July in California—Family Gatherings

July only seems like ages ago because so much has happened since. My camera is the best indicator. I've taken over 2,500 photos since then. No, I'm not going to share them all. Don't you feel lucky? Here are some of my treasures, though, and a short slide show of moments and memories we shared.

We arrived in California on the Fourth of July and our first stop was at Aunt Lisa's home in Simi Valley. She's our Ruth's sister, Aunt to our grandchildren. We shared a pot luck and went on to their church's big grassy yard to watch the children play until the fireworks started. There were the requisite oohs and aahs, of course, and then we split up for our own beds. It was the first time we'd met our newest Grandson, Aiden. It had also been ages since we'd enjoyed a face to face visit with our granddaughters or our youngest son Ben and his wife Ruth. Simply put, it was a splendid evening together.

The week had a couple of other events I'll share. Beach day was a special memory. I know, I don't much care for the beach, even though I love the ocean. I just don't love the sand. It's hard to walk on and gets everywhere you don't want it to be. It's fun to watch the kids play in it, though, and I think you can do anything with grandchildren and have a blast.

The other really special day was visiting Great Grandma Zimmerman, my mom. Papa John spent most of the time we were there in another room. His eyes were bothering him, and the flash of the camera was upsetting him, so he didn't get in any photos that day. I'm more sorry about that than I can express, especially since he's gone now. The pictures we got were wonderful, though, and I'll share those. The girls loved picking oranges from Great Grandma's trees.

Finally, if you have time, I put togethe

r a little slideshow. This one isn't too long. As I progress through our European holiday later in the coming weeks, they might get out of control, but for now I'm using restraint.

Are We There Yet?

As difficult as this trip has been, there have been bright spots of joy blended into the mix. I'll begin with those, then explain the current predicament and when we plan to return home.

We've spent time with our youngest son, his beautiful wife and their children—our grandchildren. I got real giggles from Aiden when I called him a "cheap date" at the frozen yogurt store. We met up there for an evening treat. Grandpa decided to buy for everyone, but Aiden is only four months old. He didn't get any. He was happily watching everyone enjoying their choices when I told him he was a cheap date, and he must have thought that was the funniest thing I had ever said. Laughing babies are such a blessing. Granddaughters enjoying frozen desserts are, as well.

It was more fun with a cold delicious bowl than I ever remember having before. By the way, I chose banana with miniature Reece's Cups on the top. From my point of view, it was perfect. We went from there to Target, where we walked around and the girls got to pick out their new backpacks and lunch boxes. They both wanted the same ones, so Ruth is going to have fun making sure each girl gets the right bag and box when it's time to leave home. Maybe she'll put names on them. Disney Princess bags and Tinkerbell lunch boxes won the competition in both little hearts.

Yesterday morning the local theatre had a free showing of How to Train Your Dragon. Neither of the girls had ever been to a show in public before, although they watch movies at home with the family. They did beautifully. John and I joined them, and Ben bought a huge bag of popcorn to share. It was a movie John and I had seen before, but it was much more fun with the girls. I was amazed at just how respectful and quiet they were. Kate isn't three yet. Ashley is just four. I figured their first trip to the movies would entail some hushed whispering about behavior. It never needed to happen.

Some memories are worth more than gold. Near the end of the movie, when things were getting really exciting, Kate reached up and kissed my cheek. I looked over and she smiled at me. I held out my arms and she climbed on my lap for the last ten or so minutes of the film. It reminds me of that wonderful old hymn... "Precious memories, how they linger. How they ever flood my soul."

These moments have kept us sane. We return to the home where my mom is dealing with deterioration and dementia. My step father is not doing well. It appears he has had new small strokes that effect his balance, and he can no longer walk properly. He keeps falling and wants no one to help but her. She can no longer leave the house. He won't cooperate with anyone else. He barely eats. Doesn't want the walker. Refused assistance from the nurses (2) and physical therapist who have come to the house to help Mom.

It's been a nightmare for her, and an exercise in frustration and patience for us. We can keep her grocery list filled. I can change her bandage twice a day while she heals from her surgery. I make sure she's not spending her energy on cooking or clean-up. I can lend an ear and a shoulder to lean on. What needs most to be done is beyond me. I cannot make her see the need for him to be in a care facility. I can't show her how emotionally fragile she's become without upsetting her more.

