A Soft Place to Fall

I stop by to check on Meems every day.  Most days I find her parked in front of the TV in the common room sleeping.  Sometimes, she's asleep in front of a window.  Macular degeneration has robbed her of idle pleasures like watching Lifetime movies and working jigsaw puzzles.  Sleep makes hours go by.

She can't see who I am until I'm right next to her.  I tap her leg gently and lean my face towards hers.  Her eyes slowly open, and then, her face slowly blossoms into the most beautiful smile.  Melts my heart every time.

"You came to see me, " she'll say.  

"Yep.  I was missing you, so I came by for a hug," I'll say.

"I'm glad you're here," she'll say.

"Me, too," I'll say.

These visits with my sweet, tender mother who gives love pats while she hugs have become my soft place to fall.  Life is very uncomplicated in her world.  My world swirls with emails, phone calls, and people.  Her world is quiet and peaceful.

I pull her wheelchair up close to my chair so that we can hold hands during my visit or she can pat on me.  She tells me a bit about her day.  Bingo.  Fun and Fitness.  Someone came and played the piano.  For my mother who once lived life in technicolor, the pace of her new residence is perfect.  The clock ticks slowly.  Meals are served at 8AM, noon, and 5PM.  

"It's almost dinnertime," she'll say.  

"It's only 4 o'clock," I'll say.

"I like to get there early," she'll say, "Will you roll me to the table before you leave?"

Sitting there at her place at the table for an hour is comforting to her.  Breaks my heart a little bit every time.  But, she is content.  

Every day she says, "They take good care of me here." And, that makes me feel content.  They brush her hair.  They help her apply her favorite coral lipstick.  They spritz her with perfume.

Grateful doesn't even begin to describe how I feel.

I consider this time with her an undeserved blessing from God.  Many of my friends have lost their parents.  Some are dealing unpleasant issues involved in caring for aging parents.  And, the issues are many.  Among my many blessings is the fact that she has aged with a sweet disposition.  My dad was a whole different story.  His passing was like a huge burden lifted off my shoulders.  He was unhappy all day every day and very vocal about his circumstances.  I've learned that a good disposition is a gift you give to your children.

Gosh, I'm making myself cry right now.  Guess I'd better head over to Meems' for some huggin' and pattin'.  Come join me.  However, I must give you fair warning.  You will leave her presence feeling sleepy and relaxed.  Very, very sleepy.  Tenderly relaxed.

Death by Catfish

Imagine, if you will, a tiny grandmother.  A tiny grandmother ready for bedtime at 7PM all snug in her nylon coral nightgown, matching coral slippers and favorite well-worn cornflower blue bathrobe with a missing belt loop.  On this particular evening you can hear the soft shh-shh-shh of her slippers as the sweet grandmother, still perfumed with roses from showering with 10-year-old "good soap," crosses the linoleum towards the cozy sitting area of her kitchen with its pale yellow painted 1970's wood paneling to settle in for the evening. 

In this little kitchen haven there is a prissy yellow floral loveseat - covered, mind you, with white throws purchased not for warmth, but instead, but specifically for the protection of the fabric of the prissy yellow floral loveseat.  There are rules, people.  One simply does not sit on the actual fabric of a couch or chair.  Fabric-sitting is a special honor bestowed on guests over the age of 18 who are NOT consuming messy food items or red beverages.   This "lovelyseat" is flanked on either side by white wicker armchairs with matching yellow floral seat cushions (protected by pink bath towels) and pillows.

This tiny grandmother sits not on the custom, decorator furniture.  Noooooo.  Instead, she heads toward her TV chair, a random, uncomfortable by the lowest standards, wicker armchair proudly purchased half-price on the 3rd day of some estate sale.  The Hobby Lobby floral chair pad situated on the stepchild chair doesn't match the other neatly covered furniture in the room.  It bears no pink towel protection.  Half-price Hobby Lobby pillows don't get no respect.

The TV chair is placed strategically 2 feet in front of the boxy 32" Sony Trinitron.  It is here that the dainty grandmother with waning eyesight sits leaning slightly forward intent on the glowing screen.  Is she watching HGTV or something on the food channel?  

