Accessing Current Events

Great in an Emergency

Barely 2 Inches Wide

Quickest Access to Anything

Yes!  Those are VHS Tapes on the Shelf!

A True Behemoth

A Behemoth that plays DVDs and VHS Tapes

Radio with Cassette Player - Almost Obsolete!




 





Current Events

Although there is another in-depth animal story about "M" that I'd love to share with you (and I will... I promise!), I feel compelled to write about something else entirely in this particular entry.  It's a topic that people who have cared for and loved dementia sufferers can all relate to.  Current Events.

 

To sum it up, during my many experiences with "M", there has been absolutely no awareness on her part of current events.  I've often found this to be a very comforting thing.  Her family had not been TV watchers, even back in the 1950's and 1960's when "M"s two children were growing up, and the medium was blasting off into places unknown.  During my visits, the only television sets in hers and her daughter's homes were the now outdated and quite bulky wood-encased ones used to watch a DVD or VHS tape on.  (Yes!  There are plenty of people who still watch VHS tapes... Including me!).  There was no cable connection, nor was there access to local channels.  It was like being in a bubble, separated from the chaos of the "outside world."  In hindsight, I'd have to say that it was a wonderful relief from reality.

 

There were occasions when I would spent up to five nights and six days in "M"s company, and other than phone calls with my teenage son (who would just as well have been playing on his X-Box or some other electronic gadget rather than talking with his Mom), there was basically no contact with others from our species.  Most of our time was taken up either with conversation over tea or a meal, or by viewing an historical movie or "Made for TV" Mini-Series, a very exciting concept in television during the 1970's and 1980's.   (Yes!  There are plenty of people who still watch "Made for TV" Mini-Series on VHS tapes... Including me!). 

 

In between, there were walks in the woods, always a preferred activity.  Sometimes, however, the cold and icy winter months made it impossible to venture safely outside.  Those were the days of "Lonesome Dove," the four-part, "Made for TV" Mini-Series based on the Larry McCurtry novel of the same name.  "M" and I would watch it over and over again, never growing tired of its stark yet strikingly realistic depiction of life in the 19th Century "Old West."  Sorry.  My intention is not to promote "Lonesome Dove," although if you've never seen it (or read the book) you are truly missing out on a classic slice of "Made for TV" history and true Americana. 

 

Our entire world changed last November, however, when "M" moved to Florida for the winter months.  Her new home, very modern and fully equipped with all the latest technology (most of which baffled us!), included a brand new, ultra-thin, wide-screened television set with the ability to perform in "high definition."  Not only that, but it was hooked up to cable!  For some reason, however, we decided together to avoid that side of the living room at first.  There were just too many other beautiful things to discover in our new surroundings.

 

I had the pleasure, and I mean true pleasure, of spending the holiday season alone with "M" in this beautiful Gulf-Coast setting, and there were plenty of activities to occupy ourselves with in lieu of  watching the TV set.  Like the park directly across the street from "M"s home, where, if we didn't feel like driving to our favorite shell coves, we could always sit on a sunny bench and make the acquaintance of other "snow birders" who were also wintering in the Sunshine State.  Meeting such folks, in and of itself, was a fascinating endeavor that could easily take up an entire morning or afternoon.  To be fair, it also deserves a separate blog entry of its own when the time is right!

 

There was only one time during my five-week stay with "M" that I felt compelled to turn on the TV set.  In fact, it was the only time during my almost three years of working with "M" that I accessed the news via cable.  It was the second week of December, and after receiving a disturbing text message from a friend of mine who lives in the Northeast, where "M" and I were both from, I tuned into a well-known world and national news station.   I was horrified by what I heard, as was every other living soul who learned of the event that changed our country that very sad late Autumn day. 

 

Much to my surprise, "M" asked if she could sit and view the broadcast with me.  I told her it was a live news update of a terrible event that was transpiring near both our home towns.  Up to this point in our relationship, "M" and I had never even broached the subject of current events.  Not that she wasn't interested.  It's just that her dementia damaged mind was typically held captive in an earlier historical time period, usually the 1940's, when the world was at war and a truly bad man was trying to create a "master race" at the expense of millions of innocent lives.  Somehow, even to spite that horrible chapter in world history, the world still seemed safer and simpler than it does now.

 

I helped "M" sit down in a chair in front of the TV set, and got her eyeglasses for her.  Generally, she only needed these for distance, such as when we were outside, watching prehistoric-looking pelicans gracefully glide overhead, or when we were admiring the glorious flora that distinguishes the Gulf Coast from anywhere else.  With the glasses, I knew she would be able to see the TV screen more clearly, and what was happening had caught her keen interest.  She cupped her chin with her hands, elbows firmly on her knees, which was the position she took when fascinated by something she was seeing.

 

"Who is that man?" she asked me, pointing at the television set.  "That's Barack Obama, the President of the United States," I informed her, thereby giving some perspective as to our current time and place in history.   Based on our last conversation about world events, "M" still believed that Harry S. Truman was the president!   

 

I already knew about the Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut from my friend's text, but was not emotionally prepared for the details that began to unfold as President Obama initially addressed the nation.  It wasn't the nature and magnitude of the event that first struck me.  Nor was it the knowledge that our country would never be the same again.  It was the genuine emotion displayed by the President, his voice choked up, a tear running down his face.  Easily visible on a wide-screened, high definition television set. 

 

"He is a very distinguished man," "M" observed after listening to him speak for a while.  I thought about how many presidential addresses "M" had been alive for, going back to President Warren Harding, who made his first speech to the nation on radio in June of 1922, a month after "M" was born.   And how many presidents had she actually heard, sitting around the radio with her family.   From Coolidge to Hoover to Roosevelt to Truman to Eisenhower to Kennedy to Johnson to Nixon to Ford to Carter to Reagan to Bush, Sr. to Clinton to Bush, Jr. to Obama.  Perhaps she had even watched some of them on the family's bulky, wood-encased television set?  Or maybe they preferred the radio even after TV became the norm? 