Big brother to the rescue. We'll leave for home Sunday after church. Pat and his wife will arrive Sunday afternoon. Already I know we've stayed beyond what is wise. I run out of my medications five doses before arriving home. It's the seizure medication that worries me most. I'll call my neurologist today and see if he can phone in a small prescription to get us home. The blessing, all problems aside, is knowing Pat & Betty will be here to support Mom. You can get a clear image of them. Think salt of the earth.

We can head for home knowing Mom won't be left alone to make impossible decisions.

Caretakers Have it Tough

Until you're in the same house for days at a time, it's impossible to realize how very difficult it is to be caretaker for a loved one who has dementia. There are the obvious problems, but there are hidden ones as well.

If you try to explain something to them and go beyond two sentences, they cannot remember the first sentence when you get to sentence three. Neither do they care. Trying to have a serious discussion with someone who sits there grinning at you with a "talk to the hand" look on his face makes me want to scream and slap. You can't do that. It wouldn't help anyway. It wouldn't work with a two year old, and it wouldn't work with a 97 year old with dementia.

The current crises, and of course we're having one or I wouldn't be up at 5 a.m. writing, should be classified as, "I won't do that. People will think I'm old." Again, when you're 97, why would you care? Your years should be counted as memories or milestones, badges of honor. Not demerits. He's decided that he can't use a cane. Physical progression of age has determined that he cannot walk without it. He grips walls and furniture as he makes his way through the rooms. Walls work quite well. Furniture tips over, pulling him down and crashing on top of him.

He's a big guy, well over six feet tall. My mom is about five foot two. She can't pick him up. He refuses help from anyone else. He has fallen three times in the last two days. Each time he swears at my husband, who "must have pushed me." After all, it has to be someone's fault, and can't be his. He won't allow my big strapping husband to assist him from the floor. He wants my little mother to do it.

On Monday she'll call a visiting nurse. She's afraid to take him out of the house without the cane he refuses to use. She can't even continue sending him to the Senior Concerns adult day care center if he can't walk without falling.

We'll be here another five days. It's not enough. She refuses our offer to stay. She needs more support than a visit can provide. No wonder I'm not sleeping. There are no easy answers for a caretaker. Apparently there aren't any for a daughter who lives so far away, either.

A Knitted Sweater Vest for Mom

It's been awhile since I knitted anything with cables. Making this sweater vest for my mom was slightly challenging, but mostly a joy, since I knew she was excited about getting it. Unfortunately, when I finished the front, delighted to have finally finished the basic sweater so I could start on the detail work, which would take me another few days, I noticed that I had twisted one of the cables down near the bottom of the sweater.

It's worse than it sounds. This sweater vest is knitted from the bottom up. Redoing the front would take about a week. I set it aside and went to bed. Some time during the night I woke up, remembering what happens when you drop a stitch and don't catch it in time. The whole thing unravels. It can unravel all the way down a sweater. I got up and looked at the offending garment. The problem was about 190 rows down. The cables twisted every six rows. I went back to bed.

The next morning I looked at it again, then called John over. He was pleased to see that it was off the needles. I laid it out flat and asked if he saw anything strange. He looked about fifteen seconds, then pointed right to the mistake. He tried to convince me that it would just give the sweater "character." I knew it would be the only thing I saw whenever Mom wore it, though. Knowing Mom, she'd be sure to wear it when I was around, just so I'd know my efforts were appreciated. She's like that.

Knowing what I risked if it didn't work (having to redo the entire front) I still decided to try repairing just the cable. I put the other stitches on holders and used a crochet hook to pick out the cable stitches down to the problem area. I didn't cry, but I felt like it. I never did a repair job like that before, and I wasn't at all sure it was going to be successful. 

I figured I'd better take a photo before I started to work on it. I'm not quite sure why, but now that my plan worked, I'm glad I did. I also hope I never have to do such a thing again. It took a day and a half of squeezing the needles and cable hook into the tiny gap and making sure the yarn tension was perfect for each stitch so that it came out evenly on each row. Also, it was great fun constantly having to twist that sweater back and forth, counting to six and double-checking that I was making the cables right each time. I  actually got about a third of the way up when I realized I had started one row off, and the cables didn't quite match the ones on the other side, so I unraveled and began over. Why not?

So now that it's done, I'm satisfied. Do you suppose it was worth it? To me it was. I'm not sure how much Mom would have cared. I'll wash and dry it, since it's a little wrinkled from being crumpled in my lap during the crafting process, but I should get it in the mail this week. I don't think I'll tell her it's done, either. Surprise! I'm hardly ever glad she doesn't have a computer.

