A Christmas Person

I am, without a doubt, a Christmas person. I joke about being obsessive compulsive about it...but in true life...it's just who I am.
I've been giving a lot of thought to why that is...and this is what I've figured out:
During the year, there are many times when I will say, either to myself...or to those around me, "I need a little more sparkle in my life." Sometimes it's, "I need to have more fun." Other times I'm thinking, "I need more peace."
Do you see where I'm going with this? During the Christmas season, there is no shortage of sparkle. Almost everywhere I go...things are sparkling! Decorations, houses, people's clothing and accessories...even nature sparkles more. I love it!
As for fun...I can't think of anything more fun that celebrating with my family and my friends...and we do a lot of that during the Christmas season. Whether it's baking thousands of cookies, going out for a meal together, staying in and watching Christmas specials on TV, viewing old home movies...it's just wonderful to be laughing and enjoying life with those I love.
Overall, people seem nicer during the Christmas season too. They give more. Even to people they don't know. Charitable contributions go up. I think that people tend to look at their own lives a little differently during this time of the year...and they realize that they are more blessed than they've thought...so they tend to "share the wealth."
Our yard will be completely "decked out" for Christmas. Thousands of lights, a couple of reindeer, a snowman and two nativity scenes will be set up. The one nativity scene is over 50 years old...it was a gift to us. Each figure is about four or five feet tall. They are prints of the Holy family, shepherds, wise men, camels, etc. that look like they came out of an old Bible, attached to plywood. We have sealed them to protect them from the weather...and they will sit under our giant rhododendron in the front. (It's their makeshift stable.) The other nativity scene is much larger in size...Joseph is close to seven feet tall. Jeff and I made that one together. He cut out the plywood figures and I painted them. That one goes up on the flat part of the roof, above the living room window. Of course we will have our Christmas tree in the front window.
People slow down when they drive by our home. And they stop and look closer if they are walking by. Kids and grownups alike enjoy the decorations. I am reminded of times when I was a child and we would drive around and look at the Christmas lights. Or of when I drove my young daughters and my mom around to different neighborhoods at Christmastime...picking our favorite houses, warm in the car, singing carols along with the radio. These are wonderful memories.
I'm thankful that Jeff is a Christmas person also. (Our friend Mary said that the two of us must have been Santa's elves in our former lives.) This year, he made us a beautiful wreath out of branches from a monkey tail tree. He painted it red and added some holly branches which he painted white. Then he sparkled it up with the sparkles left over from Jennifer's bridal bouquet. He hung it up over the fireplace a month or so ago...before Halloween! Our hospice chaplain commented to me that we were coming into "my season" soon...and I agreed. She asked about Jeff's feelings on that and I said, "Oh...Jeff's a Christmas person too. He just didn't know it until he came here." She laughed...but I think it's really true.
Today is Thanksgiving. Most of our yard is already decorated. We will finish it off this afternoon...while the turkey is roasting. Holiday scents have filled our home. Pies baking, hot cider, peppermint tea...and soon turkey and all the trimmings. I am very thankful to be where I am. To be with the right partner. To have the support and love of friends and family. To have a great neighborhood church which is a big part of our lives. For my beautiful daughters and to have had another year with my mom. I am thankful for my sister and brother...my new son-in-law and for the rest of my family.
I am especially thankful that this is the beginning of my favorite season of all. The time of year when I get enough sparkle and I have lots of fun. This is also the time of year when I feel God's peace...and His presence in my heart, the most.
Yes...without a doubt, I am a Christmas person! Let the celebrations begin!

Sacred Flight

Sacred Flight is a group of musicians who provide musical therapy for people who are at the end of their lives. Yesterday, a woman from Sacred Flight came to our home and played her harp. It was an incredible experience for me...as mom's main caregiver and as her daughter.
Last night, I was trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about that experience that moved me so much...and I think I figured it out. First, let me set the scene...
For the last several weeks, we have been in "Wedding Mode" here in our house. (My oldest daughter got married last weekend.) Because I have been so busy taking care of mom, I really wasn't very helpful to my daughter, in the wedding planning stage, up until a couple of weeks ago. As the day grew closer, I got busier. My sister came out a few days beforehand (with one of her daughters and her boyfriend) to help with the last minute details...such as flowers, food, cakes, set-up, clean-up etc. There was a lot going on in a short amount of time.
Two days ago, things had calmed down...and I thought we would get back into our "normal" routine. And then the hospice nurse called. She told me of this program called Sacred Flight. I had read an article about them in the newspaper and thought it sounded lovely. A Japanese news team had also heard of them and wanted to do a story about them. They needed a couple of hospice families to allow them in their homes, so they could share in the experience. I thought it sounded like a wonderful idea and agreed to have them come by. Yesterday, they did. The harpist, a photographer and two reporters pulled up in front of our house at one o'clock.
Yesterday was our usual day for our hospice nurse and our bath aide visit...so they were both there. Jeff's boss didn't have any work for him...so he was home. Amy's flight wasn't until later...so she was there too. A representative for Providence hospital was there...who also happens to be our respite volunteer! And of course, mom and I were there. It was the first time that all of mom's usual caregivers were all in the same room at the same time. That in itself, was pretty special.
The harpist held mom's hand, felt her pulse, listened to her breathing...and then sat down to play. The music was simple...and lovely. Very calming. I sat with mom, sometimes holding her hand, sometimes rubbing her back and shoulders, sometimes just touching her arm. Periodically, I would look around the room...catching the eye of my husband or one of mom's caregivers. With a smile and I sigh I turned my attention back to my mom...or the harpist. It was such a tremendous experience for me. To be together with all of these people who have been a major support system to me over the last couple of years...and for all of us to just be still, together. To stop for a few moments in our busy lives...and just be together. It was very powerful.
Mom sat quietly, listening...until the harpist began singing softly as she played. Mom joined right in...using her own words and sounds. It was lovely. Then mom began talking a little. "Hear our prayer. Our prayer. Our prayer."
Caregiving is exhausting work. Constantly, I have energy flowing out. Naps help relieve the tiredness...but they don't fill me back up. The visit from Sacred Flight yesterday...did the trick. My heart was filled with love and gratitude. I feel ready for whatever the next step in this journey is.
I thank God for life, music, prayer, song, family and friends. I am truly blessed.

JJ Newberry Work Stories

Last night I got to thinking about the "good ol' days" when I was working in restaurants. There were some pretty funny incidents...and I just thought I'd write a few of them down...so I can recall them in years to come.
My first restaurant job was at the J.J. Newberry's lunch counter in downtown Portland. I was hired as a server...for $1.90 an hour. Although my job was serving breakfast and lunch to our customers, often I had to help out on the line. (Cooking.)
Portland is known as The Rose City. Each year we celebrate our Rose Festival. There are parades, contests, a carnival, an air show, the navy ships come in...it's a big thing. Lots of people come into town and lots of people get out and participate in the celebrations. The grand floral parade used to run down 3rd Avenue...right by Newberry's. Families camped out on the street to get the best views. They came in the store to use the restrooms and to grab a bite to eat. The lunch counter (and the other two snack bars) were busy from the moment we opened the doors, until closing time.
The first parade day I worked, my job was "toast." That's it. Just toast. I made toast for hours...and someone else ran the grill. The next year, it was my turn to run the grill. Making eggs, hash browns, pancakes, French toast, frying bacon, sausage etc. (Another new person made the toast.) Naomi, the head waitress, gave me a bit of advice on how to keep up. "Never turn around. You'll be fine if you just focus on the grill and don't turn around. Just make the orders as they come up. Don't turn around." Well, the orders started coming in. Quickly. And they just didn't stop. Hours went by and I was doing okay...but I just couldn't see and end to the breakfast rush. I couldn't stand it any longer...so I finally...turned around. I wish I hadn't done that. Every one of the stools was occupied and all I could see was a sea of munching faces...and behind each stool there were people waiting for their turn to sit down...six deep! I felt my heart stop. Naomi came over to pick up an order and I looked at her in terror. "WHAT did I tell you? DON'T TURN AROUND!" She shook her head and hurried off. I don't know how I got through that day...but I did.
Another good story involved my sister Amy. She was working at the hot dog counter. They had one of those roller machines that make the best hot dogs in the world. She served hot dogs and soft drinks...and chips. That sounds pretty easy...but she worked the counter alone. Which meant that she also had to take the cash, do the stocking and cleaning on her own. Someone from my lunch counter would check on her from time to time to see if she was in need of any supplies. She'd hand over a list, usually written on a paper napkin, of what she needed and we'd send the note up the dumb waiter, to the kitchen on the 3rd floor. Jean L. would fill the order and we'd take it back over to the hot dog counter.
This one day it was extra busy. The lunch rush was so crazy, that we didn't get time to check on Amy. Finally, Naomi asked me to go see how she was doing. I headed on over and saw that she was frantically running back and forth behind the counter, filling drink cups, slapping hot dogs in their buns, taking cash...she was, as we say in the restaurant business..."in the weeds." I stepped behind the counter with her and cheerfully said, "Hey there! What can I do for you?" I swear, Amy fell on her knees, dropped her head in her hands and cried out, "Thank GOD you are here!" All of the people at her counter looked over the top to see where she went. "Load up the hot dog roller!" she yelled...still on the ground. I did. Then I helped her up...and we got that whole mob fed. I've never felt anyone was ever happier to see me...than Amy was at that moment.
My last Newberry's story involves one of the biggest messes I've ever made. Ever. Anywhere. Newberry's was one of the last places on earth that had those wonderful grape and orange drink dispensers. The kind that perpetually mixed the sticky-sweet-fruity beverages right before your eyes. There were dual clear plastic tanks on top of a stand, with clear plastic tubing in the center of each tank...and the beverages would flow up the tubing and cascade down inside the tank...like a colorful fountain. The grape on one side, the orange on the other. Each week, the whole machine needed to be turned off, drained, washed, reassembled, filled and then turned back on. Not difficult...just time consuming. I had done it many times. This one time, I had gotten through steps one through five. The machine was cleaned and refilled...and ready to get turned back on. Almost. I had forgotten to do one little thing...and that was to put the lid back on. When I flipped the switch to turn it on...it was...like watching Old Faithful. Only instead of one spout spewing hot steaming liquid...it was two spouts, side by side, spewing orange drink and grape drink...all over the counter, the stools and the floor! It was indeed...the biggest mess ever. (But it did look kind of cool spouting up!)