 

None of that mattered now.  What did matter was that Both "M" and I were moved to tears by what was happening at the moment, events so sorrowful that they allowed the current President to openly show his grief to the world.  Current events.  Happening in real time.  This wasn't a fictional depiction of how hard life was back in the Old West.  Nor was it a story re-told seventy-five years later about how difficult it was to get by during the Great Depression.  This was reality.  A reflection of what our world was like today, hear and now. 

 

I watched "M"s expressive and wrinkled face carefully as she watched the President speak about the number of innocent young victims who had so suddenly, and savagely, lost their lives... and their futures.   Ninety years of current events had registered on that distinguished countenance, from the repeal of Prohibition to the Great Depression to atomic bombs to men landing on the moon to endless conflict in the Middle East to a terror attack that caused two of the world's largest buildings to crumble before the eyes of everyone on the planet, thanks to the marvel of live television. 

 

In all the time I'd spent with "M" thus far, I'd never seen such a sorrowful expression on her face as the one she was wearing right now, and over 90 years I am certain that she had seen her share of sorrowful occurrences.  "M" and I were watching real, live current events unfold right before our eyes, only two weeks before the Christmas Holiday, and the images were as painful as any I'd ever seen before... or hope not to see again.

 

We watched the news report for a little while longer, but after the President was done with his address, "M" asked me to turn the TV set off.  We did not speak about what we had witnessed.  In fact, we never turned the television on again during the entire length of my visit.  Not even to watch classic holiday tales about the existence of Santa Claus or a Reindeer who could fly.  There was no need to.  We both had our dose of current events, and subsequently withdrew to another place and time.  Of course, "M"s retreat was caused by her disease, which robbed her of the ability to stay in the present.  My decision, on the other hand, was quite conscious.  A deliberate choice to focus on the simplicity and wonder that made up many of "M"s memories, rather than the harsh reality of the present day.

 

There were, of course, some dark places in there, too.  Everyone has them.  And during the course of our relationship, I would come to find out bits and pieces of what painful events from the past haunted "M"s mind.  But right now, in the present moment, we were able to shift our focus to the positive aspects of life, such as joyfully humming the tunes of favorite holiday carols playing on an old transistor radio. 

 

The victims of the Newtown tragedy, along with so many other lives that are lost every single day for seemingly no reason at all, would never get the chance to experience such joy again.

As I "Fa La La La La'd" along with "M", I realized how just how lucky I was to share this time with her.  If I have the genes and constitution to live to ninety, I truly hope that these are the memories I will be reflecting upon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Very Close Resemblance

Meditating

Chilling

My Kitty Dex (Looks a LOT like "M"s critters!)

Paroling



Drinking



Napping

Gardening

 

 

A Much Better Artist's Rendition

 

 

Absolutely Adorable

Original Artist's Rendition

Not the Original, but Pretty Darned Close!

A Tale of Two Kitties

Animal lovers are recognizable from the get-go, and "M" was clearly among this category!  Every little creature we saw was called a critter, regardless of the actual species.  From squirrels and chipmunks to birds of all feathers, we always found a furry friend to capture our interest!  Needless to say, this led to quite a number of interesting conversations and an occasional "incident."

During my first meeting with "M", I was introduced to two of the cutest little critters you'd ever want to meet, if you're an animal lover and/or have no allergies, that is.  "M"s daughter had recently acquired two kittens, brother and sister, and the pair were no more than four months old when I first met them.  They were quite skittish at first, but quickly grew acquainted with me when they realized that I would be the source of their meals for the next five days!

As a cat owner myself, I was not offended at all by their behavior.  At that time in my life, I had five felines who ranged in personality from hostile to hilarious.  "M"s daughter had informed me beforehand that I would also be watching her two new kittens, in addition to her Mom, so I felt confident that I could handle the arrangement.  There was just one warning I was to heed, according to the daughter.  "Whatever you do, please don't let the cats out."  Got it!  As cute and curious as they were, and no matter how much they complained, they were staying in the house!  Case closed!

Perhaps it is better to say, door opened!  I quickly learned that the house contained three main routes to the outside, in addition to dozens of windows.  Luckily, the windows were securely shut, as Autumn was waning and Winter was quickly making its presence known.  Most of the leaves had already fallen, and the great outdoors looked as grey and barren as it should on a late November day in lower New England.  Brown, dying leaves blanked the ground, with only a few colorful hold-outs clinging desperately to life.

The three main doors in the home had very good locks on them, but they could also be easily opened by a clever human being!  "M", extremely intelligent and chock full of all kinds of life experience, clearly fit this description.  During my first day with her, we went over her daughter's instructions many, MANY times. Under NO CIRUMSTANCES were the critters to be let out of any of the doors!  "M" nodded and said she understood completely, as the little ones were so young and needed to be protected. 

Most of our first day was spent in a sitting room that was full of plants and windows on all three sides.  It was a beautiful place to sit, chat, drink tea, and get to know each other.  It also contained a door leading directly to the patio.  Several times during the overcast afternoon, the kittens would longingly look out the door, and I could sense their yearning and curiosity.  But they were easily redirected by playful activities. 

One of their favorites was to slide on the home's exquisitely designed throw rugs.  As "M"s father had been an antique furniture dealer, there were many exotically patterned "cat toys" scattered throughout the entire house.  Even better, was the fact that underneath every single one, was a brilliantly polished wooden floor that was purrfect for a cat to slide on!  Both brother and sister would take turns running up and down the rugs, which caused them to slide up and down the floors.  "What fun!" exclaimed "M" every time one of the little critters would go for a magic carpet ride!  Weeeeeeeee!

"M" was already enamored with the kittens by the time I came on the scene, and they had taken quite a shine to her in their short time as members of the household.   When they weren't sliding, or staring out the door, they were usually curled up near her, with one of them always on her lap.  "M" loved to pet the kittens, especially the one that favored her warm embrace.  It sounded as though she was purring with him or her (I could never tell the two siblings apart), and the sheer delight in her face was a joy to behold.  It's amazing what the loyalty and unconditional love of an animal can do for a person's soul!