Nope.  RIVER MONSTERS.  This tiny grandmother, Meems, is an avid fan.

Meems has an ever-dwindling repertoire of bits of stories, and she interjects them randomly into casual conversation.  Her lastest include:  "Stop Light Winker" (a tale of love that began with a wink from a stranger), "Bear Attacks: Is Playing Dead the Best Defense?" and, "Death by Catfish."

The "Death by Catfish" Tale in its Entirety and I Quote

There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV.

The End

Sample Catfish-Infested Conversation:

Person:  It sure has been windy the past few days.

Other Person:  Yeah, it sure has.  I think that a cold front is moving in.

Person:  Really?  When is...

Meems (interrupting):  There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV.

Just the other day when I was visiting Meems, a caregiver stopped me to inquire about man-eating catfish.  Meems' ears pricked up, and she took it from there.  "There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV."

This morning at 4:45 I woke up thinking about the girl, the canoe and the catfish.  So, I rolled out of my warm bed and headed to the computer to google up some truth.  I found this:  GIANT MAN-EATING CATFISH FINALLY CAUGHT IN MEKONG RIVER.  Take a look.  There are pictures.  Then, scroll down to the bottom of that page.  Note the click-bait: ISRAEL: CASE OF VIRGINAL CONCEPTION BAFFLES DOCTORS AND SCIENTISTS;  REMAINS OF NAZI OFFICER FOUND INSIDE 100 YEAR OLD GIANT CATFISH; and BRAZIL: FAN KILLED BY POLICE FOR BRINGING PEPSI BOTTLE TO WORLD CUP GAME.  It all sounds pretty legit.

I know what you're mumbling.  I already did.  Snopes says nope.  No man-eating catfish.  No girl-in-canoe-eating catfish.  I imagine that the girl in the canoe was munching on fried catfish and choked on a bone.  The end.

The Balloon Volleyball Champ-E-Yun

Balloon volleyball is hands down the Meems' favorite pastime.  She became an aficionado back in the late 90's during the weeks on end she spent in the Baylor Hospital Bone Marrow Transplant unit with my sister, Kathy.  Once a week, the activities specialist would arrange the patients (most in wheelchairs) in a circle and instruct them to keep the balloon in the air as long as they could.  They would count it out...one!...two!...three!...  "Let's try to beat our record of 30!  Can you guys hit it 35 times without letting it drop to the ground?!"  

My sister was too weak to scratch her nose much less put some muscle behind whacking a balloon.  Mom, on the other hand, played vigorously by Kathy's side.  I attributed Mom's enthusiasm for the "sport" to the sheer boredom she experienced day in day out rarely seeing the light of day as she sat by Kathy's side.  Seriously, balloon volleyball and the Thursday ice cream sundae party were the highlights of her weekly existence.  

This afternoon, I challenged Meems to a savage game of volleyball with the balloon that the occupational therapist left in her room.  Her eyes lit up as she accepted the challenge.  We batted the Happy Birthday balloon back and forth for a bit before she held on to the balloon and slowly leaned towards me.  I slowly leaned towards her because the "lean in" is usually accompanied by some random little juicy tidbit she needs to tell me.

This is where I need you to envision sloth-like slowness.  S.    L.    O.    T.    H.    -    L.    I.    K.    E.    S.    L.    O.    W.    N.    E.    S.    S.

Tidbit 1:  "I was in pain every day while I was pregnant with you."  [sloth pause - I know that there's more coming because she's still leaning in.]  "The minute you were born, I felt better." 

Tidbit 2:   "We were camping and they shot some cannons to scare the bears."  She just left that nugget hanging there.  [I was there when it happened.  Let me just say this about that.  The park rangers should have been ashamed of themselves for not posting signs to warn innocent campers that they would be awakened in the night by what sounded like gunshots.  Ashamed, I tell you!]

In the middle of a long successions of volleys, she quietly said, "Try hitting it with just your left hand."  [sloth pause]  "I'm going to use both of mine."  She plays dirty.

Tidbit 3:  "If you see a bear, you're supposed to lie down and play dead."

