When Dad died and we were writing his obituary, my sisters and I decided we would have memorial contributions go to their church in Grand Haven and/or the tiny country church Mom and Dad had attended when they lived in Glenn. Mom was in no position to make any such decision. So it was what we decided.
When Mom died my younger sister suggested we have memorial contributions go to Camp Sunshine, a west Michigan camp for persons with developmental disabilities.
I recall her saying, "I don't know why we didn't think of this when Dad died. It was their favorite charity." The reality is we had much more time to think about -- and plan for -- Mom's funeral than we did for Dad.
Camp Sunshine touched our lives in a personal way.
In 1969 our cousin Krys and her husband, Jim, brought their fifth child, Lana, home from the hospital. I remember the letter Krys wrote Mom telling her Lana had Down Syndrome. I recall Mom talking about how Jim had left the hospital to go home and then the staff had come in and told Krys about Lana. There was no counseling, no support. Nothing. Just the news and then leaving Krys to sort it out on her own. Or at least that is the way Mom saw it.
I can imagine Krys and Jim were left wondering, "What do we do now? How do we proceed? What is going to happen to our daughter?"
Lana grew, was loved and loved in return. She touched the lives of everyone she met. She was one of the first campers to attend Camp Sunshine. It was something she looked forward to all year. It was her chance to spread her wings and fly.
Although Lana passed away almost 14 years ago, her family continues to support Camp Sunshine. They have established a fundraising golf outing as a means of contributing to the camp Lana loved so much.
Mom and Dad saw the joy Camp Sunshine brought Lana and supported the camp as well. And now I would like to continue Mom and Dad's support. I have started a small Etsy business That's Sew Mom. I am making totes and selling them online with profits from sales going to Camp Sunshine. It is a shop based on Mom's love of sewing, my parents desire to support a worthy cause, and my desire to make my own contribution to something worthwhile.
I hope you will visit the shop. Comments are welcome.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
A New Year
I have not posted for a while. Holidays, family parties, lots of work (employment type work) . . . it is all the usual excuses. So here are a few thoughts about the holiday past and the memories it brought.
This was our first Christmas without Mom's physical presence. I say physical presence, because the past two Christmases Mom really had no idea what was happening. I am happy she was able to see our twin grandsons last year. It is a good memory of her last Christmas with us. And she was very animated when she realized "there are two of them." So it is that memory - the one of her visit with her grandsons - that we all hold dear.
Although I found Mom's absence very real this year, I also found it was far easier to remember the good times past than to dwell on the sadness of her absence. Little things came to mind...Mom making countless Christmas cookies and hiding them under her bed along with our Christmas presents. Mom leaving a bag of potato chips in the oven and setting them on fire Christmas day. Mom fixing beef stroganoff for our Christmas dinner...
So with those nostalgic thoughts floating around I've spent the past few days thinking about some of the things that are "so Mom."
Those memories are easy to conjure and little things will bring pleasant memories flooding back ... I found a hand-blown glass vase in a box of stuff the other day. It was one Mom had placed on the kitchen window sill. She had a variety of colored glass vases lining the window in our kitchen. It was a large window and faced west,offering a view of our backyard, the pasture, and beyond that the line of pine trees that stood in front of the neighbor's commercial greenhouse.
I placed the vase on my south-facing window sill and took a good look at my kitchen. It's small by anyone's standards. It has tiny, cramped counter space, cheap imitation granite counter tops and old worn cabinets. I thought about how cheery Mom's kitchen was and immediately began to feel sorry for myself.
And then I took stock of what the kitchen of my childhood REALLY was like. Mom had very little counter top space -- just a few feet of space on either side of the kitchen sink. She had very few cabinets. Our kitchen did not boast an island, a plethora of cabinets or built-in appliances. In fact, one had to squeeze between the counter and the stove to reach into the small recesses of the back cabinet. When my younger sister and I helped Mom bake cookies one of us would stand on a chair on one side of her and the other would stand on a stool squeezed in between the stove and the cabinet. The space was so seldom used I can't remember what Mom kept in the drawer in that corner of the kitchen.
In the opposite corner was our telephone. An old rotary dial thing. Beneath that was the typical "junk drawer." But that drawer also held a Bible storybook that Mom read to us from as our evening devotions after supper. (We had supper and lunch. I don't know why we never had "dinner").
But the fact of the matter is, when you walked into Mom's kitchen...you never noticed the lack of space. You saw clean. You saw no clutter. You saw whimsical decorations. You smelled cookies or cake baking.
Mom's kitchen also did double-duty as a laundry room. The washer and dryer were tucked into an alcove between the refrigerator and a broom closet. More cabinets were built over the washer and dryer and Mom kept laundry soap and her "good" dishes in those cabinets. Tucked between the refrigerator and the washer was Mom's sewing machine. A Singer Dad got her to replace the treadle machine she had in the basement.