After dinner, "M" and I would retreat to the TV room, which though decorated with windows on three of the four walls, did not have a door that led outside the home.  That's when the most bonding would take place. And not just between "M" and the kittens, but also between "M" and myself.  "M" loved to watch westerns, as well as any film that had a historical base.  Together, the two of us (four, if you count the critters) would travel back in time to eras and places that seemed so much more inhospitable to human survival than our current world.   This fact fascinated "M", who loved to engage in long conversations about the successes, and failings, of mankind's journey to the present time.  As a lover of history myself, I would relish these moments with "M", as would the critters, who took turns curling up on her warm, soft lap.  Very rarely, one of the kittens (again, I have no idea which one because they both looked so much alike), would jump up on my lap, quickly realize it was the wrong one, and leap off to lay closer to "M".  No insult taken.

Bedtime, I quickly learned, my first night staying in her daughter's home, was a well-established routine for "M".  There was a definite order to preparing for sleep, and I followed the plan exactly as it was laid out. First we would both clean up in the bathroom, with me guiding "M" through the steps that needed to be taken.  Then, we would get dressed in our night clothes, usually a casual and comfortable top and bottom from LL Bean for "M" and a not so soft, discounted pair of pajamas from K-Mart for me, with me assisting "M" into hers.  Her dementia was more evident in the evenings, and "M" was not only confused about which clothes came off and on, but also why they had to be changed at all!  To her, it was morning.  Or maybe afternoon.  But definitely not time for sleep!  Although "M" would lay down in her bed, accompanied by two content critters, she was not to stay there for very long.  As with many afflicted with dementia, "M" would awaken frequently during the night, wandering throughout the first floor of the home.  My bedroom was adjacent to hers, and although she made no attempt to open my door, I could hear her pitter-pattering up and down the halls. Occasionally, I would go out and encourage her to return to her bed, which she would do willingly, always blaming herself for not having stayed there in the first place.  But invariably, she would rise again, roaming the halls with the flashlight she kept beside the bed.  When I was certain that she was safe and at no risk of harm, I would fall into a not-so-restful sleep, my radar still in tune with "M"s movements.

When dawn finally came, so did "M"s ability to fall into a more restful sleep.  It was during this time, that I learned to take care of other things around the house to prepare for our day.  First off, was straightening the rugs that the kittens had disheveled during their slipping and sliding.  Once in the kitchen, I would prepare the coffee pot and put away any dishes from the night before.  That's also where the critters would soon be enjoying their morning feast.  Having cats of my own, I anticipated that I would be tripping over the two little ones as I opened their Fancy Feast cans, which was to be mixed with a healthy dose of kitten chow.  

So much for expectations.   As I got their little dishes ready (separate ones for each of them), it suddenly struck me how silent the house was.  No slipping.  No sliding.  No pitter-pattering.  Just an uneasy quietness. The kind that comes when my cats are all outside rather than tangled around my feet waiting for their food. Realizing exactly what was wrong, I frantically began to rush around the house calling, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"  Luckily, the furnishings were rather sparse, and there weren't too many secret hiding places to check. Unluckily, that could only lead to one other conclusion.  The critters had gotten out!!!

The first door I bounded out of was the one that led to the patio, as the kitties seemed to enjoy the view from there the day before.  Wow!  I had no idea how big the back yard was up until this point!  Woods! Everywhere I looked, nothing but woods bordering the entire property.  My call grew louder as I ran the perimeter of the yard.  "HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!!!"  As my voice rose in decibel, my feet declined in warmth.  It dawned on me that I was in my slippers and not so soft discounted K-Mart pajamas, and it couldn't have been more than forty degrees outside.  I ran back inside, got my coat, then decided to make a go of it from the front door of the house.  It was a little less woodsy out that direction.  ""HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!!!"  Who was I fooling?  These kittens were no more likely to come to me than they were to befriend a roaring brown bear.  If they didn't like my lap the day before on a warm, comfy couch, what hope was there for them to eagerly scamper up to me in the great wide open?

My heart sunk deeper with every critter-less minute that passed.  I had done everything else exactly as instructed. Right to the letter.  "M"s daily routine successfully maintained in spite of her daughter's absence. There was only one special instruction, and a big one at that.  Whatever I did, I was NOT to let the cats out! And truth be told, I didn't!  But I hadn't factored in the case of "M" letting the cats out during the night!  I could just picture brother and sister staring longingly up at the doorknob, whining in their baby kitten voices, "Meooooooooow!"  Translation:  "Pleeeeeeeeeeease let us out!"  How could anyone resist their cuteness, especially a critter lover like "M" who was awake most of the night and couldn't help but see the little night owls howling to be free?

 

Boy, had I screwed up!  And on my first night of the job to boot!  I had to figure out a plan!  And quickly, before "M" woke up.  At this point in the dilemma, I had given up on running around the large yard bordered by woods yelling, "HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!!!"  If insanity is truly doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, then I was certifiable!  Not to mention extremely cold!

Back in the house, making sure that "M" was still safely tucked in her bed, I paced up and down the exquisitely designed, exotically patterned antique throw rugs.  No pitter-pattering for me.  This was serious, heavy-duty, no-holds-barred pacing!  On a positive note, I couldn't help but notice how beautiful the rugs really were.  Stunning actually.  The ones that my cats slid on at home were, not surprisingly, from the sale racks at K-Mart.  They didn't seem to mind the difference, though.  I had easily amused cats.

But these two creatures belonged to "M"s daughter, who would not be so easily amused if her new additions turned up missing, and I was person responsible for ensuring the safety of not only her mother, but her beloved pets as well!  Just because I couldn't tell them apart didn't mean "M"s daughter couldn't!  Sure. They were your basic grey-striped tabby.  Very common.  In fact, I had one myself.  But it's not like I lost a spatula and could run to the K-Mart to replace it!  These were her babies!!!  Her interchangeable, look-alike babies!  I had to find them!