Our longest volley was 57 balloon hits.  According to Meems, she and the OT had only gotten to 35 during her last therapy session.

Tidbit 4:  "Balloon volleyball is a good workout."  [sloth pause]  "You should play it every day to lose weight."  I would have to play all day every day with a Balloon Volleyball World Champ to see any such loss of weight.

Tidbit 5:  "Wanda just had one labor pain, and then Sherry was born.  And, she only had one child."  

Tidbit 6:  "There was a woman on a farm that just dropped a baby.  I'll bet that hurt."  When questioned, Meems clarified that the woman didn't drop her baby like a sack of potatoes.  She gave birth to the baby.  You know...dropped it.

We played volleyball for 20 minutes.  It was then time for her to roll to the dinner table.  I could have played for another hour just to hear her interesting random tidbits.  I take great delight in hearing the thoughts that bubble up from her dimming mind.  It's like looking into a box of faded pictures.  You can remember that there were vivid colors, sights and sounds that day.  But, memory fades.

As I was leaving, she leaned in one last time.  "You don't have to come visit me every day,"  [sloth pause]  "but, I'd be disappointed if you didn't."  

I wouldn't miss these visits for the world.  
     A.  I apparently need the exercise.  
     B.  I might miss a juicy tidbit.
     C.  I need all the reminders I can get about Bear Safety.

Forever Nathaniel

Yesterday was one of my favorite days.  Meems was in rare form.  Most days, she's really drowsy and offers quiet one word answers.  "Good."  "Fine."  Then, there are the days when she's wide-eyed, smiling, and yackety-yack-yacking.  When I see those bright blue eyes shining at me, I know we're in for a joy ride of crazy-talking and laughter.  

Unfortunately, this gaiety comes with a price.  It usually signals the presence of some sort of infection in her body or a tiny blip in electrical activity in her brain.  So, I mustn't neglect the fact that somethin' ain't right.  Once infections are ruled out, fingers point towards her progressing dementia - "good days and bad days."

So, yesterday.  I walked into the rehab facility where Mom is trying to master her healing broken hip and saw her sitting alone in her wheelchair at one of the dining tables.  She was ready for lunch.  It was 11:10.  Lunch is at noon.

I walked up and gave her my usual greeting, "Hey!"  Her face lit up with a smile that was nothing short of radiant.  Her gray-blue eyes sparkled as she returned my "Hey!"  

Me:  You look ready for lunch!

Meems:  I am, but I'm not going to eat much because if I open my mouth too wide, I might throw up.

Me:  That doesn't sound good...

Meems:  It's not.  I have to be very careful.  Where did YOU sleep last night?

Me:  At home.  In bed.  With Alan.  My husband.  What about YOU?  Where did YOU sleep last night?

Meems:  In my bed.  Did anybody sleep with me?

Me:  Lord, I hope not.  

Mom [pointing at a nearby CNA]:  What's his name?  He's really sweet to me!

I had to repeat his name several times because she just couldn't quite pronounce it.  

Me:  Demus.  DEEEE MUS.  D-E-M-U-S.

Mom:  Oh!  Like NicoDEMUS.

Me:  Yes.  But. It's just DEMUS.

Mom:  Where did he sleep last night?

One day when I was there during a time of bright-eyed confusion, she suddenly went from smiling to an unseen somber place.  She leaned over towards me and in a low voice asked, "Are things better at home?"  I asked her what she meant.  "You know.  The 'situation.'"  I probed her a bit to see what situation she might be thinking of.  I couldn't for the life of me think of a concerning situation in my household.  She grinned slightly and said, "I think you know what I mean."  Then, leaning closer she whispered, "Has Alan cried yet?"  She spent the rest of the afternoon probing into my "situation."  "Do the boys know?"  "Have you told anybody else?"  I still get cold chills thinking about it.  And, I still have no idea.

Yesterday was great.  No cryptic questions or knowing glances.  She was just wanted to know where everyone had slept the night before.  For some reason, she was really fascinated with the CNA, Demus.  I had to repeat his name to her 142 times.  "What's his name?  I already forgot."  She told me that she likes Demus because he's big and strong and never drops her (when transferring her from wheelchair to bed...).  He's a big ol' boy, and she has grown to trust him.  