Although in later years Mom had a dedicated "sewing room," in our childhood home Mom would set up her sewing machine on the kitchen table. It was there she taught my sisters and I (and countless 4H-ers) to sew. It was there I carved, "I hate sewing" into the base of her Singer after sewing and ripping apart the same seam over and over again. It was there she made my winter coat when I was in fourth grade. It was there she sewed my sister's wedding dress, our prom dresses, countless school outfis, an endless amount of Tammy Doll clothes and anything else we needed.
I have a Singer sewing machine as well. It was a gift from our children this past Mother's Day. But I don't have the patience to set up and take down a sewing machine every time I get a creative urge. So my Singer is set up in one of our upstairs bedrooms. I am not certain our children will ever fully appreciate how much I enjoy sewing on that machine. And I certainly have put it to good use. This past Christmas I made totes for our grandchildren (all 16 of them) and filled the totes with art supplies.
Mom would have liked that.
This was our first Christmas without Mom's physical presence. I say physical presence, because the past two Christmases Mom really had no idea what was happening. I am happy she was able to see our twin grandsons last year. It is a good memory of her last Christmas with us. And she was very animated when she realized "there are two of them." So it is that memory - the one of her visit with her grandsons - that we all hold dear.
Although I found Mom's absence very real this year, I also found it was far easier to remember the good times past than to dwell on the sadness of her absence. Little things came to mind...Mom making countless Christmas cookies and hiding them under her bed along with our Christmas presents. Mom leaving a bag of potato chips in the oven and setting them on fire Christmas day. Mom fixing beef stroganoff for our Christmas dinner...
So with those nostalgic thoughts floating around I've spent the past few days thinking about some of the things that are "so Mom."
Those memories are easy to conjure and little things will bring pleasant memories flooding back ... I found a hand-blown glass vase in a box of stuff the other day. It was one Mom had placed on the kitchen window sill. She had a variety of colored glass vases lining the window in our kitchen. It was a large window and faced west,offering a view of our backyard, the pasture, and beyond that the line of pine trees that stood in front of the neighbor's commercial greenhouse.
I placed the vase on my south-facing window sill and took a good look at my kitchen. It's small by anyone's standards. It has tiny, cramped counter space, cheap imitation granite counter tops and old worn cabinets. I thought about how cheery Mom's kitchen was and immediately began to feel sorry for myself.
And then I took stock of what the kitchen of my childhood REALLY was like. Mom had very little counter top space -- just a few feet of space on either side of the kitchen sink. She had very few cabinets. Our kitchen did not boast an island, a plethora of cabinets or built-in appliances. In fact, one had to squeeze between the counter and the stove to reach into the small recesses of the back cabinet. When my younger sister and I helped Mom bake cookies one of us would stand on a chair on one side of her and the other would stand on a stool squeezed in between the stove and the cabinet. The space was so seldom used I can't remember what Mom kept in the drawer in that corner of the kitchen.
In the opposite corner was our telephone. An old rotary dial thing. Beneath that was the typical "junk drawer." But that drawer also held a Bible storybook that Mom read to us from as our evening devotions after supper. (We had supper and lunch. I don't know why we never had "dinner").
But the fact of the matter is, when you walked into Mom's kitchen...you never noticed the lack of space. You saw clean. You saw no clutter. You saw whimsical decorations. You smelled cookies or cake baking.
Mom's kitchen also did double-duty as a laundry room. The washer and dryer were tucked into an alcove between the refrigerator and a broom closet. More cabinets were built over the washer and dryer and Mom kept laundry soap and her "good" dishes in those cabinets. Tucked between the refrigerator and the washer was Mom's sewing machine. A Singer Dad got her to replace the treadle machine she had in the basement.
Although in later years Mom had a dedicated "sewing room," in our childhood home Mom would set up her sewing machine on the kitchen table. It was there she taught my sisters and I (and countless 4H-ers) to sew. It was there I carved, "I hate sewing" into the base of her Singer after sewing and ripping apart the same seam over and over again. It was there she made my winter coat when I was in fourth grade. It was there she sewed my sister's wedding dress, our prom dresses, countless school outfis, an endless amount of Tammy Doll clothes and anything else we needed.
I have a Singer sewing machine as well. It was a gift from our children this past Mother's Day. But I don't have the patience to set up and take down a sewing machine every time I get a creative urge. So my Singer is set up in one of our upstairs bedrooms. I am not certain our children will ever fully appreciate how much I enjoy sewing on that machine. And I certainly have put it to good use. This past Christmas I made totes for our grandchildren (all 16 of them) and filled the totes with art supplies.
Mom would have liked that.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, September 21, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2015
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.
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.
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