An idea struck me in mid-pace, and I chided myself for not thinking of it sooner.  It was still breakfast time for the kitties.  And wherever they were, inside or out, they would still be expecting their delectable meal. Why not open up the Fancy Feast, mix it with kitten chow, and place the bowls on the cement steps outside the doors?  One at a time.  First the back porch, then the front of the house.  "Absolutely brilliant," I told myself, trying to salvage whatever self-esteem was left.

Sure enough, within seconds of placing the food dish on the patio doorstep, one of the kittens came bouncing out of the woods making a b-line for his (or her) breakfast.  In a flash, I grabbed the little fellow (or female) and whisked him (or her) back into the house, making sure the door was closed firmly.  Then I carefully slipped back out to grab the food dish.  After all, I did promise the critter breakfast!

One down, one to go!  A second try on the patio led to no luck, so I decided to focus on the front of the house.  This would involve the electric garage door, which I highly doubted "M" would have known how to open, especially with the remote out of reach, and the front door.  In fact, the front door was most likely the one she would have let the critters out of in the first place, as it was in the middle of her pacing route.  

I went through the same routine with the front door as with the patio door, all the while checking to see that "M" was still asleep and making sure that kitten # 1 stayed on the house.  Carefully, I placed the yummy breakfast entree outside the front door and waited.  And waited some more.  Nothing.  Not even a rustle in the almost bare Autumn tree limbs.  I stood inside and stared out the narrow window next to the door onto the stoop, waiting a little longer.  "Well," I tried to reason.  "Maybe I could simply replace one kitten, which would be much easier than replacing two."  But I still didn't know who was the boy kitty and who was the girl kitty, which would cause a problem if "M"s daughter came home to two kittens of the same sex!

Then I saw him (or her).  Slowly slinking around the corner of the front stoop.  Gingerly making its way to the cat dish.  Resisting the impulse to rush right outside and grab the little imp, I waited until he (or she) was thoroughly engaged in eating.  I silently squeezed out the front door, and grabbed hold of the second little critter.  "Good boy or girl," I muttered, stroking the kitten's head.  "What a good boy or girl!"  Once again, I retrieved the food dish, and managed to get both animals set up properly in the kitchen, just the way the morning routine was supposed to go.

The first thing "M" said after she woke up and made her way to the kitchen was, "I'm so glad the little critters are safe in the house.  It's so dangerous outside."  She had no recollection of letting them out during the night, and I didn't have the heart to tell her what had actually happened.  My main concern was that this NEVER, EVER happen again!  Not on my watch!

While "M" was enjoying her hot cereal, juice, and coffee (tea would come later in the day, of course), I found a blank piece of note white note paper and some markers in one of the kitchen drawers.  I consider myself a fairly decent writer (and hopefully you do, too), but fully admit my failure as an artist. Just take a second look at the fungal art if you have any doubt.  But this project did not require anything too fancy.  Just the basics.  With some markers, I drew a round ball on the note paper.  Two round eyes, triangle ears and nose, topped off with a nice set of whiskers, and a smile for the mouth.   Ta da!  A spectacular rendering of one of the critters!  It didn't matter which one, of course.  They both looked the same.

"M" and I enjoyed our second day together much in the same manner as we had the first.  A cup of tea and some deep conversation about the "bad man" who tried to take over the world seventy years ago, a well-balanced lunch consisting of tomato soup and a ham & cheese sandwich, along with a piece of fruit, an afternoon western series, with intermittent commentary about "how people could possibly survive under such poor deplorable conditions," a brief (and I mean BRIEF) nap, a relaxing pasta dinner at the same time as the critters enjoyed their evening meal, a continuation of the western series after that, and then our bed-time preparations.  And accompanying us every step of the way were the two little kittens.  Slipping and sliding. Nap lapping.  Purring to perfection.  "Absolutely adorable!" "M" would frequently exclaim with delight, adding again that it was so good that they were "safely inside the house."  

After "M" was tucked into bed, flashlight on the nightstand, I closed her door and went into the kitchen. There I retrieved my work of art from the morning.  My simplistic, yet clearly recognizable, rendering of a content cat.  I then took a purple marker and wrote in distinct, clearly legible, very large letters:  WE DO NOT GO OUTSIDE!!!"  With the utmost care, I taped the drawing to the front doorknob.  Then I drew a second drawing, just as artistic as the first, and taped it to the patio doorknob.  My work done for the day, I retreated to my bedroom, exhausted, but satisfied.

During the night, I heard "M"s feet again pitter-pattering up and down the hallways.  And I heard her speaking softly to the kitties, warning them in her sweet, loving voice that "They do not go outside!"  I felt a great feeling of relief wash over me.  

The next morning, I awoke to two very hungry, amazingly loud, howling kittens.  A boy and a girl, although I couldn't tell them apart.  I didn't know what they did during the night, and I didn't care.   Whatever it was, they had done it inside.  And when "M" awoke from her soundest period of sleep after dawn, the four of us enjoyed a lovely breakfast together, followed by another fine day filled with thoughtful conversation, tasty tea, good food and lots of critter play!

  

Another Suspect?

Probably Not This Fellow!

Which One Was It?

The Culprits

Fooled by a Mule

It was almost a year to the date after I first met "M" that one of our most unusual experiences transpired.  Our adventures together often included animals, as you have already observed in the bird (and alligator) photos.  Much of our time also involved not so wild creatures, but rather the beloved pets of family and friends, such as dogs, cats, and donkeys. 

Yes!  Donkeys!  You see, across the street from "M"s hilltop home of over fifty years was a ranch, complete with an assortment of out-buildings and a well-worn split-rail wooden fence.  It was a highly unusual sight for this area, which consisted of many large estates belonging to well-to-do residents who did most of their business in nearby New York City.  Most likely, the ranch was home to a dense forest when "M" and her husband first purchased their property well over sixty years ago, a natural habitat for a wide variety of waterfowl, deer, and other woods dwellers.