She has renamed him "Nathaniel."  I think that she went to "NicoDEMUS" and took a left turn wandering towards the "N-A" baby names or something.  She never forgets his name now.  For she has dubbed him Nathaniel and forever Nathaniel it will be.

...................

Mom's orthopedic surgeon is pleased with the way her hip is healing.  For the first time in 5 weeks, she can begin to bear 50% weight on it.  She should be out of rehab in the next week or so.

In Which Meems Breaks Her Hip

The home phone jolted me awake at 11:30 last night.  Caller ID:  Wilshire Place.  That's where Meems lives.  They've been calling often lately.  "Your mom slipped out of bed, but she's fine."  This time the news was more complicated.  Mom fell and was in pain.  Her leg was twisted at a weird angle.  Ugh.

The night staff put Mom on the phone.  Quietly and calmly she murmured, "I think I broke something."   Indeed, she did.  According to her PCP, "She broke the hell out of her hip."  

The surgery didn't last long, and the surgeon said that they were able to get plenty of rods and pins in there to keep her together.  Her femur is now fortified with a metal rod.  A long metal rod.  The recovery will be long and painful.  

She's really groggy this evening.  However, she ate a big supper.  "Did I miss breakfast and lunch?"  Yup.  You did.

Before they took her to the surgical floor, she slowly opened her eyes and asked me what she should wear to surgery.  I told her that the lovely green dress she was wearing would be just fine.  When the guys came to transport her, she asked them if she would have to walk to the OR.

This evening as she was becoming more aware, she looked at me and said, "We got a good nap, didn't we?"

Thank you, God, for little bits of humor during this long day.  You know how humor centers and comforts me.  You know the way to my heart.  Amen.

Blessed

I swear it was was 105 degrees in the shade.  If she said it once, she said it 20 times.  "I'm hot."  "Well, Mom, you're the one that wanted me to take your Christmas card picture in JULY."  "I know."

For months (i.kid.you.not.) she had been asking, "When are you going to take my Christmas card picture?"  I kept putting it off.  "Mom, it's 10 months until Christmas."  "I know.  But, I like to put them in the mail the day after Thanksgiving."  It became the dripping faucet in my mind.  drip.  drip.  drip.  drip.  So, on a blazing July afternoon, I called her and said, "Today is Christmas Card Picture Day.  Are you ready!?"  She was very ready.

Coming up with Christmasy clothes in July was a bit of a challenge.  I quickly decided that her blue blouse would suffice if I covered it up with a Christmasy pashmina.  Walking through the living area of the memory care unit loaded down with Christmasy pashminas, I offered explanations to the staff members we encountered - the residents saw nothing out of the ordinary.  "It's Christmas Picture Day.  She likes to send her cards out the day after Thanksgiving.  Therefore, she wants me to take the picture in July."  Polite smiles and understanding nods followed our parade.

The spacious memory care courtyard wraps around the building with a sidewalk that meanders along beckoning 80-somethings to exercise in the great outdoors.  There are flowerbeds along the way filled with random greenery and a few flowering plantings.  The one thing missing was shade.  I improvised by shoving Meems' walker up under an overgrown crepe myrtle and then helping her navigate with baby steps the 3 feet from the sidewalk across bumpy mulch to our makeshift photo booth.  "I'm hot."  She held on to me for dear life urging me to not to let her fall.  "I won't drop you, Mom!  I hate sleeping on hospital room chairs."  "I'm hot."

Once I had her securely placed on the seat of the walker, I began the task of trying to capture the exact moment when this precious, sweltering 89-year-old was smiling somewhat naturally with her chin tilted at an appropriate angle while keeping her eyes wide open in the glaring sun.  "I'm hot."  She tends to smile with squinted eyes and lift her chin up unnaturally high when a camera points in her general direction.  "I'm hot."  "Well, as soon as you stop showing me the insides of your nostrils, we can get this photo session over with."  Sweat was trickling down the backs of my knees.  "I'm hot."

