertainty is slowly settling in and exhaustion has found a new home. There is something to be said for childbirth and hospitals in the "olden days" when babies would spend their first few days in the mother's hospital room and then be rolled to a nursery at night. Those two extra night's sleep before the reality of bringing baby home was wonderful.

I spoke with my daughter last night. She explained to me they were working on arrangements for the babies, because -- as they have discovered -- getting up in the middle of the night, walking down the hall and feeding in the nursery is not always practical. Especially for the sleep deprived.

I remember those days. When our first son would cry during the night, I would get up. Change him. Bring him into our room where there was a rocking chair. Feed him. Rock him. Change hium again (I know, right?). And put him back to bed. King would roll over in bed and stretch out, a smile on his sleeping face. I learned to wipe that smile off easily by kicking the bed. But it did get easier. By the time our fourth child was born, I would roll the bassinet closer to the bed, tip it on its side, roll the baby out, feed him. Roll him back into the bassinet, push the bassinet back into its place and go back to sleep. These are things parents have to figure out for themselves.

In the meantime I want to go see those babies. And I promise I won't offer advice or tell them "You should do it this way . . ."

All summer long we had plans for flying out to California to help with the babies. Our son-in-law has four weeks paternity leave and the plan was when he went back to work King and I would come and help out. We talked about King flying back to Michigan without me and I would stay an extra week. A great plan. A sound plan. But things don't always work out they way we want.

The elusive job I've been looking for the past year has manifested. I should be grateful. I should be elated. I should be relieved. I'm not. Having a job is just plain inconvenient. And please, at my age this is no career. It's a job and a paycheck.

In the meantime I will say to my daughter, "Hang in there honey, Mr. Spock is coming."

Just one more time around the lake, please Dad?

Today is Labor Day.

This year I am in California with my daughter. It is blazing hot and she has no air in her new home. I have suggested we pack a picnic lunch and simply drive around the city. She didn't go for it.

At home King and our grand daughter are getting ready for the start of the school year. They have purchased volleyball equipment as she has made the cut for the eighth grade volleyball team, and my sister has taken her school clothes shopping. I can't believe we have an eighth grader in our house again. I have listened as she excitedly told me all the outfits she has for the start of the year. Today King says he will cut wood and they may possibly go to the beach. It sounds like a typical Labor Day at home. Quiet and peaceful.

In the years before our (semi) empty nest, our daughter, youngest son and I would go camping with the horses at Yankee Springs Recreation area. Three full days of riding the trails with members of the local 4H club. Fond memories.

When I was growing up, Labor Day weekends meant we would be going to the cottage belonging to family friends from Chicago. It was a summer retreat at a small inland lake near Gobles, Mich. The weekend was spent getting things ready for winter. While there were still  plans for weekend gatherings and Halloween parties at the cottage, Labor Day was the time the dock would come in, the boats would be pulled out of the water, water toys put away and lawn furniture tucked in for the winter.

It also meant gas tanks had to be run dry.

I'm not certain how other families did it, but the weekends leading up to Labor Day we would slow down on our gas purchases for the boats (it was something like 34 cents a gallon then). On Labor Day the pontoon motor would be run until it sputtered and died. The same was done for the outboard motor on the small row boat. But the speed boat . . . that was a different story.

Dad, his Chicago friend and a third friend from Chicago had purchased a inboard boat one summer. Tradition called for it to be the last boat to be pulled out of the water on Labor Day. After a majority of the other summer residents had put their boats away for the winter, we would take turns pulling one another around the now empty lake.  Even Dad would don a pair of skis and my sister and I would take turns driving the boat or acting as spotter as he skied around the lake a few times. No other boats, no other skiers. Just us. We would spend the late afternoon skiing, salomon skiing and discing.

For the uninformed, discing is being pulled around the lake at break-neck speeds on a round, flat piece of wood. My sister and I would lay, knee or stand on it while Dad would make quick turns trying to help us over the wake and onto the smooth, flat water. At least that was the intent...Most of the time it worked.

Dad would keep a careful eye on the gas tank.

"Time is up girls. We are almost out."

"Just one more time around, Dad? Please? We can tow the boat in if we run out."

And we generally would run out of gas. My sister and I would unhook the ski rope from the back of the boat, swim around to the front, hook it to the bow and, as promised, pull the boat to shore.

The last time around the lake for the summer and off to school the next day.