Each One Different - Each One Special

It's interesting to me how very different siblings can be. Even though we share the same DNA and we grew up in the same household...we are as different as we can be. I didn't notice it when we were younger...but I certainly do now. Actually, as I child, the only difference I noticed about me and my brother and sister, was that they were both skinny red heads...and I was a "plump" or "chunky" brunette. My sister Amy and I used to pretend that I was a cousin from Kentucky (where I had my own horse...as all people in Kentucky do...) who came to live with my "Uncle Fred and Aunt Lois." We also had a long running family joke about why I wasn't a skinny red head...and that was, that I was actually a Korean war orphan. I know...it was an odd joke...but it was our family's joke. That joke was so ingrained in my head, that about 15 years ago, I was training this new waitress at the Oyster Bar...and she was Korean. We were chatting as we were working and she mentioned that her family had a small farm. I pictured an older Korean couple working their land...and I asked her if they grew vegetables and then used them to make their own Kim Chee. She looked at me like I was nuts and said, "No...my parents are white...I'm a Korean war orphan." Without giving it a second thought, I blurted out, "Hey! So am I!" Then she really looked at me like I was nuts...and that was the beginning of our friendship.
Now...back to the differences between me and my siblings...
Mom was the one who pointed out to me how different each of us kids were. She said that it never was more obvious than the day President Kennedy was shot. I was in the third grade, Amy was in first and David was in fifth. The secretary went to each of the classrooms and with tears streaming down her face, she whispered something to the teachers. Our teachers told us that our president had been shot. We were told to quickly gather our things and we were all instructed to go straight home.
It was a little over a half mile walk to our house. Some of our neighborhood kids were running ahead, jumping and celebrating getting out of school early. I thought they were horrible. David, Amy and I were not a part of that. We simply made our way past the Dominican Convent, down Locust Ave...heading straight home. I don't remember that we spoke much...we were all just trying to process what had happened. I cried the whole way.
When we got home, David grabbed several of the World Book Encyclopedias. He went in his room with them, closed the door and began his research. He looked up everything he could about presidents. Who was next in line for the job? What if he were to die? How many presidents died in office? How many were assassinated? What would happen next? Amy didn't care about any of that. She was furious. She was so mad at the guy who shot our president, she was going to get a gun and shoot him herself! And I was still sobbing. All I could think about was that Caroline and John John's father was dead...and who would take care of them now? How could they grow up without their dad?
Same DNA, same environment...and yet we were as different as we could be. Each one different and each one special. The same holds true today. David still is more comfortable researching things...gathering all the information he can...especially before making any decisions. Amy sees a problem and wants to take action. Handle the situation...right now. And I operate straight from my heart.
Being aware of these differences and knowing that it is just how each of us are (for whatever reason) adds dimension to our family.
I think that when people become aware of, accept and respect the differences in those around them, they have the opportunity to accomplish great things. And to enjoy each other 's company along the way. I see this in my family...I see this in my church.
We have each been given gifts from God that make us special individuals. And when we get together and pool our resources/gifts...the possibilities are endless. That...to me...is incredible.

Go In Peace

It's been a while since I last sat down to write. It's been a while since I've done much of anything for that matter. The house and the yard are both out of control once again. I've been doing a lot of napping...though not really sleeping. And I've been doing a lot of crying. Things are getting much harder for me here. Mom is so withdrawn, which I expected would happen. And she's not eating much anymore, which I also expected would happen. Getting pills down her is a huge struggle for both of us.
I've been calling the hospice line on a regular basis...even though we have hospice people here five days a week. Maybe I'm just letting go in my own way. Handing things over to them. It would be easier for me if I knew exactly what to expect...but I know that people don't all die the same way...even when they have the same disease. As best I can tell...we're in for more of the same. Mom will sleep more, eat less and withdraw even more...though at this point I can't see how that could happen.
I'm in a strange place right now...because I can see where I am and what I'm doing...and it's not where I want to be. I know what I'm doing is not going to help either mom's situation or mine at all...so how do I stop and move on to where I need to be? And the weirdest thing is...I was here before! How did I end up back in the same place?
When mom first started to lose strength in her legs, I took her in for physical therapy. They said the more I had her walk on her own...the longer she would be able to walk and stand. Realizing that it would be harder on both of us if she were confined to a wheel chair...I had her walking a lot. I helped her stand and had her stand as long as she could. And when she said, "I can't." I pushed her to try. It was terribly frustrating to us both. That was several years ago.
Now, here we are...me trying my hardest to get mom to swallow her blood pressure, water and potassium pills. Saying "Open your mouth." and showing her how to do it, prying her pursed lips apart and trying to poke the pills in, pulling on her chin trying to get her to unclench her teeth. I've tried breaking the pills in half, putting them in yogurt or applesauce, stroking her neck trying to encourage her to swallow (like you do when you pill dogs and cats)...pleading with her..."You can do it." If I do get them in there, she stores them in her cheek until they dissolve. Or she spits them out if I turn my head. It's the same type of battle as we went through before. I want her to do it...and she can't.
Last week I realized that I am going to have to be the one to change. Mom's not going to. I am going to have to accept that mom is where she is...and that she's not able to do the things I so desperately want her to do. When I called hospice to give them my update, I told the nurse that. She corrected me..."Your mom is changing. And she will change even more...just not in a way that will suit you." She added, "The hardest time on family members is when the patient refuses to eat. We nourish the people we love...in many ways. And when the patient stops eating, the family suffers more than the patient does." Putting that together with what the chaplain told me a week ago..."The last two months of a dementia-affected patient's life are the hardest on the caregiver. The patient withdraws so much it's hard for the caregiver...because they have put so much energy into that person...and now there's no response." I can tell that this is likely to be one very rough road ahead of us.
I am so thankful that I'm not traveling this road alone. I can't express adequately my gratitude towards family and friends for their support. I am thankful that I know when God decides the time is right to bring mom home...He will. When I hear her moaning and mumbling I climb in bed with her and lay across the head of the bed...rubbing her back and shoulders or stroking her head with one hand and holding her hand with the other. Each time I do that I pray, "Lord, You know that it is going to be hard on me whenever she goes...I don't know when the right time is...only You do. I simply ask that You let her leave this earth in peace. Amen."