I tried the red pashmina.  "I'm hot."  The green pashmina.  "I'm hot."   Then, I switched to the fuscia and turquiose pashmina.  It was perfect.  "I'm hot."  "I know, Mom, but don't you want to look Christmasy for your Christmas card?"  "Yes."  "Well, lower your chin and stop squinting so we can get this done!"  "OK."

We ended up on the porch where the shade was deep and cool compared to that of the crepe myrtle.  I got her settled into a chair that sat next to a very un-Christmasy brick wall.  "This is better, but I'm still hot."  Beads of sweat now trickled down my back.  I reached back and tugged my damp blouse away from my skin.  Then, all of a sudden, it happened.  She smiled brilliantly, ducked her chin, and flashed her beautiful blue eyes!  Click!  BOOM!  Done!

In that moment, it was all worth the heat.  The sweat.  The lower-your-chins and open-your-eyes.  The I'm-hots.  I had captured something that I rarely see these days.  My little mother looking vibrant and aware.  My throat tightened with longing for the mother that danced during happy hour at Raider Ranch just the year before.  Then, I "went there" wondering how many more Christmases.  Blinking away tears, I guided her back into the air-conditioned comfort of the building.

The tears were short-lived because once we were inside she asked, "Have you gotten my Christmas stamps yet?"  God, give me patience.  Amen.  "You can go ahead and make the things with my address on them (lost words:  return address labels), but don't do the ones with the people's addresses on them yet.  You never know who will still be alive by the time I mail them."  The day after Thanksgiving.

The Christmas cards, Christmas stamps, and return address labels lived on the lower shelf of her nightstand from August until the first part of November.  Meems felt secure knowing that her greetings would go out in a timely manner.  She became the Master of her Christmas Card Domain.  Peace on Earth.  Finally.

BLESSED.  I am the one who is BLESSED.  Oh, how I am blessed!  I'm looking forward to taking the next Christmas picture for the Meems.  It will be a privilege.  Nay, an honor.

Merry, Christmas dear ones!  You are loved!

"Well."

"Well," Meems said softly.  Just "well."

I called from Florida where Alan and I were attending a wedding to relay the news that one of her BFFs from Waco passed away.

The conversation began with idle chat.

Me:  "Hey!  What have you been up to today?"

Meems:  "Nothing.  We don't have exercise class on Saturday."

Me:  "Did you have a good breakfast?"

Meems:  "Yes."

Me:  "What did you have?"

Meems:  "I don't remember."

Me:  "I have some sad news.  Rachel passed away last night."

Meems:  "Well."

Me:  "She was such a great friend."

Meems:  "Well.  [pause]  She'd been sick."

I have no idea why W.E. is posing behind Meem's
TV which was pushed up against that wall.  "Here,
let's move the TV out and you stand BEHIND IT!"

Meems has a multitude of long time friends.  She's a lover of all people.  People tend to return the favor.  Three of her BFFs in Waco were Lee & W.E. Nelson, and Rachel. (Rachel's the lady in the middle of the middle picture.)  Together they celebrated birthdays, New Years Eves, St. Patrick's Days, Fourth of Julys, and any other days that Meems could find a reason to celebrate.  

Lee passed away several years ago.  W.E. soon followed.  Meems moved to Raider Ranch in Lubbock, and Rachel moved to a place in Austin to be near her daughter.

Faithfully, Meems (with the help of her Lubbock BFF, Leonard) called to check on Rachel once a week.  I would get the reports.  "Rachel is doing fine.  She said to tell you 'hi!'"  "Rachel has been sick lately."  "Rachel has congenital [sic] heart failure but said she's OK."  "We haven't been able to reach Rachel on the telephone this week."

I had to compose myself before I made the call to Meems.  I didn't really know Rachel that well because she and Meems became friends after I was married and had moved away.  But, I knew all that Rachel had done for my mother over the years.  

When Rachel cooked a birthday dinner, she made it a birthday feast.  "She had baked chicken, rice, carrots, peas, green beans, a green salad, cole slaw, cake and 2 kinds of ice cream!" Meems would brag.  If Meems had a runny nose, Rachel brought a meal and felt her forehead for fever.  Like Meems, Rachel loved extravagantly. 