The Meaning of Dreams

My mom has started having recurring dreams. This is the second time she's asked me what they might mean, and last time I did some research on the computer, and couldn't find anything that might apply to an 88-year old great grandmother who doesn't do any childcare. Maybe someone who reads this can help.

Some of these dreams are calm, but many of them are terrifying nightmares. They're all about small children. Most of the time she's looking for the little ones. They're either lost or stolen, and she can't find them. Sometimes she sees them in the distance, but no matter how hard she runs, she can't catch them, and they disappear into the distance. Sometimes she can't see them, but can hear them screaming. She says a few of the dreams have had her chasing the kids, and they're running away from her. She's not angry, she's scared, but the children are afraid of her and they don't understand that she's trying to catch them in order to protect them.

Whenever one of these dreams wakes her up, which is now about two to three times a week, she can't get back to sleep. The first time she mentioned it to me was about six months ago, so I think it's gone on long enough. She won't talk to the doctor about it, because she thinks it's "just dumb." 

Anybody have some ideas I can give her? This has really got her spooked.

Perspective

One time my mom didn't kill me (and probably wished she could have) was the first time I remember my creativity getting the best of me. I was probably four or five years old, and decided to cut the grass. 

I went outside, sitting somewhere near our big old willow tree in the front yard, and was amazed at the beauty of the area I was trimming. The grass was lush and soft beneath my small fingers. I carefully held each clump straight up while I trimmed little bunches carefully with Mom's expensive Gingher pinking shears. 

I was very confused when she ran out screaming at me. Why wouldn't she look at the beautiful design in the tops of the little blades of grass? They were all patterned on top, and it looked wonderful—much better than Daddy could do with the mower.

Mom grabbed the scissors from my hand, than picked me up. I held her face in my hands, trying to make her look at what I had done. I pointed at the patch of grass I had finished. As we looked down together, I was shocked to see that from the height she was holding me, it didn't look any different from the rest. Maybe shorter, but that's all. I couldn't get her to kneel down and really look. 

I was crying. She was crying. I'm sure her expensive pinking shears were never the same. I know my day was shot. I had been so proud of myself. My days as a gardener were over before they'd hardly begun. 

I think Mom and I have both learned quite a bit about perspective in the last half century. Although I never left my pinking shears out where the boys could get to them, I tried really hard to get down and see things from their perspective. I also realize that as I grew up, Mom got a lot better with that as well. 

Thank You For Asking

I got an email request for more photos of my new granddaughter, Kate. The request came from Sherm and Ema, good friends who will see that my mom will get to see the photos when they go to the Senior Center to play Bingo today. Kate and her sister Ashley might as well understand right now that their Great Grandma Z doesn't have (and really doesn't want) a computer.

So here are a few pictures of the sisters, my beautiful granddaughter Ashley and her new baby Kate, just home from the hospital. Thanks for the request, Sherm. I hope you all win at Bingo today!

Still Squirming

When I think back on some of my childhood camping experiences, I understand why my sister shakes her head and rolls her eyes, wondering why I love those memories. I really enjoyed myself back then, but it's hard to explain it to other people. Most of those stories are outrageous, and I'm often the butt of the joke.

Daddy didn't think anybody needed an air mattress, even if the ground was covered with rocks. That's why God made little kids: to remove the rocks before the tent is pitched. If you miss any, you deserve to roll over on them. 

He had a good trick. Everybody had to scoop out a little hollow in the dirt where their hips would nestle. That way, while you're lying all cosy in your sleeping bag, your head and shoulders would be higher than your hips, making you much more comfortable. I'm not sure this works. I never seemed to get my hollow in the right place, but I tried.

There was one memorable night when we arrived somewhere, late and tired as usual. We picked rocks and dug our hollows, then erected the tent. Dragging our sleeping bags inside, we preserved our modesty by carefully undressing in shifts. We lay down like sardines in our bags, the night sounds all around us. I rolled around, trying to get my hips in the right place. Dad shut off the lantern. It was dark.

Wiggle, wiggle, squirm. Where is that hole? Swish went the zipper when I had to move it down to readjust myself. My flannel PJs had twisted inside the flannel sleeping bag. Zip. Wiggle. Come on, hole. I know you're there. Squirm. Wiggle. Squirm.

"Kathleen Louise! What are you doing over there?"

"Sorry, Daddy. I keep getting my shoulder caught in my rump hole!"

My mother is particularly fond of telling stories like that. The larger the group, the more likely this story is in making the rounds. Beware of marrying into our family. There are hundreds of stories like this, and you might consider avoiding Thanksgiving dinner until people think you've already heard all of the embarrassing tales from each of your new in-laws... 