But now the property, which was extensive, was fronted by a ranch.  Not the kind where you would find herds of cattle, sheep, goats, or chickens (please forgive me... I'm not a cattle expert, but I'm pretty sure that chickens do not exist in a "herd").  And not the kind that was home to horses groomed for show or racing.  In fact, the house that occupied the ranch was mammoth in size and quite modern in design.  It was stunning and rather surprising to see when one emerged from the bottom of "M"s long, steep, windy, and very woodsy driveway.  That's where we would often walk together to get our daily exercise.  The trek to and from the base of the driveway was quite hearty, and always required a strong cup of tea afterwards!

At this point in our relationship, I was not "M"s only caregiver, although I was the one she spent the most time due to all the overnights I enjoyed while her daughter was traveling.  "M"s life was filled with some other very lovely women who would spent short periods of time with her during the day while she was at her own home, ensuring that she was safe and well-fed.  One nearby neighbor would frequently bring over a traditional picnic basket full of healthy, hand-packed lunches and home-made baked goods.  I was there for one of those occasions, and couldn't have felt more "less than" despite the woman's completely kind intentions.  This was definitely not the type of picnic I was used to. Embarrassing as it is to admit, my contribution to my stays with "M" pretty much included granola bars, boxes of raisins, and cans of soda.  In my defense, "M"s daughter provided plenty of enough nutritious foods during her absences, so there was no really no need for me to bring very much during my overnight stays.

One late Autumn afternoon, a very sweet woman that "M" had been acquainted with for years was spending some time with her.  She was not the basket bringer, although she did bring many other qualities and characteristics that made her visits just as memorable.  I was scheduled to be with "M" the following day, so the woman and I, having met previously, had each other's phone numbers so that we could coordinate our caregiving.

 

Like me, this woman would spent time with "M" walking down her driveway to look at the ranch across the street.  It was excellent exercise for "M" and her caregivers, provided lots of opportunity for conversation and reflection, and on a crisp, colorful Autumn day, could be matched by nothing in terms of its natural beauty.  Well... nothing except for "M"s well-worn yet still stunning, eternally expressive face.

 

Late that afternoon, I received a distress call from the woman, who was extremely upset.  Through her sobs, I deduced that there had been some kind of "accident" in which "M" had gotten hurt.  Her daughter had been contacted, and come home early from work.  Although I couldn't quite understand the specifics of what had happened, I distinctly recall hearing something about a hospital visit and stitches.  I also remember trying to comfort the woman, who was distraught beyond words, telling her that whatever happened wasn't her fault because it was an accident. 

 

I was beyond worried, but soon received a follow-up call form "M"s daughter, who updated me as to the details of the event.  Apparently, "M" and the caregiver had walked across the narrow road at the end of the driveway to visit the donkeys.  This wasn't an unusual occurrence, as "M" loved animals indiscriminately, and often would cross the street to say "hello" to their four-legged friends.  To be honest, I'd even stopped to say "hello" to them during one of my early visits to "M"s home.  They certainly were not a common site in these parts, and I would imagine many a stray visitor to the area would pull over and make their acquaintance. 

 

From what I could ascertain from the daughter's description of the events, "M" had been bit quite badly and needed stitches.  She was doing fine, however, and was in her usual good spirits.  The only thing needed on my end was to take her for a follow-up appointment at the hospital during my stay the next day.  I told the daughter I'd be happy to do so, as it was also an occasion for "M" and I go out into her local community.  Maybe we could even have lunch somewhere downtown, if she was up to it?  "Sure," her daughter encouraged, both of us agreeing that this might be good for her in light of the recent "doggie bite."

Yup.  Doggie bite.  That's what I heard, and that's what I went into the visit believing.  "M" had been bitten by the neighbor's dog during her walk with the other caregiver, which was unusual, because the animal was "usually very friendly."  Luckily, she had received treatment right away, including the standard tetanus shot, and the wound looked like it would heal easily.  "She's very strong," her daughter always told me, and I had found this to be nothing but true during our acquaintance so far.

When I got to "M"s residence the next day, I helped her into my car and listened carefully as she described the events of the previous day to me.  Needless to say, her version was unique and very distinctive from the other two versions I'd heard so far.  From "M"s perspective, she had done something "very bad" by invading the animal's space, and it was only trying to protect itself and its young.  This is a natural thing for animals to do, of course, and "M"s version of the tale made just as much sense as any other.  What was interesting was that "M" continued to blame herself and defend the animal.   No matter what question I asked about the accident, "M" would return to the same idea.  Somehow, this whole incident was her fault and she should have "known better."

At the hospital, a very upscale business that served a very upscale clientele, an extremely polite and exquisitely dressed gentleman escorted "M" up to the follow-up clinic in a wheelchair.  True to her nature, she insisted that she didn't need the chair, but I convinced her to let herself be treated like royalty for a little bit.  "When you live to be eighty-nine, you deserve to be pampered sometimes."  She looked skeptical, but when I told her that I would do the same thing if it were me, she reluctantly agreed to ride in the chair.  Then she added, with her typically shocked response, "I'm that old?"

When she was wheeled into the follow-up clinic, I was in for quite a shock myself.  Not only was she treated like royalty by the hospital staff, who all seemed to know her quite well, greeting her with genuine deference as if I had accompanied a local celebrity.  They also were amazed at the nature of her injury.  "That's odd," I thought to myself.  A doggie bite isn't that uncommon an occurrence, even among the rich and famous.  I heard one nursing assistant say, "I've been here over twenty years, and I've never seen that type of bite!"  Then "M" shrugged it off, telling them all how it wasn't the animal's fault, and that is was probably only defending its space and possible young.  "I shouldn't have bothered it," she said again and again.

The doctor finally came out, and seemed to be well-acquainted with "M" and very familiar with her medical history.  And he quickly concurred with the nursing assistant, only this time adding much more clarity as to the nature of the wound.  "We certainly don't see many donkey bits around here!  In fact, I don't think I've ever seen one in my whole time at this hospital!"

A donkey bite!  Of course!  Now the whole situation made more sense to me.  "M", being the warm, friendly, nurturing soul that she is, had walked down the driveway with her other caregiver to visit the donkeys who lived at the ranch across the street.  Somehow (and I never did get much clarity as to the "how and why" of the event), one of the donkeys had grabbed "M"s pant leg while she was petting its head, and bitten her quite thoroughly in her calf.  The bite went clear through the pants and the imprint of the donkey's mouth could be seen in the wound, which the doctors were generous enough to show me while cleaning and re-dressing the injury.  Thanks, docs! 