Party Time

Celebrate life. A thousand years ago, my dad gave me a little yellow lapel pin with a red flower on it and in red printing were the words: Celebrate Life. What great advice!
Last week as our social worker and I were looking through old photographs together, I noticed how many pictures were taken at parties. Both the traditional birthday parties and the lesser known variety parties. Looking back, I am glad to say that in this household...we have truly enjoyed the time we have spent together.
Birthday celebrations quickly grew to such extremes, that we had to switch from holding a birthday party...to celebrating a birthday weekend. A kid party on a Friday or Saturday (often involving pizza, bowling, 10-20 girls overnight) and then a family party Sunday night. The kids are now on their own partying with their friends...and we still host the family dinner party on Sunday night. The birthday person still chooses the menu and dessert...and after the table is cleared, someone turns out the lights in the dining room and everyone waits in the dark, for the lighted cake to be brought in to be set in front of the honored guest. We all sing and as the celebrated person blows out the candles, we take a "fish face" photo of them. (Puckered lips.) There are a bunch of "Vanna White" pictures of birthday boys and girls posing with their new gifts...as we are a family of photo-hams.
The lesser known parties we have celebrated include; Tupperware Bingo, Bunko and Pajama Parties...yes, all Tupperware Parties. We have celebrated St. Patrick's Day by wearing only green clothing, eating green banquets (all food dyed green) and playing bingo...with green Dollar Store prizes. Not to mention a grand prize of a pile o' green one dollar bills! One of my favorite photos at a St. Patrick's Day party is of mom after she won a salad shaker basket. It was a green plastic mesh ball that was split in half with a hinge at the bottom and a handle on the top. You're supposed to put a washed head of lettuce in there and then swing it around to dry it off. Mom had not seen one before and asked "What is it?" When she opened it up...it resembled a Madonna style bra and as she held it up to her chest...posing like a pin-up...we got the picture!
Thanks to Mary, we also have Barbie's wedding photos. Everyone brought their own Barbie or Ken and we had to fill out interview cards so that Bride Barbie (Mary's Barbie) could choose one of us (well our Barbie) to be her maid of honor. Mary had made a real three tiered wedding cake and we all were part of the ceremony...I'm afraid the reception got out of hand though. Sometimes that happens. Mary has also hosted many tea parties for us. They always had a theme. There was the Queen's tea party which was served by a butler, a Sushi-Rollerskating Tea party where Mary and her co-hostess wore kimonos and full white face make-up and then we all went roller skating at Oaks Park after tea and sushi...and there was the Royal Cheesearian tea party/treasure hunt. (Mary's version of the Royal Rosarian tea and Rose Festival treasure hunt rolled into one...with a cheezy twist.) That was my favorite. We all dressed formally, Stephanie wearing my high shool orange homecoming dress...in honor of cheddar. Needless to say, she was drowning in it...which made it even funnier in the pictures. After tea, we divided into two teams. Mary gave us clues and the hunt was on. Each clue lead us to another...until we found the treasure. (A large trophy covered with jewels, and an orange cheese wedge on top. I'm not sure what that cheese wedge was made of...but it was a treasure to be sure!) Whoever found the trophy would be crowned (yes there was a real crown...also with jewels and a chunk of cheese on it) Queen of Cheesearia! The clues took us all over the neighborhood. Into parks, little neighborhood grocery stores, school play grounds...all over the neighborhood. Each team had a designated driver and then we were off. The last clue brought us back to the front yard of Mary's apartment building. We were looking all around for the treasure...when Steph decided to crawl into the bushes and search there...in my 20 year old homecoming dress! Shortly after entering the bushes, she emerged with the trophy! Mary wrapped her in an orange serape (courtesy of mom) and crowned her Queen of Cheesearia.
Another annual party was the First Day Of School Party. Mary dreamed it up one night as we were cleaning up after work. I had told her that Jennifer was dreading going back to school the next morning, because she was going to have a man teacher for the first time. It was scary to her...and Steph was feeding on that fear and decided she didn't want to go either. Not that she was going to have a man teacher...but she was going into the 2nd grade...and that's when they really crack down on the kids and make them work all day long. (So she heard.) I was not looking forward to getting them up in the morning. Mary decided that we should make a midnight run to Winco and buy them first day of school gifts, candy and a cake...balloons and streamers, party hats and noise makers. It was a lot of fun. We loaded up on non-essential school supplies (locker mirrors, new hair clips, funny pencils, fruit snacks etc.) and got all the party food and decorations. We went all out with the balloons and streamers, tossed confetti everywhere and spent several hours wrapping all of the little gifts. At 5:00 in the morning, we covered the table with the gifts and individually wrapped pieces of bulk candy. We woke mom and the girls at 6:00 and brought them into the kitchen to be greeted by the best breakfast ever. Cake and ice cream! After presents were opened and breakfast was enjoyed, the girls put on their new school outfits and their first day of school was a great success. That party was held every year...until a few years ago. The last one was when Stephanie began her last year of Beauty School. It evolved a little over time. But the celebrating continued.
There are photos of beach parties and birthday picnics...sometimes in the rain. No one looks unhappy about the weather...we just huddled up under blankets...turning them into makeshift tents.
I guess the lesson here is: Enjoy the people you are with while you have the chance, celebrate both the big and the little moments. Life doesn't always go the way we hope...but it always should be celebrated. Oh...and take lots of pictures!

Using My Sadness

Things in my life are getting tougher. Mom's health continues to decline and soon her time here...our time together...will be over. That's a lot to work through. Letting go of someone you love is a very hard thing to do. Knowing that I am letting her go, to be with our Father in heaven is comforting. It is still hard though. I will miss her terribly.
Keeping that in mind...I must say that overall, I am happier in my life now, than I ever have been. I am fortunate to be in a loving marriage, my daughters are growing up and becoming women who I am proud of and enjoy spending time with. I have several close, long time friends who are very supportive of me. My siblings and I get along great. My relationship with God is solid. And yet...I am always aware that at any moment, I could (and I often do) begin crying. Not the crumbling to the ground sobbing...but the quivering chin, tears streaming down my cheeks weeping.
I see this as being a very normal reaction to what I am going through. As I think about this, I picture myself being on a rocking horse. The best rides involve rocking forward and backward, forward and backward. And stopping in the middle now and again. Then forward and backward some more. Not too far in either direction...or else I'll tip over. That's how I see happiness and sorrow. To make my life-ride complete...I need both.
This got me thinking, if they are both equal in importance...is there anything else about them that is the same? I can't keep either inside for very long. I can't keep them to myself...or I feel like I'll burst. So...I snicker, giggle or laugh out loud...and I cry openly. And...when I am open and honest with people about my feelings (not hiding them) it is as if I am inviting them in. And if they choose to do so, we connect.
My sadness tells me I'm human. It tells me I have been blessed with a wonderful mother. My sadness is being a teacher to me. My tears ease my pain, and they speak to others when my voice fails. I marvel over how wonderfully made we are. It is good.

Thirty Photos

When I made mom's funeral arrangements, one of the benefits of the "package" that I chose was an Everlasting Memorial. I was instructed to gather up some photos of mom throughout the years, label them and bring them into the funeral parlor where they would make a DVD for us. They would also put it online, so that family and friends who weren't able to come to her memorial service could enjoy the photos along with some of my memories of her. (Folks who view it online will also have the opportunity to add their own memories to it.)
I must say...I loved looking through the old pictures. It was fun to see how much she and her brother both resemble their mom. And how much my sister looks like mom. And how much my oldest daughter looks like mom too! (Me...I take after my dad.) Lucky for me, most of the pictures were already marked with the year and who was in the photo.
I went through boxes and boxes of pictures, setting aside my favorites. I even pulled a few out of some albums. The earliest ones were from the 1920's. They're pretty odd I must say. Her baby picture is sweet...but I'm afraid that after that...well...let's just say that it was obvious that mom grew up in the Great Depression. She and her brother Bob looked like street urchins. Their stockings were always sagging revealing their dirty, skinny little legs. Through most of her childhood, mom had that "Dutch boy" haircut. A bob with bangs. There were a lot of pictures of her late teenage years...usually she was posing with her girlfriends or with fellows in uniform. There's one I particularly liked that was signed "To my favorite sailor - Love, Lois" I figured it was for her brother who had joined the navy...most of her beaus seemed to be in the Army or Air Force. There were several pictures of mom with dad before they were married. She was wearing pants rolled up mid calf, anklets and saddle shoes. Dad had long trousers, a tee shirt with the sleeves rolled up and he always had a cigarette in his right hand. There were lots of photos from the fifties...just not of mom. (Those are the years that my brother, sister and I were born...so we are in most of those pictures...mom must have been on the other end of the camera.) There are a lot of family photos from the sixties...great clothes and glamorous hairstyles. In the seventies, there were even more family shots. Seventy-nine is when my dad died and we were lucky to have taken a great family photo at mom's birthday party, two weeks before dad died. In the eighties, I had my girls...and mom was their only grandparent...so you know that we have a lot of pictures with the three of them. By the end of the eighties, we had moved in with mom...and have been here ever since. That means that from then on...there are more pictures than all of the other years put together. Holidays, special events, parties, vacations, cookie baking, tea parties...even just hanging out...we took pictures.
Once I had collected all of my favorites, I started sorting through them. Picking out the ones where mom looked her best...and ones that really captured the moment. I had it really narrowed down. Or so I thought. I called the funeral parlor and asked them how many would make a good DVD. I was shocked when the answer was "Thirty. Well...maybe a few more would be okay." I started counting the ones I really liked...I was close to one hundred and fifty. Thirty. Mom is eighty-seven. Thirty photos to cover eight decades?
I have spent the last couple of weeks going through them again. The joy I felt going through them the first time is gone. Having to eliminate so many snapshots of mom's life has been really hard on me. I have a grocery bag labeled "Mom's photos we're not using." I've put so many in there already...I had to quit for a while because it was making me so sad. It feels like I'm putting away the memories...and it's depressing...it makes me cry. I think I've got it down to about forty-seven...and there are three on the computer that I for sure want in the DVD but I haven't printed them yet.
Tomorrow I'm going to make an appointment with the funeral director again. Maybe he can cut me some slack...and make an exception in the "thirty photo" rule. I hope so. If not...I'll wait a few days and tackle it again. I sure don't know how I'm going to set aside close to another twenty pictures though.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I know...all moms think that their kids are exceptionally clever. But just to show that by the time mine were in kindergarten, they were truly extraordinary...allow me to share these two stories.
It was about that time, when Jennifer was in kindergarten, that my girl's dad decided to leave the family. At first I tried to arrange meetings between them and their father...but his drug abusing lifestyle made that impossible. (When he would agree to meet us, we'd show up...and he wouldn't.) We were not divorced yet and he was running up a lot of bills. Bill collectors were calling me and threatening to garnish my wages for things I knew nothing about. Finally, I decided that I needed to make everything official and file for a divorce. I wanted to break the news to my girls in the easiest way possible...so we went for a drive...to Dairy Queen. As we were enjoying our dipped cones and driving around I causally said, "Girls...I need to tell you something." They looked up and then continued eating. "Your dad and I are going to get a divorce." "NO!" Jennifer blurted out. "I'm sorry. He's running up a lot of bills and people are coming after me to pay them...and I just don't have the money to do that." I drove along quietly, letting them process that. After a few blocks I said, "I have some more sad news to tell you." Jenn cut me off, "Not yet." We drove around for a while longer and then she said, "Okay...what?" "Well...the reason that your dad hasn't been meeting us when he says that he will, is because he has a drug problem. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do about it." Things were quiet for a bit and then Jenn spoke up, "Mom...that's dad's problem. He has to handle it." I was blown away. How did she get so smart, so soon?
By the time Stephanie was in kindergarten, her dad had been gone for several years. Things in our family were different than in most of her friends' families. There were no men around...we girls did everything for ourselves. Mom and I did all of the traditional "men jobs." We worked, took care of the yard, did the minor home repairs, carved the turkey at Thanksgiving, brought in and set up the tree at Christmas, took out the trash...everything...big or little. I was glad to show the girls that we could be self sufficient as women. That's a good life lesson. Each year when we went out to the pumpkin patch to get our Halloween pumpkins, we never went alone. There were always at least of couple of the girls' friends that came with us. It was more fun that way. The rule was always the same: You can have any pumpkin you want...as long as you can carry it. Of course they never went for little ones. They chose the biggest ones that they could possibly carry...or roll. Steph had just started kindergarten and had made a couple of close friends...they both came with us to the pumpkin patch that year. As they struggled to bring in three giant pumpkins from the field...I heard one of the little girls say, "We need a man to carry these for us!" (Had her dad come with us, he certainly would've carried their pumpkins for them...even if it took a couple of trips...he loved to spoil them.) Steph continued rolling her pumpkin towards the checkout gate and said, "We don't need a man, we need a wheelbarrow!"
See...truly extraordinary!