I'm not sure how much Meems actually remembers about Rachel.  Her mind is in the process of simplification.  Breakfast.  Check.  Excercise.  Check.  Lunch.  Check.  Afternoon snack.  Check.  Dinner.  Check.  Church on Sunday.  Check.  A dwindling loop of memories plays during our time together.  "I'm SO glad I got that long term health care policy!"  "The preacher that married your daddy and me said I was the prettiest bride he'd ever seen!"  "I used to date a guy who played in a dance band with Tex Beneke."  She added the detail that he was a Filipino sometime this year.  I highly doubt that detail.  It's more likely that his name was Phil Ipino.

Meems is pretty matter of fact about life and death.  It is what it is.  Some people die too young.  Some people live a long, good life.  Either way.  The only time she fears death is when she learns that I'm heading to some beach destination.  "Don't get in the water!!!  Sharks EAT people!"  Either way.  

As a woman of faith, she knows beyond a shadow of a shadow of doubt that there is a New Jerusalem.  When she sees Lee, W.E., and Rachel there, her face will light up and she'll do that funny sideways clap she does - the one where her fingers point in a bit towards her elbows as she awkwardly smacks her palms together.

Rev. 21:1-2  Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth.  The first heaven and the first earth had passed away.  There was no more sea.  I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem.  It was coming down out of heaven from God.  It was made ready like a bride is made ready for her husband.

Thank you, Rachel, Lee, and W.E. for loving my mother like a sister.  She says that she's going to live to be 100 so that she can see her picture on the Smuckers Jar during the Today Show, so it will be a minute til you hear her clapping.  But, boy, will she be clapping!

The Valley of the Jolly

This morning I drove down a street shuffling along amongst the mild traffic.  I was headin' home from an errand.  No big rush.  Red light.  Green light.  Red light.  Green light.  The slow, rhythmic pace of the cars lulled me into a traffic trance which opened a tiny corner of the back of my mind where rarely anything exciting ever happens.  A tiny crevice within a wrinkle of a wrinkle.

Had you been a passenger sitting next to me checking your facebook news feed or texting friends that didn't happen to be sitting 18" away from you, you would have suddenly heard me sing out a random tune.

"From the Valley of the Jolly!"

And, knowing you as well as I do, without even glancing up from your newsfeed you would have responded with a hearty

"Ho-ho-HOOO! GREEN GIANT!"

Hearing no hearty response, my thoughts rounded the corner into Melancholia.  We are raising a generation of children that do not know to sing out

"Ho-ho-HOOO! GREEN GIANT!"

candyfavorites.com
These marshmallow jewels constituted "good" candy because
they were a heck of a lot better than the lukewarm
boiled eggs  that we found in the back yard hiding in
potted plants and the elbows of trees.

Seriously, do they know about him?  Do they?  Do they believe in him like I did?  In my childhood world where a man in a red suit traveled in a sleigh propelled by flying reindeer and a giant Easter bunny hopped silently into our house to tuck individually wrapped "Easter Egg Hunt" eggs between couch cushions and behind chair legs, there was nothing weird about a solid green man wearing a caveman suit made of leaves.  Nothing weird at all.  Beyond a shadow of a doubt, we believed that there was a verdant Valley of the Jolly - Ho! Ho! Ho! - Green Giant.  It was a proven fact.

I have spent the last hour in search of the illusive Giant.  My search would rival any Sasquatch hunt that ever was or ever will be.  And.  What I've found so far is fascinating.  To me.

I won't spoil the joy of the hunt for you.  I'll just share a couple of juicy green nuggets of my discovery.

First, there was the Scary Green Giant commercial that would ensure parents that kids would run and hide under their beds leaving said parents alone on the couch to enjoy a cigarette and the Mickey Rooney Show.

I specifically remember the following commercial because it answered the question, "How do they slice the green beans diagonally?"

"Tender thick-meat beauties."