"It's healing very nicely," the head doctor stated, and "M" was pleased with this news.  Then, directing his statements toward me as the caregiver, he told me to make sure that the wound was cleaned thoroughly and dressed twice a day.  I agreed, knowing that I would be passing the care instructions onto "M"s daughter that evening.  "You're an amazing woman!" he said to "M" as another extremely polite and exquisitely dressed escort wheeled "M" to the elevator.  No doubt about that statement.  Amazing was the perfect word to describe "M".

To be honest, I can't even recall if "M" and I stopped for lunch that day, or just had our usual soup and sandwiches at her home.  I was mesmerized by the whole occurrence, which, you have to admit, was extremely unusual.  Even more fascinating to me was "M"s interpretation of what had happened, and how she kept blaming herself for its occurrence. 

That's what I remember most about that beautifully crisp late Autumn day.  The way that "M" kept putting herself down and taking responsibility for what had been truly a freak accident.  We talked about this at length, and "M" could give me no further insight that day.  All I knew was that a part of me, buried deep down inside, ached for her.  I could empathize with the emotions she was experiencing, and knew first-hand what it was like to feel responsible for something that had gone horribly wrong.

In the weeks to come, which would include our first visit to Florida together for Thanksgiving with her senior sisters, we would have much more time to talk.  To share stories and events that had shaped our lives and lay the foundation for who we were as human beings... in the way that only two very old and close friends could do.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snobs

Whether we are in the Adirondack Mountains, the Gulf Coast, or at "M"s home in lower New England, there is one topic that is always forefront in our discussions.  And although "M" and I come from entirely different socio-economic and cultural backgrounds, it is something that evokes much melancholy for both of us.

 

That subject is Snobs.  People who are "stuck up" and have a sense of superiority.  Snooty folks.

 

In fact, one of the first questions "M" ever asked me was, "Do you think there are still snobs in the world today?"  It was just after our initial meeting, and "M"s daughter had retreated to the kitchen so that her Mom and I could spend some time together.  Over tea, of course.  Definitely over tea.

 

I remember very clearly how "M" looked me straight in the eyes, a solemn expression on her face, which was unusual because the conversation thus far had been light and cheerful.  Then she asked the question that has since led to many meaningful and sometimes painful conversations.  I think that something about my presence reminded "M" of an old friend from school, and she perceived that we were getting reacquainted after a period of absence.  She didn't say as much, but the way she spoke about her academic and other life experiences made me feel as though I was there with her.  Based on the snob question alone, I definitely could have been one of her peers.

 

"Yes I do," I answered her without hesitation.  "I think that snobs have always been around, and that they will continue to be around."  I added that, in my opinion, most people who act snobby are generally insecure about themselves, and thus feel the need to act superior to others as a means of trying to booster their low self-esteem.

"Generalization!" "M" exclaimed with exuberance, much to my surprise.  "That's what the teachers were always accusing me of!"  Now there's another topic that has led to much discussion between us, but I will save that for a later date.

 

Then, "M" nodded thoughtfully to the non-generalization part of my response, the part about snobs being ever-present, as though she was slowly soaking in every single word.  She looked at me knowingly, then began to smile.  That was the very instant when I realized that "M" and I were to become friends.  Very good friends.  Friends who shared similar feelings and ideas about people and life.  In general.

 

After her daughter returned from the kitchen, the conversation shifted gears.  We discussed what my role would be in caring for "M", and as I recall, her daughter initially introduced me as a "new friend," which was a wonderful way to start off our relationship.   "M" had lived independently for quite some time up until her then age of eighty-eight.  It wasn't until recently, her daughter explained, that she had stopped driving.  In fact, she had still been flying a decade ago!  But her memory had begun to slip in recent months,  especially in the area of short term recollection, and I was brought on board to stay with "M" for five full days and nights while her daughter was overseas at a conference.  We would be staying in the daughter's home, rather than "M"s, as it was better-equipped for our needs at the time.  This was a different environment for "M", who was having a hard time accepting the fact that she needed assistance at all!  Apparently, the family had gone through a series of caregivers, all of whom "M" did not get along with.

 

"My Mom can be a little difficult at times," I remember her daughter telling me on the phone when we first spoke.  "That's no problem," I replied.  "I've worked with all kinds of people!"

 

Little did I know then that my relationship with "M" was to become a "one of a kind" experience, a friendship where my name, age, physical appearance, financial status (poor), educational experience (good), social network (fair), and  genealogical pedigree (largely unknown) would not matter in the least.  The type of friendship that is indeed rare, and highly valued, if you are lucky enough to find it.

 

In the early days of caregiving with "M", we spent a great deal of time alone in her daughter's lovely country home.  We developed a daily routine that began with breakfast, precluded by coffee, which was an absolute MUST.  Our breakfast were slow and casual, filled with pleasant conversation often triggered by the pastoral setting that lay serenely just outside the kitchen window.  After that, we would attend to hygiene matters, all the while chatting as we went along.  Mid-morning would bring our first cup of tea for the day, which we would share in the sunroom that overlooked the backyard and garden of the home.  The room was filled with light and was alive with a variety of flora.  A perfect place for a friendship to be sown and to thrive!

 

That was the time of day when "M" and I generally had our "deepest" conversations.  I believe that her mind was clearer in the late morning, which resulted in some very intense discussions.  Topics would include spiritualism, humanitarianism, and sometimes even border on existentialism.  It was a terrific treat to talk with "M", as her perspectives and life experiences had been, and still were, extremely unique.

 

Often, quite often as a matter of fact, "M" would bring up the 1930's and World War II.  She had been a young girl when the Great Depression hit, and her formative years were shaped by a country desperately trying to restore its greatness while Europe was once again on the verge of complete breakdown.  She would always bring up "that bad man," which was her way of referring to Adolf Hitler, and I would always assure her that he had been defeated and was long gone.  I also told her that, "Nothing like that could ever happen again in modern society," but after the words came out, I would wonder about their truth.