Closing Thoughts

There is a lot of prep work that goes on before a restaurant can open for business every day. Likewise, there is a lot of clean up that has to be done once it closes. Usually, I worked the opening shift...and at the Oyster Bar, that meant that I got to restock the oyster crackers, bake off the rolls, bake the pies, cut the lemons, peel the shrimp, roll the silverware, ice the glasses and set up the waitress stations with cream, butter, coffee etc. For a while I was picking up the closing shift once a week...mostly because it gave me a chance to work with my best friend Mary. Closing side work involved putting away the leftover butter, cream and lemons. Filling the catsup bottles, rolling more silverware, cleaning out the waitress stations, washing the tables and sweeping the floors. It would take about an hour for the two of us to get everything done. Although some of it could be started before the restaurant actually closed...it was better to do the sweeping once all of our guests had left the dining room. I didn't really mind any of the side work...it gave Mary and I a chance to chat uninterrupted. One night as I was sweeping, I began thinking about my life. I had been a single mom for many years, divorced twice and not dating. It was not the way I had intended my life to turn out. I wanted to be married, have kids...and live happily ever after. Why couldn't I have that? Should I even try to find a life mate again? Would it be "third time's a charm" or "three strikes you're out?" I asked Mary why couldn't I have the June Cleaver life. She shrugged it off saying, "Because that was a TV show. They were not real people. They were actors reading scripts." I thought about that a bit and decided, no...the reason I wasn't living the June Cleaver life...is because I didn't marry Ward! I married the first time when I had just turned twenty. We had dated about five years. He was a very serious guy, loved to hike, fish, read and was organic in all ways before it was a popular way to live. Mary affectionately nick-named him my "communist hippie vegetarian husband." (Nothing like Ward Cleaver.) We divorced after about a year and a half. When I married the second time, it was to someone completely different. We partied a lot, went to rock concerts and had a lot of fun...at first. About four years into the marriage, drug abuse became a huge problem for my husband. Although he got clean and sober a couple of years later...it was a short lived sobriety. Drug abuse and unemployment were chronic issues for him. (Again...nothing like Ward Cleaver.) My "aha!" moment was when I realized: To live the June Cleaver life...you've got to marry Ward! So simple.
Later that night I was wondering, why so often, people have such a hard time admitting when they are wrong about something...take the consequences...and then move on with their life? Isn't that way better than denying...for the sake of pride...that they were wrong? That's when I came up with my second "quote for life": It's better to swallow your pride...than choke on it.
Again...so simple.
When I shared that thought with Mary, she asked what had gotten into me. I guess I was on a roll that night. Wisdom was simply oozing out of me. Sorry to say...it was a one time thing. But...at least I did have that one time!
Oh...years later, I DID remarry...and the answer to my question is "The third time's a charm!"

Drinking Wine Out of the Bottle

I dug out our old wine glasses this weekend to use for a picnic style communion at church. As I was washing the dust off of them, I reminisced about the days when mom and I regularly enjoyed sharing a bottle (or box) of wine. Although I wanted to be a red wine drinker...I always liked a lighter, sweet wine best. Mom liked them all. (She also was big on margaritas in the summertime and a good scotch any time.)
One of the perks of being the opening waitress at the Oyster Bar, was the winery reps always came by after the lunch rush to have the bosses sample their products. Because my shift was over at that time...I often got to join them. One particular winter afternoon, the Bridgeview rep was there. He had brought several different bottles along...one of them was a beautiful cobalt blue bottle...Blue Moon Riesling. The bosses brought out a plate of cheese, crackers and chocolates and they uncorked the bottles one by one. After we had tried sips of each, we chose which ones we thought would sell well at the restaurant. Once the rep left, my bosses offered me the opened Riesling to take home with me. It was by far my favorite. We corked the bottle and stuck it in a brown paper bag. I put it in the trunk of my car and headed for home.
On the way home I remembered the time some friends of ours gave us a bottle of Oak Knoll Riesling, which I opened while I was making dinner. I poured a glass for me and one for mom. We agreed it was quite tasty. Mom finished hers first and poured herself another one saying,
"I think I'll have a glass while I take a quick bath before dinner." I don't know what the heck I was making, but she was out of the tub before it was done and asked me to pour her another glass to have with dinner. I did. That was four glasses. Four glasses equals one bottle. We enjoyed our dinner and mom got up to get another glass of wine. "How many glasses of wine did you have?" she yelled from the kitchen. "This bottle's empty!" I just shook my head.
Once I got home...I decided to leave the bottle of wine in the trunk of my car. I knew...it would be gone the moment I took it in the house. Each afternoon, after I parked in our driveway, I would open the trunk and take a few swigs off that bottle of wine...still wrapped in the paper bag. It was the best wine I ever drank. Maybe it was because I was drinking right out of the bottle. Maybe it was the brown paper wrapper. Maybe it was because I thought I was being so sneaky. I don't know. Thought...was a key word. You see...we share our driveway with the neighbors. One driveway between the two houses. Two garages at the end of the driveway. Our garage had too much stuff in it for me to park inside...so I was always parked just outside the door. One afternoon as I was re-corking the bottle, I looked up and saw our neighbor watching me from her kitchen window. I smiled and waved...and wondered to myself how many days I didn't see her up there as I enjoyed my secret pleasure. I thought that it probably didn't look very good...me taking a few drinks off a bottle wrapped in a brown bag (like the men I stepped over on my way to work in the morning) each afternoon before I went in our house. My only consolation was that at least I wasn't drinking and then driving off. I decided to surrender. Bring the bottle in the house knowing full well that mom would finish it off in no time. And that's exactly what happened. I think it sat in the fridge all of twenty minutes...until M*A*S*H ended and mom got up to look for a snack.