Before I send you out on your own personal quest to the Valley of the Jolly, I wanted to share with you a coveted item that was owned by my childhood BFF, Kristi.  She sold it a couple of years ago in an estate sale.  Her dad "brought it home from the warehouse" one day.  He worked for a food wholesale company.  Just like that.  "Here's your 4-foot Jolly Green Giant Rag Doll that no one else in the neighborhood will EVER have because their mothers will absolutely not fill out the little coupon and send $3.50 (plus the price of a 4-cent stamp) of their hard-earned money for a big green doll."  If he actually said those words, he was right.  My mom would have looked up from her sponge mop and said, "You've got a birthday coming up in March.  Is that what you want for your birthday?"  I fantasized that Mr. Hook would come driving slowly down Neal Street handing out Jolly Green Giant Rag Dolls From the Warehouse to one and all.  That never happened.

From jclillis.com

I've saved the best for last.  A song.  About the Jolly Green Giant's...love life.  It explains "why thuh cat's so mean."  Asparagus!

Now that I've planted the seed of curiosity in a tiny crevice within a wrinkle of a wrinkle of your brain, I recommend that you begin your quest here:  

Retro Planet

Enjoy the journey.  I'm heading south in search of the Frito Bandito:  The Man.  The Myth. The Legend.

Happy Birthday, Jonakan!

Brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrrrg!

"Hey, Mom!

"I got my haircut today.  Can you come take my picture?"  

(Her voice is tiny.  She couldn't scream out loud if she tried.  I know because from time to time we'll tease her and ask her to scream as loud as she can.  You'd have trouble hearing her in the next room.)

It was early July.  I knew exactly why she wanted me to come take her picture.  One of her latest obsessions has been her Christmas cards.  Yes, she wanted me to come take her CHRISTMAS picture.

It was boiling hot that day.  She was wearing a summer top.  Out we trundled to the courtyard of her memory care unit.  Sitting in the blistering sun, she let me drape different scarves around her neck - red, fuschia & turquoise - to simulate winter attire.  

"I'm hot."

"Mom, it's July."

"I know.  I'm hot."

I got the cutest picture of her!  I told her that it was so cute we could use it for her obituary.

"I'm going to live until I'm 100."

"Yeah, I'll probably be taking at least 11 more Christmas pictures of you.  We might come up with an even cuter one."

"That's right. Heh.  Heh." 

Boom.  Christmas cards!

Her other obsession has been sending a birthday card to her grandson, Jonathan.  In May, she started asking me about sending him a card.  "When are 'we' going to get a birthday card for Jonathan?"  Each of the one hundred times she asked me she said that she didn't want to "forget" his birthday.

Today, at lunch, I brought out a birthday card for her to sign for Jonathan.

"Mom, come sign Jonathan's birthday card, and I'll put it in the mail tomorrow!"

She slowly walked over to the counter to sign the card.  The card for Jonathan.  Her grandson.

"Can I sign Jonakan's card?!"  We don't know why Leonard pronounces Jonathan with a "k."  It actually sounds kind of cool.  Jonakan Skywalker.  We've known Leonard for about 5 years.  Jonakan KNOWS who Leonard is.  Leonard signed his full name.  Ohhhhh.  THAT Leonard.

Then, Nana signed.

Later this afternoon, I noticed how Mom signed the card.  It wasn't until I wrote the note on the left side of the card that I saw Nana's signature.  She is also Jonathan's grandmother.  I attribute the "+" to the fact that she is a retired math teacher.

I just this minute I noticed that I wrote "The Nana" instead of "Then Nana."  Lawdy Mercy, I needs me a keeper.

Over lunch, Mom asked me if I had done the return address labels for her Christmas cards yet.  I told her that I would have them ready on October 2nd (because I'm kind of sassy like that).  She doesn't like for me to print out the address labels until the week before Thanksgiving (she sends her cards the day after Thanksgiving...) because if "we" print them to soon, someone might die.  Instead of "Joe and Jane Doe," "we" would have to reprint it to read "Jane Doe."  Poor Jane.  When you're 89 the timing of printing address labels is very, very tricky. 

Happy 28th Birthday, Jonakan!

Aunt Mom

The Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad Mess

This funny thing happened today over a span of about 10 seconds.  It was like a gentle cool breeze blowing through my bangs on a hot summer day.  The tiniest of mini-vacations.  A joy break.