"M"s father had been a dealer of antique furniture, and his business often took him to Europe.  As a young girl, "M", along with her two older sisters, had gone to Europe with him, and the undercurrents of another war were just beginning to stir.  This had a tremendous impact on "M", who often recalled stories of her time in Europe with an air of anxiety.

There is one particular story that left quite an impression on "M"s young mind, and she loved to tell it.  Often.  She had witnessed a Frenchman who was walking around barefoot, carrying his shoes in his hands.  This struck her as odd, but then she learned the reason for his action.  Times were very hard in early 1930's Europe, and the man chose to carry his shoes rather than wear them so that they would not get worn out.  Most likely, it was the only pair he owned.  The tale left quite an impression on me as well, which is why I am sharing it with you now.

Perhaps the reason it had such an impact on "M" is that she had grown up in a family of what could be called "privilege."  The family was from old NYC wealth, and the children did not want for anything when they were growing up.  "M", being the youngest by seven years, was doted upon as "the baby" of the family, and she was tended to by a French speaking (and singing) Nurse in her early years.  Occasionally during our time together, "M" would begin to sing the words of a French song that she had learned over eighty years ago.  But she always stopped after the first chorus, saying she could not remember the rest.  From what I could gather, the song, which was sung to her by her Nurse, was about people celebrating on the dock, perhaps because the war had ended.  It was the only song that "M" ever sang any lyrics to, as my entire acquaintance with her was comprised of humming.  Lots and lots of humming.  (Don't worry... I'll get to that in a later entry, as well!)

During her school years, "M" was sent to a series of boarding schools which she describes as an "absolutely awful" time in her life.  You see, "M" never felt like she fit in with the other girls at any of the schools.  She would often talk about how she was snubbed by her peers, maybe because they thought she was too well off, and were jealous of what she had.  In addition, "M" stood out physically from the other girls, being a head taller than most of them.  She added that although she did not do particularly well at basketball, it was the only sport she was ever chosen for. 

Regardless of the reason, however, "M" was clearly hurt by the entire experience, a wound that ran deep and was a frequently triggered memory.  When she spoke of her academic years, you could still hear the pain in her voice as she described how the girls ostracized her.

I could empathize completely.  I did not come from a family of "privilege" by any means, and was obviously raised in an entirely different era, but I certainly knew what it felt like to be snubbed by the other children, boys included.  In my case, it was because I studied a lot, and I was teased as being "the brain."  And just like "M", I can still feel the pain when I think back to how I was treated, always feeling like a misfit.

The funny thing is that "M" and I were actually opposites in so many ways.  She did not do well academically, and in her words, hated studying.  She secretly told me once that her older sister used to do her homework for her.  In response, I secretly told her that my younger sister used to "borrow" my papers and present them as her own.  Both secrets, we agreed, would remain strictly between us. 

I couldn't help but laugh when "M" told me about how her academic career had ended.  On the last day of school at a private preparatory academy, "M" boasted about "throwing her books out the window."  "You threw them?" I asked in amazement, as she was always the picture of politeness.  "Well..." she thought about it some more.  "I really just pushed them and they didn't fall very far."

My high school experience ended on a very different note, as I gave the Salutatorian speech (for being second in grade ranking) to about a thousand classmates and family members.  Trust me, it's not because I was that smart.  It's just that studying was my way of escaping from the chaos going on in my home environment at the time.  The crazier things got, the deeper my head was immersed in a pile of books! 

Aside from our learning styles, "M" and I were also from dramatically different socio-economic statuses, to say the least.  In fact, if we had both been raised at the same time and in the same place, the odds of the two of us meeting and becoming friends at all would have been virtually zero!

And yet he we were.  Two women, forty years apart in age and from two very distinct generations, bonding over how badly it feels to be snubbed by one's peers.  Clear evidence that although mankind has evolved in almost every way possible over thousands, maybe millions, of years, there are some basic human emotions that nevertheless remain unchanged.

And one of them is feeling like you don't fit in as the result of being snubbed by your peers.  Snobbery clearly has no boundaries.

From the first day we met, as "M" and I talked about the existence of snobs, I knew that we were kindred spirits.  The type of women who always march to their own drummer, making decisions with their hearts even when it isn't the "acceptable" or "proper" thing to do.  "M" took to the skies at a time when women were encouraged to become school teachers or nurses, and I chose my pen at a time when being a techno-geek was more the norm.  How wonderful that our paths were destined to cross at this stage in both our lives!

After that first visit, I knew that I was extremely lucky to have made the acquaintance of someone whose formative years, despite the fact that they occurred four decades prior to my own, had been significantly shaped by snobs.

The friendship between "M" and I started off on very solid footing indeed.

 

 

 

 

 



More Scenes from the Water

Around the Point

Lake's Center



 

Autumn Comes Early

Through a Pass

The Point

 

 

 

 



A View From the Water

 

Along the Shore

Through the Channel

Racing the Restorations

 

On The Water

As you've most likely deduced from my previous entries, "M" spent a great deal of her lifetime on or near the water (when she wasn't in the air, of course!).  Not only did she sail the majestic Caribbean, glorious Gulf Coast, and nearby Long Island Sound with her late husband, but she was also an avid fan of canoeing.  Their long-time home sits atop of a hill that overlooks a series of smaller hills leading to a private pond on which "M" was able to travel about in her small skiff.  What a sight that must have been!

 

During some of my visits to her home, "M" and I would ever-so-carefully walk down the windy driveway to the lower garage.  There, we would peer through the trees to get a glimpse of the pond below.  "I used to be able to hike right down there" "M" would recall fondly.  Then, looking down at her frail body and the cane standing next to her for support, she would sigh sadly as she realized the truth about her age. "How old AM I?" she would often ask me.  The question usually resulted in a guessing game in which I would continue to prompt, "Higher," "Still higher," and finally, "Just a little bit higher."  When we got to her actual age, "M" would exclaim with surprise, "Really?  I'm THAT old?"  Then her mood would brighten again, as she concluded that at her age, she might as well enjoy as many moments as she possibly could!  That is one of the things I admire most about "M".  That indomitable spirit!