Worship God, Seek Beauty, Give Service

I was very fortunate to have found a group (at a very young age) that seemed to be made for me. When I was in second grade, I became a Bluebird...the first level of Camp Fire Girls. My decision to become a Camp Fire Girl not only changed my life, it also changed the lives of hundreds of girls who were not even twinkles in their father's eyes yet. That's a pretty big statement...but it's true.
Worship God, Seek Beauty and Give Service are the first three laws of Camp Fire. Those laws are as much a part of my every day life now...as when I first heard them in the early sixties.
Mrs. Cheatwood was my first Camp Fire leader. She had a daughter my age, named Cheryl. There were pictures in their home of a young man in uniform but I don't know for sure if he was a grown son or a husband. I never saw a man around there, and being a child, I thought it would be rude to ask who was the man in the photo...and where was he now.
Mrs. Cheatwood was a wonderful group leader. We took field trips around San Rafael, where we lived...and sometimes we even ventured across the bay to San Francisco! Community service projects were a big part of our program...which I loved. I wasn't very good with the art projects and Mrs. Cheatwood regularly told me that I had "the patience of Job" as I struggled along. One afternoon we were building kites out of wrapping paper...and I thought they were turning out pretty good. They seemed strong enough, had respectable, knotted, rag tails...I was sure they would fly. We all piled in "Ol' Betsy" (Mrs. Cheatwood's big gray Plymouth) and headed up to the top of this hill that was on the edge of town. There were no phone wires up there...it was a great place to fly kites. We tried over and over to get those kites to lift off. There was a nice breeze...so that wasn't the problem. The problem, Mrs. Cheatwood determined, was that those tails just weren't quite long enough. We were very disappointed. "Well, there's only one thing to do..." Mrs. Cheatwood announced. "We're going to have to add more tail to these kites." And with that said she went to Ol' Betsy, pulled out her purse and found a small pair of "emergency scissors." She sat on the front seat, lifted up her dress a bit and started snipping away at her slip! "I wish I hadn't worn my nice one today..." we could hear her say to herself, as she cut away one strip after another. When she stood up with a fistful of new kite tails she said, "There, that should do it." Each of us girls added extra "slip strips" to our kite tails...and we were thrilled when the kites finally went sailing. My thought at that moment was, "When I grow up...I want to be just like her!" Prepared, inventive and generous.
When Jennifer entered kindergarten, I saw that she could join Camp Fire...in a Starflight group. I called the office to make sure it was the same organization that I had belonged to. They assured me that it was. Worship God, Seek Beauty, Give Service etc. I signed her up. And since I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun...I signed myself up as the leader. Within a week, there were twenty eight kids who wanted to join. Since they all couldn't agree on a meeting date, we split them into three groups. We met separately most of the time...but did do group projects together also. When Stephanie entered kindergarten, I signed her up too. And again...I signed up to be the group leader. That group began as a group of twenty two...and stayed that big. Jenn's group stayed together through sixth grade...Steph's group stayed together through fifth grade. It was a wonderful experience for all of us. We held weekly meetings, did lots of community service projects, learned a lot of new things, went Christmas caroling every year, made some super drums for Council Fire. We camped in the back yard, at Camp Namanu and at the beach. We held annual Mother-Daughter teas and Father-Daughter ice cream socials with folk dancing afterwards. Many of those girls are still close.
It seemed very important to me, to share those values, Worship God, Seek Beauty and Give Service to not only my kids...but to the other kids around us. We made sure everyone was welcomed. At that time, there were over a dozen Camp Fire groups in their school...which was a lot. The Camp Fire district office asked if I would help train other moms to be leaders also. I was happy to. People would ask me, "How do you find the time...being a working single mother?" My answer was always the same..."How could I not?" I wanted to be around my kids. To know who they were hanging out with and to help influence their activities and choices. (Not to mention that it was fun!)
Thank you Mrs. Cheatwood. You changed my life...my daughter's lives...and hundreds of other lives by being a wonderful Camp Fire leader to me. WoHeLo! (WOrk, HEalth, LOve)

A Nightmare

For whatever reason, when I was around eight years old, I had a lot of trouble with nightmares. Usually they were about robbers breaking in the house and I had to hide from them. Sometimes they would find me and then I'd have to try and escape. They were pretty distressing...and I usually would not want to go back to sleep...afraid they would come back. I would grab a small stack of comic books to read, sit on the bathroom floor and do my best to stay awake until morning.
There were two nightmares that were particularly upsetting to me. This is the story of one of those...

I was a child...just like any other child. Almost. I knew that I had a special power. It was an unusual power...and I could only use it once in my lifetime. It wasn't like x-ray vision or super human strength...it was something else altogether. It was something that, if and when I chose to use it...my life, as well as someone else's life would be changed forever. Now that's a super special power! One not to be wasted on just anything.
One beautiful afternoon, I was playing Prison Tag (a very popular form of tag in my youth) in the front yard of my Camp Fire Leader's house. We were having a great time. I was stuck in prison...waiting for someone to come free me. As I waited, I was watching the traffic pass by on the street just beyond the yard. This house was on one of the busier streets in town...so we always had to be extra careful playing in the front yard. All of the sudden, this car came barreling down the road. The driver was apparently not paying any attention to what was ahead...he appeared to be deep in conversation with his passenger. The car was veering off to the side and was just about ready to slam into a tree...which would certainly mean they would both be killed. I felt sure that if I were driving the car, I'd be able to slow down and swerve in time to miss the tree. I knew the tree was there...he did not. I had such great compassion for those people...I decided to use my super power to save them. As they sped past me I yelled "I'll trade places with you!" At that moment, the driver's head spun around and our eyes locked. It was then that I noticed that the driver was actually a mannequin. His body fell apart...and I woke up. I was really sorry I had traded places with a mannequin. For many years I avoided eye contact with all mannequins. It's not such a big issue for me anymore...but they still do kind of creep me out.

Stress and the Caregiver

There are thousands of books, videos, pamphlets and blogs about stress and the caregiver. Five years ago, I kind of had the attitude of..."That may be true for SOME people...but not for me. I'm an easy going sort of person." Now I see why there are so many publications on this topic out there. Even us easy going sorts of care-giving people will most likely will feel their stress levels elevate over time. Actually...it didn't take long at all for me to feel it. By the end of the first month that I became mom's full time caregiver...I was experiencing major headaches. I checked my blood pressure and it had gone through the roof. (Which I thought was odd, because I'd always had lower blood pressure!) I went to the doctor right away. Of course the first thing they do there is have you step on the scale. I was actually looking forward to it. My doctor had been lecturing me for years about my "fatty tissue"...it was a standing joke between me and my old co-workers. I was sure that I had lost weight. I hadn't been at the Oyster Bar for a month. That meant that I no longer was having clam chowder and a sour dough roll for breakfast every day...and I wasn't taste-testing the pie filling anymore either! I was SURE the scale would know that. Much to my surprise...in one month away away from the restaurant...I had put ON ten pounds! Ten. In one month. Without my beloved clam chowder and wonderful sour dough rolls hot out of the oven...with butter! How could this be? Well...apparently those 12,000 steps I had been taking every day were working for me. I got my prescription for blood pressure meds and left with a heavy heart. An extra heavy heart.
People used to ask me how I coped with the stress levels. My coping plan was to nap as often as possible...and I did. Whenever I tucked mom in bed...I grabbed a nap too. It seemed to work for me.
Yesterday was a particularly stressful day. Mom now gets chronic bladder infections. She might be off antibiotics for a week or two...and then she gets another one. The nurse came yesterday and catheterized mom...to get a clean sample of urine for the doctor to check out. I helped with the procedure...as I have now done five times. It was the first time mom did not yell, "I'm gonna kill you!" I think the morphine I gave her ahead of time helped. Even though it went well...it was rough on both of us. Last night, mom was up at 2:00am...calling out "Mom! Mom! Answer me!" I went to her room and tried rubbing her back and talking calmly to her. Then I gave her a kiss, tucked her back in bed and went back to bed myself. Ten minutes later...she was yelling again. I went back up, gave her half a sleeping pill (I can give her up to two...but a half usually works.)...tucked her back in and went back to bed. 2:30...she was yelling again. (It's really not yelling, but there's a baby monitor our room...and it sure sounds like yelling.) That time I unplugged the monitor and took it upstairs with me. I didn't want to keep waking Jeff up too. I tried being more stern with her, insisting that she close her eyes and go to sleep...and then went to sleep in the recliner. Within a half hour I was back in her room. This went on all night long. When I went in there at 4:00, I was armed with a cup of warmed milk. I flicked on the light (which upset her) sat her up on the edge of the bed and said, "Here. Drink this. It might help you go to sleep. You're making me crazy." She looked at me like I was crazy. And she enjoyed the cup of milk. Once again I tucked her in bed...gave her a kiss...turned out the light and tried to sleep on the couch. The milk did not help. At all. She was still calling out when Jeff got up for work at 5:30. He offered to go in and talk to her...thinking that maybe it would surprise her enough to shut her up. I listened in on the monitor. She called out "Mom! Mom! What are you...deaf? Answer me!" Jeff entered her room and asked her "What do you want?" For a moment, she was silent. In a meek little voice she said, "Mom?" "She's in the living room. What do you want?" No reply. I was pretty hopeful at that point. Jeff stepped out of the room and she started up again. I finally just went in there and got her up and out of bed. I gave her a bowl of oatmeal...which she doesn't usually have until well after noon. She was up until 7:30.
When our bath aide called around 10:00 and asked if she could come earlier today...I said "Sure. Mom's sleeping now...but you know...she had no compassion on me and my wanting to sleep last night...so...I really can't muster up much compassion for her and her wanting to sleep right now." An hour later, mom was getting her bath. She only swore once...which surprised me. I thought she'd be swearing up a blue streak...I guess she was too pooped. After the bath, the aide asked me if anyone had talked to me about a 5 day respite break. (It's where hospice would put mom in a nursing home for 5 days so I could really get away.) I guess I really look as tired as I feel. I can't see going for that offer...as sweet as a five day getaway sounds. In reality...I couldn't see myself relaxing somewhere not knowing what was going on. Things can change so quickly. I think we'll just stick with our 4 hour break every Saturday.
She's sleeping now...and I grabbed an hour-long nap earlier. Hopefully, we'll both be happy campers tonight. And hopefully we'll be sleeping through the night tonight too!
My closing thought is...how much I appreciate everyone's prayers for mom and for me. Each week at Bethlehem we pray for the homebound members. One Sunday, I remember noticing that it said that "We pray for our members who are homebound...and their caregivers." Maybe it always said that...and that one particular week I saw it. That means so much to me. I could not do this job without support. I could not do it without Jeff's support, my daughters' support, the support of my brother and sister, the prayer support that surrounds us every day. And I certainly couldn't do it without the strength that God provides me. "I can do all things in him who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13 Thanks be to God!

