by jphilo | Feb 14, 2014 | Current Events, Family
When the radio announcer relayed the news of Shirley Temple Black’s death on Monday morning, I knew what the topic of conversation would be during my weekly visit with Mom.
Sure enough, Curly Top was on Mom’s mind on Tuesday. “Shirley Temple died,” she announced when I stepped through the door. “She was 85.”
“Same age as you,” I replied. “You kind of grew up together.”
Mom nodded. “My mother made Shirley Temple dresses for me and Ruth.”
The story is one Mom likes to tell, so I didn’t well bother to ask if the dresses were made out of feed sacks. I knew they were. “Did she fix your hair like hers, too?” I asked instead.
Ruth, about age 6, and Mom about age 4, a few years before Shirley Temple hit the silver screen.
Another nod. “Uh-huh. And sometimes, we went to Pipestone to see her movies.” Mom smiled at the thought of those long ago days.
Mom’s face brightened as she recounted old memories about the people who populated her early childhood–her parents, six brothers and sisters, and Shirley Temple.
All gone. They’re all gone, and my heart ached for her loneliness. But getting weepy wasn’t the way to honor Little Miss Broadway. “Where do you want to go for lunch?” I asked in my perkiest voice.
We finally settled on Chili’s, and halfway through the chips and salsa Mom said, “Shirley Temple died.”
“You kind of grew up together,” I said, and we were off and running again.
The Little Colonel’s passing came up several more times that afternoon, but Mom never displayed a hint of sadness. Only happy memories brought to life by the death of Bright Eyes: the dresses made from feed sacks, hours spent playing with her sister Ruth, eating meals with her parents and siblings at the crowded kitchen table, the excitement of going to the movies on a Saturday afternoon.
Not a mention of the imminence of death. Not a hint of fear. Just delight in the past, and I think, a readiness for one day in the future when she will follow The Littlest Rebel out of this world and into the next. A readiness to join her parents, her 6 siblings, their spouses and her husband in death.
Until that day comes, my brother will tease her. My sister will phone often. Her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews will send cards and pictures. Her baby sister, born when Mom and Susannah of the Mounties were 6, will call. And I will visit on Tuesdays, grateful for Mom’s delight in the long ago days when she is young, and Shirley Temple lives.
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by jphilo | Mar 29, 2013 | Family
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Mom and I ate lunch at The Machine Shed on Tuesday. She loves to go to the all-things-farming restaurant for two reasons. First, the wall and ceiling decor consists of small farm machinery, farm advertising, and farm kitchen utensils in common use when she grew up in the 1930s and 40s. Second, the menu includes her two favorite sandwiches: patty melt and rueben.
This week, she ordered the patty melt. Medium rare. While we waited for our food to arrive, she surveyed the room. A smile played at the corner of her lips. She pointed to a white metal sign with red letters on the wall near our booth. “Ivar owned an Allis-Chalmers implement dealership for a while.”
Then her gaze settled on a lard bucket sitting on a high ledge. “Ma used to pack our lunches in lard buckets.” She started to giggle. “One time, a boy from school had a dead civit cat and started teasing my sister Ruth on the way home.”
“What’s a civit cat?” I asked.
“A kind of skunk,” she explained. “Ruth got so mad she whacked him on the head with her lard bucket. Hard enough that the kid passed out for a few minutes.”
I smiled “I’ll bet he never bothered her again.”
“No,” Mom agreed, then shook her head. “But ruined the lard bucket.”
She looked around some more and pointed at what looked to me like a giant wooden fork with curving tines. “We had one of those,” she said. “But I can’t remember what it’s called.”
“A hay rake,” I suggested.
“No.” She shook her head. “A scythe maybe?”
“Or a swather?” I tried again.
“I’m not sure.” She frowned. “I used to know all that stuff.”
My heart sank. What could I say to a woman who read Gone With the Wind in one long sitting during high school, who aced every test in high school and college, who earned her Masters Degree while teaching full time wile caring for an ailing husband and raising three young kids?
Then her smile returned and she looked my way. “Say,” she said, her eyes twinkling, and her face feigning confusion, “do I know you? What’s your name?”
We laughed together, and now, I can hardly wait to make her smile when we eat dinner with her on Easter. Because she was right about the name of the giant wooden fork with curving tines.
It’s called a hay scythe.
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by jphilo | Sep 28, 2012 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
It may be impolite to brag about one’s accomplishments, but I’m gonna buck convention and admit my absolute genius for self-delusion. In the past month, I’ve convinced myself that:
- eating large amounts of chocolate won’t result in weight gain if combined with exercise,
- our new grandchild would be born before his/her due date,
- and publishers would snap up my book proposal about post-traumatic stress disorder in children.