Never mind. That will never happen. Besides, Ellen & Johnny host Thanksgiving each year. You really wouldn't want to miss that. And our family will never run out of stories, or care if you've already heard them.

By the time I entered the 10th Grade in high school, we had made seven cross country trips in a station wagon with four kids, two parents and all the camping gear a family could stuff in a small space and load on top of the car. My parents were either noble or nuts. I never did figure out which.

Here's a photo of the four of us at the Grand Canyon. My mother loves to remind us that we fought over comic books that entire trip. She swore she'd never again allow us to have comics in the car. Then she found out how much pain a kid could inflict with a hard back book. 

Trips would have been easier if Daddy had been more willing to stop occasionally. Once he put his foot down on the gas, he hated to lift it up again. Heaven help you if you didn't take care of all your business at the gas stop. We still love to tease Kenny, the youngest, about the time he said he didn't have to use the bathroom until about a half hour down the road. Dad pulled over by the side of the road. 

"Just go behind the bushes!" There might be an expletive deleted in there, but you don't need to know that, do you? 

"But I've got to go number two, Daddy." 

"Too bad, kid. Use the bush. We just left the gas station, and you said you didn't have to go. They had clean restrooms. Now you've got a bush."

He used the bush. Then he stepped in it before climbing back in the car.

Ellen, who always got car sick at the least provocation, proceeded to throw up not much further down the road.

Daddy stopped at the next gas station. It was a long stop. The car got cleaned and aired out. At least we weren't fighting over the comic books.

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

We all suffer through the pangs of making difficult decisions. The path not taken haunts most of us in one form or another. Whoever you would have been if you had taken that other turn, or made that other choice, is never going to exist. That puts a lot of weight on some of our decisions.

Since I opened up the subject of Mom and her poetry readings again yesterday, I'd like to add one of my favorites to the list. I'd hate for it to get lost forever. I know she didn't write it, and I'm not sure anyone knows who did, but she recited it in high school with an Italian accent, one of many she could mimic at that time, along with Finish and Swedish. You'd never guess how shy she is. I could never get her to do this in public now. Maybe she was braver then, or just more comfortable with her high school friends.

Here's the difficult decision of a young Italian man, ready to begin his own family. I've always wondered who he chose. (I hope it was Carlotta.)

Between Two Loves
I gotta love for Angela.
I love Carlotta too.
I no can marry both of them,
So what I gonna do?

Oh, Angela is pretty girl!
She's gotta hair so black, so curl,
And teeth so white as anything!
And oh, she's gotta voice to sing
That make your heart think it must jump
Right up and dance or it will bust!
And all the time she sing, her eyes
They smile just like Italia's skies,
And makin' flirting looks at you.
But that is all what she can do.

Carlotta is no gotta song,
But she is twice as big and strong
As Angela. And she no look
So beautiful—but she can cook!
You ought to see her carry wood;
I tell you what, it do you good.
When she is be somebody's wife,
She work'a hard, you bet my life!
She never getting tired, too.
But that is all what she can do.

Oh, my! I wish that Angela
Was strong for carry wood,
Or Carlotta got a song
And look'a pretty good.
I gotta love for Angela.
I love Carlotta too.
I no can marry both of them
So what I gonna do?

Mama Recited Poetry

Dad didn't always appreciate the poems Mama recited to us kids. The one I remember that made him the most cross was called "When Papa was a Little Boy." Reading it as an adult, I understand exactly why he'd leave the room. I even understand some of what would be happening before she'd start reciting it. It would happen when Daddy would be on one of his perfectionist rampages. That's as good a word as any. I'm positive it was more effective than her yelling at him would have been.

I imagine the poem would fit many a husband and father, but with a little rewording, it would probably fit many women and mothers of today's world as well. Enjoy now a laugh at the expense of our strange family.

When Papa Was A Little Boy

When Papa was a little boy, you really couldn't find
Within the state or anywhere a child so quick to mind.
His mother never called but once and he was always there.
He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair.

He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise;
And never in his life was known to fight with other boys.
He always studied hard at school and got his lessons right;
And chopping wood and milking cows were Papa's chief delight.

He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight,
And never lay abed til noon, and never sat up late.
He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten years old,
And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told.

He never grumbled when he had to do the evening chores,
And ne'er in all his life forgot to shut the stable doors.
He never, never thought of play until his work was done,
And labored hard from break of day until the set of sun.