Lunch Counter Encounters

One of my favorite memories from my childhood, was when Grandma would take my sister Amy and I on Rose City Transit, to the dime store (J.J. Newberry's) downtown. Newberry's had a great candy counter where she would stock up on her Horehound Drops. They were a hard oval shaped candy, brown in color with a sugar dusting on the outside that made them look almost gray. Grandma always had them stashed in her purse and also stored them in a container on her night stand...for medicinal purposes. The best part of the trip was always right before we went back home. The three of us would each take a seat at the soda fountain and order ourselves a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. I carefully watched as the woman behind the counter built those sundaes, thinking to myself what a perfect job that would be! Little did I know that ten years later I would be that woman behind the counter making the sundaes! It was my first paying job. A dollar ninety an hour...plus tips. I had forgotten it was my dream job until one day I waited on a grandma with her granddaughters...and I wondered if someday one of them would be standing at the fountain building a cool, creamy treat for another generation. I loved that job so much, I stayed there three years. (In reality, it was like boot camp for restaurant workers.) Amy saw how much I loved it and she got a job there too! And believe it or not...she ended up falling in love with our boss and marrying him! They have been married for over thirty years now. I too met someone special there...and this blog is about her. Her name is Mary.
It was 1976 and Mary had just graduated from high school in Brooklyn, NY. She and a couple of friends hitched rides across the country and ended up in Portland, Oregon. Mary was a free spirit. Long braids, flowy skirts, tie-dyed shirts and cowboy boots. I was much more conservative. Twenty years old, married and living in a big house where we rented out the extra bedrooms. It was an organic, vegetarian household...which I hated but never spoke up about. A real "communal" living experience. I looked the part, wearing railroad overalls, blue prison shirt and hiking boots...but looks were as far as it went. One afternoon, Mary and I were waiting at the same bus stop. We started talking and she thought it was pretty cool that "a chick (me) was working the grill" at the lunch counter. After a couple of minutes of chatting, Mary asked me if I wanted to smoke a joint. She asked me this as she was pulling one out of her bag. I almost died right there on the spot. "Oh no! I don't do that kind of thing!" As she lit it I heard her mutter..."Yeah right..." "No! Really!" I was sure that cops were going to come barreling up to the stop and throw us both in jail. "So...if you really don't smoke...how come you act the way you do?" My reply..."I'm just high on life." I swear that's how it went...and that was my reply. (I was one of those "Up With People" people. In fact, I still remember the theme song.) I think she finally saw how uncomfortable I was and pinched it off, putting it back in her bag for later. She mentioned that she needed a place to stay and I invited her to move in with us. That weekend, she showed up at our house pushing a shopping cart with all of her earthly belongings. We quickly became best friends.
I could write many blogs about Mary. And this will probably be just the first. The story I wanted to write about today is one that took place several years ago. Mary knew that I loved Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I had been a fan since 1969...Woodstock. In the 70's I got to hear CSN in concert. It was spectacular. They sang "Southern Cross" with a sailing video playing in the background. It became my favorite song...of all time. Neil Young went on tour with CSN a while back. Mary bought us tickets. We were up in the nosebleed section...but I didn't care. We were there. And I was hopefully going to hear my favorite song in the world. In between songs, people would yell out to request their favorites. I begged Mary to yell "SOUTHERN CROSS!" with me. She wouldn't do it. Repeatedly I begged her. (I certainly couldn't yell it myself.) She never did it. And...they never played it. I was really bummed. But...being a good friend...I let it go. That is, I let it go until about six months later. My daughter invited us to a basket ball game at Franklin High School. It was the first sporting event I had been to at her school. We were sitting a respectable distance away from her and her friends...back with the "other parents." Immediately after half time, as the players were coming back on to the court...Mary stands up, cups her hands around her mouth and yells as loud as she can, "SOUTHERN CROSS!" She then sat back down next to me and said, "There. Are you happy now?" Yep. That's Mary.

Eulogies

The past few months I have been putting things together for mom's end of life services. One of the jobs that goes along with that is writing a eulogy for her memorial service. It's been an interesting journey. Actually, the first two times I tried to get one started for her...I ended up writing one for myself! That may seem like an odd thing to do...but actually...who knows me better than I do?
My dad had gone to a death seminar one time and part of the curriculum was to write your own eulogy. Mom had it read at his memorial service. It went like this: "Fred was a person of polarities. To have known him in only one dimension of his life was to miss its rhythm. He was witty and spontaneous yet capable of depth of thought and keen insights into life. He was a 'fighter of windmills' and often not taken seriously. Some of us sensed his visionary qualities and encouraged him to go on 'dreaming the impossible dreams.' He was not an attractive man. His clothes were plain, often untidy, his manners were sometimes coarse, but there was a humaness about him that demanded respect. Much of his life was spent as a pastor. He seemed unimpressed by the role. People who knew him, had they to choose between a relationship with him as pastor or friend, would choose the latter. He did not attempt to be someone other than himself, and that kind of honesty is to us an element of Christ-likeness. Somehow his impact will be felt for time to come in the lives of those who were in touch with him. He's still here."
Those words describe my father very well. Not so much about what he did...but who he was. I hope to be able to do the same for my mother. I've lived under the same roof with mom for almost forty years. I know her well. We are in a solid relationship...even if she doesn't remember who I am. I told Jeff that knowing her as I do carries a lot of responsibility. Not just as in physically caring for her...but letting others know who she is. Who she was. How much she has impacted the world...just by being herself. And by letting God guide her.
That got me thinking about my relationship with God. There's a responsibility there too. Sharing with others who He is, what He has done...and what He continues to do every day.
I guess I have my work cut out for me. Thankfully I am blessed with my mom's book, "I Wasn't Born Old." It shares a lot about who she was. Likewise, I am blessed with God's book, The Bible.
The big difference seems to be that I will be sharing with people the story of mom, when her life here comes to an end. Whereas, God's life is endless.
Knowing that mom will be joining dad, grandma and grandpa and all of the other hosts of heaven (not to mention our Creator) when she dies is a great comfort to me. There, she will have a new life. A life everlasting.

Conversations With Mom

Over the past year, mom's ability to hold a conversation has all but disappeared. She is able to understand what I'm saying, if I say it slow enough, use simple words and give her ample time to think about it. Processing what she hears is a lot of work for her. Responding is even harder. Sometimes she'll get a few words out...like a running head start...and then she forgets where she's going with it. When that happens, she will either babble sounds and wait for a response from me, or she will start with her chanting and rocking...tuning out everything around her.
There are times...fewer than before...and further in-between...when we have a conversation that makes sense. I treasure those moments. And for that reason...I'm writing them down here. They won't be in any order...other than as they pop in my head at this point in time. (My words will be in italic print...mom's in regular.)

Tucking mom in bed I gave her a kiss and told her goodnight: "Have sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning." "I don't know who the hell you are...but I trust you." "I'm Debbie, and it's good that you trust me because I am worthy of your trust." "Okay. Good night."

Again...tucking mom in bed, on Mother's Day a year ago...which I thought for sure was going to be our last one together: "Good night. Sweet dreams." "Do I know you?" "Yes. I'm Debbie." "Do I own you?" "Yes, I'm your daughter." "Oh...okay. Good night."

Mom usually sees people around her, who I don't see. She often will respond to the question of "Are you hungry?" with "I'm not...but they are." One day I was bringing her out to the dining room to have breakfast and as I set her oatmeal in front of her she said to me..."It's rude of you not to acknowledge them." "I'm sorry...you all are welcome to join us for breakfast also." "That's better."

In the middle of the night mom called out as she often does, "Mom! Mom!" I went up to see what was going on. "That man was here. With the long hair. That famous one." "I'm not sure who you are talking about." "You know. That famous man. The one with the long hair. Usually...the men that pass through here are not famous...but this man was." I still don't know who he was. My sister guessed it was Jesus. Our social worker guessed the actor Ricardo Mantalban...who had just passed away. Who knows?

One of my favorites...while watching the Vice Presidential debates last year: "Mom...see that woman? She wants to be the Vice President of the United States." Mom looked at the TV for a moment and turned to me and said "She doesn't have a chance." I chuckled a bit and then called her attention back to the TV. "See that man? He wants to be the Vice President of the United States." Mom studied the TV for a little longer and then said, "A man that handsome...could be KING!" That's my mom!

As our social worker was leaving after a visit one afternoon, she told mom good bye and headed towards the door. "God be with you!" mom called out to her. She came back and hugged mom around the shoulders. "Thank you...that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day!" Mom then turned to me and said, "Why don't people say that more often? They should." We all agreed on that one.

Well...I'll close off here. No doubt more conversations will come to my mind and I'll write a "Part 2" to this blog. Or...maybe...we'll still have more conversations to remember!