If it weren’t for cold, hard facts like:
- my jeans fitting a bit to snuggly,
- our daughter-in-law now a week past her due date,
- and the sweetest rejection letter ever from the first publisher to respond to my agent about the book proposal,
I would still be wrapped in those delusions. Instead, I’ve moved onto new ones. My two favorites are:
- It’s still summer.
- Mom’s holding her own in the fight against Alzheimer’s.
But brilliant foliage of the trees along our gravel road forced the abandonment of the first bit of self-delusion. Two phone calls with Mom shattered the second one.
She called yesterday morning, something she rarely takes the initiative to do. “Any news on the baby?” she asked.
“No,” I answered, “and it’s getting really hard to wait. I was hoping the baby would be born today, on your mom’s birthday.”
“That would have been nice, ” she agreed. “But Jolene, if the waiting’s hard for you, think how much harder it is for Abbey.” She sounded so much like her old self, I wondered if the prospect of being a great-grandmother was winning the war against mental decline.
But she called again later in the afternoon. “What’s my old address?” she asked.
I told her and asked, “Why did you need that?”
“I’m filling out this registration form to prove I live in a different county. It asks for my former address.”
“Is this so you can vote for president?”
“Yes,” she replied. After a pause she asked, “What’s today’s date?”
Now it was my turn to hesitate. Every year until this one, my mother spent all September anticipating her mother’s birthday, talking about her, telling stories, saying she missed her. This year, she didn’t know what day it was, even though I’d mentioned it in our last phone call.
I swallowed and said, “September 27. It’s your mom’s birthday.”
We chatted for a few minutes. I teased her about who she would vote for. I promised to call her as soon as we heard anything about the baby. Then I hung up, let go of my delusion, and faced the truth:
- Mom’s memory is failing.
- Alzheimer’s is chewing more holes in her brain.
On the other hand:
- She knows who she’ll vote for in the presidential election.
- She’s eager for news of her first great-grandchild.
- She can still call and talk on the phone.
She may be failing, but her life, and ours, are rich with memories. And when she can’t remember anymore, we’ll remember for her.
- That’s not self-delusion.
- That’s love.
by jphilo | May 31, 2012 | Family, Three Thoughts for Thursday
Mom’s here for the week, so Camp Dorothy is in full swing. Hiram’s missing all the fun, laid up as he is with sciatic nerve problems. Therefore, this week’s three thoughts are a complimentary gift from the camp nurse activity director.
- Between shower time at Camp Dorothy and running for Hiram’s, I am very thankful for a 25 year career in teaching rather than nursing.
- As a kid, I would have begged Mom to let me watch shows like America’s Got Talent and Judge Judy. Now, thanks to Alzheimer’s, she’s hooked on them. All I can think as she watches her shows is, “Where do these people come from?”
- Every night during Wheel of Fortune, Mom announces, “They don’t allow close ups of Vanna anymore. She’s over 50, you know.” Whoever “they” are, I’d like to hire “them” to enforce the same restrictions for me.
Gotta go. It’s time for a hot game of Uno.
by jphilo | May 18, 2012 | Daily Life
This morning, I was up bright and early. At 6:15 I left the house to walk, my back exercises, Bible study, and breakfast already completed. Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
By the time I fished it out of my pocket and untangled the iPod ear buds wrapped around it, and I inadvertently pressing several buttons, the caller gave up. The screen said it had been Hiram, so I tried to call back. But somehow I hit the mute button and had to hang up. Eventually he called back, and after explaining I really hadn’t hung up on him twice, he remembered why he called in the first place. Which is a miracle in itself, as the rest of the story proves.
“Did you put muffins in the microwave this morning?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, and then added. “And I ate them. For breakfast.”
“Okay,” he said. “So these in the microwave are mine?”
I pondered the question for a moment.
I didn’t remember putting more muffins in the microwave.
But the older I get, the more I forget what I’ve really done.
The older I get, the more I confuse what I only considered doing with what I actually did. And the older I get, the more reality seems like a day dream and the more my day dreams feel like reality.
That’s when I realized Hiram and I have been married for a long time, and he’s rubbing off on me. As my internal dialogue confirms, though I have spent the last 35 years pulling him out of the anti-memory-time-and-space vortex where he lives, growing older is gradually sucking me into it with him. My days as household memory queen are numbered. Maybe even over already.
Hesitatingly, I answered. “I don’t think I would put a second set of muffins in the microwave. And my stomach feels full, so I ate mine.”
“Okay.” His voice remained cheerful and unperturbed. “They must be mine. I just don’t remember putting them there.”
I laughed. “We’re pathetic.”
He agreed, and we both hung up. I slipped the phone back in my pocket and felt something long and stringy wrap around it. I pulled the phone out again, along with a tangle of iPod ear buds.
Where in the world did those come from? I wondered. Then I stuffed them in my pocket and walked down the road cheerful and unperturbed.
Just like my husband.