 

At the lower garage, which was well worn by years of inactivity, "M" would ask me to open it, so we could explore what was inside.  The most distinguishable item was a small wooden dinghy that took up a good portion of the garage.  There were also a bunch of old bicycles, and an assortment of paddles, shovels, and mysterious old tools that must have had a purpose at one time.  We walked to the garage many times during my visits, and the contents were always the same, as were "M"s recollections of her past, which made it so enjoyable. 

 

Her favorite tale was of the dinghy.  It was white with blue trim, and it was hand-crafted many years ago.  "M" and her husband used to paddle it regularly in the pond at the base of the hill, often docking it there to enjoy a picnic lunch.  As I gazed down at the serene setting, I tried to imagine "M" rowing happily, her then dark brown hair blowing gently in the breeze.  But something was blocking my image, and I just couldn't conjure up a proper picture in my mind. 

 

It was her hair!  I could not picture "M" with anything but her distinguished-looking, Snowy White Egret head of hair!  To me, it was absolutely beautiful.  I couldn't imagine her without it.  Yet there had actually been a time when her hair had been dark brown, similar to the color of my own hair.  It dawned on me that my "M" was someone very different than the one who paddled that white and blue dinghy years ago.  Although I was filled with a curiosity to know more about who "M" had been in the decades before our acquaintance, I was also quite content with the lovely lady with whom I was lucky enough to share so many different experiences with in the present time.

 

Back in her home, "M" showed me a another amazing item.  It was a photograph of a pre-teen girl with dark brown hair at the helm of a small sail boat.  The picture was at least eighty years old, and it had been preserved exquisitely on an 8" x 10" wooden frame.  I recognized the face in the photo immediately, even though the hair was darker.  Some people are distinguished by an appearance that remains the same throughout their entire life span, and "M" was definitely one of them.  Her eyes were bright, and her expression was full of joy and wonder in the old photograph.  "M" pointed to it proudly and declared, "That's ME!"  She then went on to describe how she won that race at the famous yacht club that her father had  once been Commodore.  And she still had the trophy to prove it!  As with the picture of "M" teaching the student how to fly, this one soon became one of my favorites, creating an image in my mind of a young woman filled with a passion for living.  I realized how lucky I was to be in the company of a now old woman who is still driven by that same passion.

 

In "The Woods", "M" and I were able to share some experiences together on the water, and these are memories that will remain some of the most defining moments of my own life.  The family's camp was built on a peninsula, with the buildings being located on the Eastern side, where they were able to catch the morning light... and the daily passing of the mailboat, of course.  On the Western side, the property was next to a swampy area that allowed for much more privacy from passing tourists, a secluded area full of truly natural wildlife. 

 

That's where the boathouse was.  It was a beautifully built structure that had been lovingly fixed up and maintained by "M"s son, who restores old boats.  The west side of the boathouse was framed by a long wooden dock, and enjoying the afternoon sun from that vantage point truly felt twenty degrees warmer than the temperature in the now shaded camps to the east.  The family, and their dogs, frequently sunned on the dock, as well  swam in the clean, clear, cold (in my not-native-to-the-Adirondacks opinion!) water directly in front of the boathouse.  "M" also loved to absorb the sun's rays, decked out in dark glasses and a well-worn cap of some sort.  Sometimes, however, she would get a bit overwhelmed by the intensity of the afternoon sun, and retreat to the cooler, and vastly darker, side of the property where our camp was located.  There we would share a cup of tea... and some more stories.

 

On occasion, "M" would agree to go for a ride on the water.  Although she still relished being near any body of water, "M" was fully aware that she could not engage in certain activities the way she once did, like swimming and canoeing.  I could see the melancholy look in her eyes as she watched her teenage grandchildren frolic in the lake, carefree and content, their whole lives ahead of them yet to be shaped and sharpened.  Part of me empathized with her expression, having already lived five decades myself, filled with a series of "if only I had done (fill in the blank) differently." I wondered if "M" had as many as those as I did, and decided to ask her over our next cup of tea.

 

But now was the time for "M" to return to the water, and her family had a well-honed and extremely careful system for assisting her onto what was their family jewel, a stunning, shiny mahogany boat hand-crafted to absolute perfection.  Obtained by "M"s grandfather well over a hundred years ago, the boat had at one time been well-known and highly regarded in the area.  Residents and guests would gather on the shore to watch the charismatic craft cruise by.  Decades later, "M"s son had taken on the Herculean task of restoring the boat to its original condition, which once-again included  the admiration of the locals as the beautiful boat passed by.

 

I was beyond honored when I was asked to accompany "M" on the first boat ride of the season.  Not only was it a chance for me to view the spectacular surroundings from the middle of the lake (and don't doubt for a second that I didn't have my camera/phone firmly in hand, fully charged and ready to click!), but it was an opportunity to experience something with "M" that had been a significant part of her life since she was a young child.  All of my time spent thus far with "M" had been in the company of a delightful old woman with the ability to recall tales from her very colorful early years in great detail.  For that alone I was grateful!   But now I would be actually sharing a new memory that would bring us both back to "M"s remarkable past. 

 

I don't think I need to tell you that the ride up and down the chain of lakes with "M" and her son was incredible.  Something truly beyond words.  For that reason, I will share photographs with you that were taken from the boat.  Pictures really DO paint a thousand words, at least for me they do.  I hope they do for you as well.  What a gift to be able to pass on this experience with anyone who has been brave enough to join me on the journey so far.  Thank you for traveling with me!  With us!

 

One last comment before I end this entry.  Do you know what the most amazing sight for me was during that boat ride with "M"?   It was her hair blowing gently in the afternoon breeze, framing the look of  joy and wonder on her distinctive face.  It was the same exact expression she had as a pre-teen girl sailing to victory at the yacht club over eighty years ago!  Only this time, her hair was pure and most wonderfully white, like the Great Snowy Egret!