God's Energy

Again today I will pull up something I wrote last summer when I took the online class "Practicing Spirituality During Illness." The practice for the day was to complete this sentence: "God's energy is constantly flowing through me, __________."
God's energy is constantly flowing through me, giving me strength, washing away fear, leading me in the right direction, and doing marvelous things. I like to think of myself as a servant who God can use to help make this world more like the place He intended it to be. Sometimes I'm a sower...planting seeds along my path. Sometimes I'm a hostess...doing my best to make the people I meet comfortable. Perhaps feeding, clothing. visiting with them or simply allowing them to stay with me and just rest for a while.
We each have Spiritual gifts. Different gifts...same Spirit. When we allow the energy of the Spirit that flows through us to pour out of us...it is not lost. It produces fruit. Fruit that nourishes the lives we touch...and even live that we never meet. Think of a fruit tree. Some people come by and eat what they want, they are nourished and toss the rest. The fruit that falls and breaks down over time has the potential of becoming another tree. Some people take more than they want and share it with others...they (who have never seen the tree) are also nourished.
It is amazing to me. Amazing how many lives can be enriched by someone who is willing to allow the Spirit of God to flow through them. And another amazing thing is...that Spiritual energy is limitless. We just have to keep our taps open. Yay!

Writing has been a wonderful outlet for me. Some of what I've written about (especially about being mom's caregiver) I've shared with other people who I thought might either get a kick out of it...or it might help them understand where I'm coming from. On several occasions now, I've been told that what I've shared about my experiences were passed along to other people (that I will never know) through lectures, thank you notes and in personal visits with patients and their families. Who knows where it will go from there!
I'm glad I opened my "Caregiver's Journal" today. I was feeling a little low on energy. I really needed to remind myself that God's energy is constantly flowing through me....and I needed to get out of the way and let it flow!

Me, My Dad & St. Paul

This summer our church will be reading from the book of Ephesians. I'm very excited about that. The books St. Paul wrote, are the books of the Bible that I'm most drawn to. I have felt for many years that St. Paul and I are kindred spirits. Perhaps it's because his books were letters, and therefore are quite personal. I feel that I could have written them myself...or at least parts of them. St. Paul wrote to the early congregations when he was proud of them, thankful for them or disappointed in them. He spoke honestly about his experiences, whether they were uplifting or not. He wrote when he was in prison...tired and lonely...and even in those times...he always mentioned that he felt comforted because the Holy Spirit was with him.
Paul had not met Jesus during His ministry...but he knew Him. The moment they met, Paul's life was changed forever. As a result, the world was changed forever. That's how God works. "God's plans will not fail...and we are a part of those plans." That's very exciting. And empowering. What a great honor...to be a part of God's plans.
One thing that I appreciate about St. Paul's writings, is that they are so clear. How should we live our lives? How should we interact with each other? What should we be thinking about and what should we be doing? Answers to all of these questions are in St. Paul's letters.
In his letters, St. Paul acknowledges that we are all different...and at the same time...we are all one. Different, but not separate. We each have different gifts and talents...and we are all a part of the plan. We are all united with God, through Christ. No one is excluded.
I recently came across a news article from 1964, about my dad. He apparently felt the same towards the world as St. Paul did. Everyone is to be welcomed and supported, encouraged and loved. The author of the article said that dad felt his role as a pastor was to diminish...and let God increase. When dad quoted the Epistles of St. Paul, the author said "It was as if St. Paul himself was prompting him."
"You are your father's daughter." All my life I've been told those words by people who knew my father...and I've often said them to myself. My dad and I are very much the same. We are alike in our looks, our minds and our hearts. Our actions reflect that. Dad passed away 30 years ago...but he's very much "Still here."
Me, my dad & St. Paul. There's a connection there. I'm thankful that I'm aware of it.

Fear Not...Only Believe

Each Sunday at worship, we listen to several readings from the Bible. After the readings, we take a moment to ponder on them and pay attention to any word, phrase or idea that speaks to our hearts. We are then invited to share them with the congregation if we so choose. I noticed that what stuck out in my mind for the past two weeks had a recurring theme. We have been reading the Gospel according to Mark.
In chapter four, Mark tells of a time when Jesus was in a boat with His followers...sleeping. A great windstorm arose and the boat was being tossed about. Greatly frightened, the disciples woke Jesus crying out "Do you not care that we are going to die?" Jesus quieted the wind and commanded the sea to be still. Then he asked the disciples, "Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?"
Last week we read another portion of Mark, chapter five. A leader of the church approached Jesus, his name was Jairus. His young daughter was dying and he asked that Jesus lay hands on her and heal her. Jesus went with him to his home. On the way, a large crowd pressed in around Him. A woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years pushed her way to the front of the crowd, sure that if she could only "touch the hem of His robe" she would be healed. Jesus was aware of her touch and asked the crowd, "Who touched me?" The woman confessed that it was she, told Him the whole truth and fell to the ground before Him. "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease." In the meantime, a messenger from Jairus' home came with the news that his daughter had already died. "No need to trouble the teacher any further." Jesus overheard what was said and assured Jairus, "Do not fear, only believe." Leaving the crowd behind, taking only a few followers along to Jairus' home, Jesus went in, took the young girl by the hand and commanded her to get up. She immediately got up and began walking about.
When angels appear to people...very often the first words they speak are, "Don't be afraid." To me, that's like "step one." The first thing we need to do.
Frightening things happen...I know that. People often become anxious when they aren't certain what's coming up next for them. Will they have a job? Will there be enough money to pay the bills? Will they be able to stay in their home? Will they be healed of their disease? Will they ever really feel happy again? Will their kids be okay?
Right now, things in my own little world are up in the air. I don't know what waits around the corner for us. Many changes...that much is for sure! (And I'm not all that fond of change.) Perhaps that's why the Holy Spirit is speaking to me each week...saying "Don't be afraid...only believe."
My absolute favorite Bible passage to keep in mind is from Philippians chapter four; "The Lord is at hand. Have no anxiety about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made know to God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
To that...I say AMEN!

Fire In The Hole

I'd wager that most everyone who has made spaghetti and toasted garlic bread for dinner...has at least once burned the bread. I admit, I have been guilty of extra-toasty garlic bread on several occasions. I was told long ago that eating burnt toast curls your hair...or puts hair on your chest. (Depending on who I listened to.) I know for a fact...neither of those statements are true.
Anyway...guess what we had for dinner last night...that's right...spaghetti and toasted garlic bread! The spaghetti sauce was simmering, the pasta was boiling...everything was looking...and smelling...great. I buttered up the sour dough bread and sprinkled it with garlic salt...turned on the broiler and popped it in the oven...on the top rack...door ajar. So far...so good. Mom was already seated at the table...waiting for her dinner. I gathered up the dog dishes so I could feed the dogs before we all sat down to our dinner.
We have one of those "galley kitchens." Long and narrow. It is affectionately known as a "Five Butt Kitchen"...but all of the butts have to be in a row. If you open the dishwasher, oven or fridge...or a drawer for that matter...no one can get by.
Now I'm not sure what exactly happened...if I had too much wiggle in my walk, or if I bent down to pick up something...but my booty bumped the oven door and smacked it closed. And I didn't give it a second thought. That is...until I smelled the smoke as I came back into the kitchen after feeding the dogs.
When I opened the oven door...smoke poured out. That oven was smoking more than our Traeger smoker! I've never seen so much smoke. Mom was in the dining room shouting "What's going on?" I shut the oven door quickly and turned on the exhaust fan. Jeff came rushing in the kitchen...grabbed a couple of potholders and pulled the rack out of the oven, with the flaming...yes flaming...garlic bread on top. He carried it out to the back yard and set it on the patio. In the meantime...of course our smoke alarm in the hallway is going off. "Beeep, beeep! Evacuate, evacuate! Smoke in the hallway, smoke in the hallway! Beeep, beeep! Evacuate, Evacuate! Smoke in the hallway, smoke in the hallway!" The dogs are running around in a panic and mom is totally disturbed. I open the front door (trying to get a breeze to blow through...and turn on the big box fan by the back door, trying to blow more of the smoke out of the house. Jeff is fanning the smoke alarm, trying to get it to stop screaming. Just then the smoke alarm in the basement started going off! (I guess my big box fan was not only blowing smoke outside...but also down into the basement.) I'm telling you...there was a lot of smoke. In fact...I think I heard the neighbor's smoke alarms going off. I'm really surprised no one down the street called the fire department.
Once things quieted down...and aired out a bit...I gave it another shot. I buttered up some more bread...sprinkled a little garlic salt on it...and put it under the broiler. Only this time...I watched it...like a hawk. Never taking my eyes off of it. It turned out okay. I would have liked it better if it were a little toastier...but I wasn't taking any chances...it was the end of the loaf.
Tonight we're having BLTs for dinner. Maybe I should refresh my memory on how to best deal with grease fires.