I had just enjoyed a long lunch with friends who are interesting, funny, and easy-to-be-with.  I stepped out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk and headed towards my car.  About 20 feet  away was a group of ladies lingering in the shade still enjoying their lunchtime conversation.*  

At 20 feet away, I could only hear the soft mumbles of a conversation.  Lady talk.  

At 10 feet away, the conversation exploded with empathic outbursts.  "Oh, my!"  "Oh, my goodness!"  "Oh, no!!"

Just as I walked past the group, the "poor dear" put the cherry on top of the anecdote.

"And, we liked to NEVER got it all cleaned up!"

This declaration was followed by a chorus.  "Well, my goodness."  "Mm.  Mm.  Mm."  "I can't imagine!"

I almost stopped dead in my tracks.  So intriguing was this snippet of conversation that it was all I could do not to turn on my heel to join the friendship circle so that I could learn more about the terrible, horrible, very bad mess.  That would not have been an unusual thing for me to do.  I strike up conversations with strangers in national park bathrooms and in the produce section of the grocery store.

In the 11th second, I decided that not knowing was better.  Without hearing the cause that produced the unfortunate effect which produced the cloud of empathy, I could enjoy the conversation for the rest of the afternoon.  It was a tiny jewel in the palm of my hand.  My imaginaries took hold and began to weave scenarios from multicolored threads of possibilities.  And, I've been thinking about it ever since.  

A frozen turkey had carelessly been dropped from 10 feet above a turkey fryer filled with boiling oil.

Someone started to blend a strawberry smoothie without putting the lid on the blender.  (This came to mind because my youngest son actually did that...one Mother's Day.)

A pack of rambunctious armadillos broke into the house and ransacked the place.

Multiple cats with furball-clogged gullets and diarrhea were left alone in the basement for a weekend.

Twenty-five bored teenaged boys were left alone in a house for 10 minutes.

Red Koolaid spills.  Fingerpaint fiascos.  Playdoh wars.  Millions of legos.  Millions.

Oh, oh!!  It was a party!  A party in which buckets of confetti were showered down upon people that danced in muddy shoes while holding red solo cups filled with red Koolaid.

I didn't even get a good look at the ladies.  They might have been red-headed sisters or nurses in matching scrubs or supermodels in bikinis.  No, wait.  If they had been supermodels in bikinis, I wouldn't have heard a word that was said.  I would have been listening to the loud, insecure dialog raging in my own head.  They were definitely not supermodels in bikinis.  But, this I do know.  The conversation piqued my curiosity and then played with my thoughts for the rest of the afternoon.

Thank you, red-headed sisters.  Or, nurses.  Or, circus trapeze artists.  The pleasure was all mine.

*The best conversations are had in parking lots immediately following 2-hour lunches.  That is a proven fact.

Oops. He Did It Again.

Alan asked me if I could do him a little favor today while he's out and about.  It was a small favor.  When he told me what it was, I guffawed.  GUFF.  AWED.

I followed him to the sun room where he pointed to one of the pear trees in the back yard.

Before I go further, you need to visit or revisit, whichever the case may be, this story about Alan and the B.i.R.d.S.

It took me a minute to find it.  It could have been mistaken for a lovely blue bird.  It wasn't.  GUFF.  AWE.  GUFF.  AWE.

Can you get my shoe out of that tree?  "My shoe" is one of his beloved REI water shoes.  It's hiked The Narrows of Zion National Park and strolled along many a white sandy beach.  It's more than a shoe.  It's a friend.  A friend with holes in it.  A friend that should have been gently deposited in the dumpster a couple of summers ago.  Or set afloat in on a flaming pyre in the Colorado river. 

"Can you see if you can get my shoe down?"  GUFF.  AWE.  (Because that's the kind of supportive wife I am.)

"Nope.  No can do.  That shoe is going to stay right there to serve as a lesson to you."  A lesson in the humane treatment of winged creatures.  "What is so funny?!" he asked.  "It's just soooooo YOU!" I replied.  So very Alan.

That's all I have to say about that.  That's a flat out lie.  I have so much more to say, but out of love and respect for the Bird Man...  GUF.  FAW.