He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor,
And never answered back his ma, and never banged the door.
"But truly, I could never see," said little Dick Malloy,
"How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

Pancakes and Point

I'm not sure if our family really loved camping, or if it was simply the one thing we could manage to afford to do on vacation. I know I loved camping, but I'm not sure about everyone else. Even camping out would stretch our budget by the time we'd add in the travel costs. By the time Dad retired, we had seen most of the United States and a great deal of Canada as well.

I remember one trip to Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada. That's where Lake Louise is, in the Canadian Rockies, and it's the first place I ever saw a glacier. It was a beautiful spot. With travel time, we had about three weeks available.

This was the location of our mirage fight. Dad had gotten up early to go fishing, and Mom had decided to treat the four of us kids to a breakfast at the campground's little diner. We cleaned up really good, and walked across the campground to join the line at the self-serve counter. We were excited, but we were being very good, and straining to see the big white board at the front of the line that listed the daily breakfast specials.

I'll never forget my shock when my mother suddenly gathered us kids together and started herding us out of there, loudly proclaiming, "If you four can't stop fighting, you can just forget eating in a restaurant." Our reaction was probably as loud and indignant as she needed it to be. When we got back to the campground, she apologized to all of us, and admitted that when she saw the prices, she knew she didn't have enough money for us to all eat there. Then she made us some pancakes with apples in them.

We still had dinner and lunch food, but breakfasts were down to pancakes. We had pancakes with apples until we ran out of apples. Then we had pancakes with corn. We ran out of that, too. We ran out of syrup and jam. Then Daddy called a family meeting one night and said we had enough time left for one more week, but no food left except for pancakes, and almost nothing left to put on them. Mom was silent as we took a vote on whether to stay and eat pancakes, or head home. Of course we kids wanted to stay.

My dad was so pleased with our vote that he personally cleaned out the empty jam jars and syrup bottle and placed them on the picnic table. He introduced us to "pancakes and point." You take a bite of pancake and point to the container of what you would imagine was on your pancake. Close your eyes now. Isn't that delicious? We later learned that potatoes and point works just as well when you burn the gravy. Just clip a photo from a magazine and glue it to a jar or bottle...

Encouragement

Having four kids and being a woman who felt it was easier to do all the housework herself rather than teach the kids to help, Mom often got behind on her household chores. Of course we children didn't much care. It never got outrageously bad, but Daddy was a perfectionist, and noticed anything that wasn't the way he wanted it to be. I think he was patient most of the time, or if he got on her about it, he did it in private. I do remember that as an adult I often thought that the way to get the house clean was to go outside and play, and when you came back in, it would be all nice and clean. It never worked for me as an adult. Now I've learned that daily doses are a lot easier than periodic panic cleaning.

We were talking about my Mom, though. I was remembering one night when Dad came home from work and decided to give her a little encouragement to get things picked up and cleaned really quickly. He was a Master Sergeant. We were pretty young at that time, but old enough to help if we had ever been taught what to do. Still, if handed something and told where to put it, we could do that. When Dad walked in, we all got ready to sit down for dinner as usual. While we were eating, Dad casually stated, "Earl and Dee are coming by for a visit."

You would have thought the rest of the meal was served in fast forward. Dishes were cleared and cleaned, the only job we youngsters actually were adept at doing, besides hauling out the trash. Then Mom started running through the house, starting at the front door. She picked up, put away, straightened, dusted, vacuumed... By eight o'clock the house looked pretty good, and Mom was about to head to her room to freshen up when she turned to my dad.

"What time did Earl say he and Dee would be here?"

"Oh, he didn't say. He just thought they should come by for a visit soon. I didn't say tonight. When should we have them over?"

At least the house looked really nice. And whatever Mom was thinking, she didn't say it out loud.

My Mom's Silly Songs

I wish I could remember all of the verses to all the silly songs my mom used to sing to us kids. There's one in particular that I've been trying to remember the words to, though, and I cannot even find a mention of it on the internet. So I ask you all, if you've ever heard of this song, to please send me any other verses that you know. I only remember one, and Mom doesn't remember any others either. She says this is all she remembers from her mom singing it to her.

If you see any ladies who want any babies

Just send them right over to me.

Today is the day we give babies away

With a pound and a half of tea.

That's it. That's all we remember. You see why it's an incredibly important song, which deserves to have all its parts remembered for posterity. There should be a book for foolishness passed on by each Mama and Daddy. It's never the sensible things we remember. After all, I'm the child who said that when I grew up I was going to raise dragons. I think that was a year or two after I told someone I was going to be a mother, a nun, and a ballet dancer.