Bobble Head

I guess I've been a bobble head most of my life. Not all of the time of course...just when there's music playing.
Saturday morning, Jeff and I were having breakfast at our favorite place...Sckvonnes. Unlike some restaurants, the background music there is totally unpredictable. Sometimes it's oldies, sometimes soft classic rock. Once in a while it's someones personal "garage band" recording...and occasionally it will be some middle eastern instrumental music. I think it might be chosen by whoever got to the CD player first...the cook...the waitress...the dishwasher. That's how it was in most of the restaurants I worked in. (One time I worked with this one dishwasher who only liked polka music. I listened to more polkas in the short time that we worked together, than ever in my life!) Anyway...this past Saturday it was early Beatles songs. In no time at all, Jeff and I were both swaying back and forth like a pair of metronomes. Our heads tipping to the left and to the right to the beat of the music. When the music stopped...we too were still. When the next song came on...so did we. Both of our heads bopping side to side. It was just an automatic response.
That got me wondering....when was it that my head stopped bopping side to side...and started bopping up and down? When did I stop being a side to side bobble head...and switch to being a head banging up and down bobble head? With a puzzled look on my face, I asked Jeff if he knew the answer. He was taking a drink of coffee at the time and I thought it was going to come spurting out his nose! When he quit laughing, he replied, "Whenever you started listening to Ted Nugent and AC/DC." He's right. That was it. They are definitely not side to side bobble head bands.
When our waitress came to the table with our food, I said, "We were just noticing that once upon a time...a long time ago...our heads bopped side to side with our music of choice...and then somewhere along the line, we switched to the head bopping up and down music...like this..." (And I demonstrated for her some mild head banging.) She said, "Oooh...I like the side to side bopping much better. The other would give me a headache." I'm guessing she's the one who got to the CD player first.
I wonder what will be playing there next time....

Comfort

I am all about comfort. Having been on the plump side all of my life, one of my personal descriptions of myself is that I am "built for comfort...not speed." This is evident by the fact that our 55 pound puppy, Becca, thinks I make a perfect pillow for napping on...as does our old cat, Buster. Thinking back now, I remember being referred to (on a couple of occasions) as a person who makes others around me feel comfortable too...like an old sofa. Funny.
In an online class I took last summer called "Practicing Spirituality During Illness" one of the lessons was about finding a source of comfort. The practice for that day was to recall a place where you were comfortable and to write about it. And then in moments of stress/distress...to close your eyes and picture yourself back there. Breathe deeply and go back to that moment of comfort and peacefulness. Today I will share what I wrote in my journal on that day.

Sources of Comfort
Stretched out on an air mattress, the warm sun on my back, my arms dangling in the cool waters of Lake Merwin and doing absolutely nothing. Laying on my back, fingers interlocked behind my head, watching the clouds drift by on a summer's afternoon. Snuggling down in a warm sleeping bag, under the stars on a cool clear night. Leaning up against a driftwood log, watching the ocean waves. Standing near the base of a waterfall, with the mist spraying my face. Sitting around a campfire with friends late at night, singing and sharing stories. Sleeping under the Christmas tree while it's lights twinkle above me.
These are all places which have given me great comfort...repeatedly over the years. I see now, as I look at them, that although they involve many of my senses...they also, for the most part, require me to be still. I think of my sister's favorite Bible verse, "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalms 46:10)
The person who has given me the most comfort, and continues to do so now...is my husband. He has never asked me to "be more______" or "not be so ______." At night when we turn in, I am comforted by his presence, his willingness to listen if I need to talk, by his support and love. I am blessed.

Honor Your Father and Mother

As a child I thought that the commandment "Honor your father and mother." really meant "Obey your father and mother." (And remember to make/give them a gift or card on Father's Day and Mother's Day!) If you did those two things...you had it covered.
Growing older, I see this commandment in a whole different light. It is more than obeying or paying tribute to. It's about respecting your parents. (Which doesn't mean that you have to agree with them...but allow them to have and express their own opinions.) There were many years where I found it hard to accept that my parents had the right to express their thoughts and feelings. (They were my pre-teen and early teenage years.) My parents were pretty liberal. Okay...they were very liberal...and I was not. They held "sensitivity group sessions" in our home every Sunday evening. People came over, sat around and drank pots and pots of coffee and discussed their personal problems and the community's problems. "Games People Play" was a popular book at that time...and the lingo from the book was used constantly. It was a bit much for me...at the time. Looking back...I see that those groups served a purpose...they fulfilled a need. They provided a support system for that group of people...and a safe outlet for their frustrations. No one was judged there. I see those Sunday night group sessions in a whole new light now. Kudos to dad and mom for opening their home every week...even when they were worn out themselves.
Honoring our parents also means that we should respect their wishes...even when they are not able to express them any longer. For instance...I know mom wanted to live here in her home until she was "carried out feet first." I am doing my best to make that happen.
On many occasions, I have commented on what a blessing it has been for me to be able to stay home and take care of mom during her last moments here on earth. I consider it an honor to be able to care for her, as she has cared for me and my family in the past. I know many children who would like to do the same for their parents...but are not able to. Even though it's hard sometimes and frustrating at other times...I am so thankful to be here tending to her needs.
The other day I was having lunch with a prayer group from the Oromo congregation that meets in our church. They hold a prayer service every Saturday and each month while I am at the Children's Clothes Closet I hear them praying in the next room. Both of our activities end at the same time and each month they invite me to join them for lunch. I always decline because I need to get home and relieve our respite caregiver. That particular day, my brother was with mom...so I had a little extra time to spare. As we ate, most of the group talked among themselves in Oromo. I had no idea what they were talking about. The young girl next to me thanked me for joining them. I explained why I was finally able to do that...and she asked me, "How can you stay home and take care of your mother? In Ethiopia, it is a given that families take care of their parents in their homes, but I thought that most Americans did not do that." I told her how I was already living with mom and that we have a great relationship. I also told her that I had married recently and my husband agreed to support me in this endeavor. He works hard, plus we don't have a mortgage payment, car payments or any huge loans to pay off. I closed with my usual..."It's been a blessing...truly an honor for me to be able to do this." The girl replied, "You are obeying God's commandment, 'Honor your father and mother'." I had never thought of that before. I found it very interesting.
By "honoring" my mother...I myself feel honored! Think about that for a moment. And about how many other ways God works out things like that in our lives.
By blessing others...we are truly blessed. Time and time again!

Some Things Never Change

I attended the funeral of an old co-worker and friend yesterday. I had worked with her and her daughter Judy, for about 25 years. They were the opening/lunch cooks at the same restaurant where I was the opening/lunch waitress. I referred to them as the "Judy & Ruthie Show." Both women were such hard workers, it was a pleasure to work with them.
All ten surviving children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there. Also in attendance were six members of the Wachsmuth family. (The family who owned and operated the restaurant where we worked together.) Also there was Ruthie, the head waitress who trained me. I was the last waitress she trained. Ruthie is 92 now.
Being with this group of people really took me back in time. So much is different...and yet...some things are just the same. Once strong and quick moving, Ruthie now uses a walker to help her get around. The Wachsmuth "boys" (now in their 60's) each took one of Ruthie's arms and helped her up the hill to the grave site as I tagged along behind toting her walker. After the service, when they were ready to drive Ruthie back home, she pulled me close and asked, "So kiddo...how's your mom?" Looking into her now cloudy blue eyes I replied, "She's getting weaker...but she's doing okay." (My pat answer to that question.) I remember when those cloudy eyes were clear and sparkly. When she would pull out her little note pad from her pocket and read off our side work for the day. "Carolyn and Anneliese...shrimp, Gretchen...lemons, Debbie...plate detail." Plate detail. What could that mean? It meant that I was to wash the several hundred plates that adorned the walls of the restaurant. Climbing up on chairs, using mild soap and water...washing and drying them, one small section at a time. On my first day, Ruthie had me carry stew bowls filled with water. For at least an hour. I practiced carrying them and setting them down on the tables. Over and over again. Once she felt I was doing okay with the water, Ruthie gave me one table. One "two top." The first guy who sat there ordered oyster stew. Okay. I brought it to him...no problem. The next guy who sat at my table also ordered oyster stew. And the third guy...and the fourth. When my fifth customer came in and ordered clam chowder...I was thrilled! Wow! Something different! (Same bowl, same stew pot, just filled with chowder base instead of oysters.) When one of the other girls asked Ruthie how she thought I was doing, her reply was, "A new broom always sweeps clean." I tried very hard to impress her. And in the end, I believe I did. Many times as we were "in the weeds" (extra busy during the lunch rush) and we were standing in the stew line waiting for our turns to have the boss fill our stew bowls...she would turn to me and say, "All this...and heaven too!"
It's been over 20 years since we had all worked together. Ruthie retired after putting in 50 years at the Oyster Bar. The boys still go to her home and visit with her...sometimes helping with the yard work. Their relationship was more than employer/employee. She had worked for their grandfather and their fathers...before she worked for them. In fact...she loved to talk about how she used to change their diapers when they were babies. (Which put me in a tough spot when she told me to do one thing and then they would tell me to do something quite different. Who should I listen to? The one who was in charge long before they were even born...or the one who signed my paycheck?)
So much has changed since those days. Time has flown. The next generation has taken over the business...and very few of us "old girls" are still around. We had been a great team. Helping each other over some rough spots. Both personally and professionally. Seeing the boys stepping up to bring Ruthie to the service, helping her up to the grave site, watching Judy insist that Ruthie sit next to her in the front, me standing behind them as backup...surrounded by the rest of the family...I realize that some things don't change. We still are a great team.