Clapping Santa

The rest of the world has the Travelocity Gnome. I have......drumroll........Clapping Santa (queue photo). Actually.....we have two Clapping Santas, but tomorrow, the one you see pictured above (queue photo) will be packed carefully into a flat rate box, transported to SeaTac, loaded onto a jet, and flown down to a certain assisted living facility in Southern California where my father will be a happy, happy man because he can start and end every day from now until New Years with Clapping Santa (queue photo) chiming "HOHOHOOOOO MERRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!" every time there's a nearby sharp noise (yeeeeah......with my father around, do you know how many times a day THAT happens????).

In case you're not familiar with the Clapping Santa? It's like the Clap-On Light. If you get close enough and clap your hands, the noise-activation sensor sets him off. Dad used to wheel into the kitchen every morning (during holiday season when I had Clapping Santa out with the rest of the decorations) and promptly bang the kitchen counter to get Clapping Santa going. Then every other time Dad wheeled into or out of the kitchen. Then when he fed the dogs he'd bang the spoon on Emily's metal feeding dish repeatedly, which not only activated Clapping Santa, but also riled up Emily and caused her to bark incessantly. Picture the clanging, banging of the spoon on the metal food bowl, "Clang, Clang, Clang, Clang, Clang...." with a very excited English Bulldog barking in the background, "WoofWoof, WoofWoof, Woofwoof, WoofWoof..." and then good ole Clapping Santa repeating over and over and over again, "HOHOHOOOOO MERRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!!! HOHOHOOOOOO MERRRRRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!"

Not like I miss any of that or anything...........

When Friends Visit

16 Nov 2011

Thank God for friends!

Oh wait. Not for the reasons you might think.

Though, I do cherish my friends and would be a dismal mess were it not for their unconditional love and support.

But there are many practical benefits that are enjoyed when one has friends.

Like, when they visit.

Before my friends come to visit,

I accomplish great things.

Wonderful

Unexpected Things

Just seem to happen.

I vacuum.

I dust.

I actually put my pajamas away.

I wash the shmutz off the dessert plates I intend on using that night.

I pull out the “fancy” flatware and discover Grandma’s long lost ivory-handled cake server stuck way in the back of the drawer with a set of sterling silver lobster picks I didn’t even know existed.

I wash the dogs’ food bowls.

I clean the eye boogers out of their eyes.

I change the burned-out bulb in the outside light fixture.

I realize for the first time that having just one chair at the dining room table is not very feng shui.

I take down the photo hanging on the wall in the dining room that I never really thought “went” in the dining room.

I put up a photo on the wall in the dining room that I always felt belonged there in the first place.

I decide to cook things like babaganoush, steamed pudding, and caramelized onions.

I set the table.

I use napkin rings and water goblets.

I rethink the fact that there is a bar in the kitchen but no barstools.

I buy bottles of Perrier and Pellegrino.

I decide it is high time I scrub the toilet.

I make sure there are extra rolls of TP in the bathroom.

I suddenly become aware of every single toothpaste spot on the bathroom mirror.

I clean the mirror.

Then the friends arrive.

We chat.

We laugh.

We share.

We eat the babaganoush and drink Perrier from the water goblets.

We discuss.

We are each silently inspired by things that are said.

Then the friends leave.

And I’m alone again.

But not as much.

Whale Song

13 Nov 2011

I donned my lightweight jacket, hat, and gloves,

Positioned my ear buds just so,

Selected Whale Song from my iPod playlists.

Pressed Play.

I left the house for my regular six-mile walk,

Along the same trail, across the same bridge,

Across the same surging river, down the same wood stairs,

Around the same cow pasture, past the same goat house,

And experienced an area I had never seen before.

Whale Song hummed in my ears.

The trees billowed gently in the breeze,

But I imagined they moved with the flow of the ocean.

The leaves danced and circled in the wind,

But I imagined they floated with the benthic push of the sea.

Only Whale Song hummed and moaned in my head.

For two hours.

Nothing but Whale Song.

I thought, “What a peaceful place to exist—where whales live.”

I thought, “Everything around me is colored with the deep resonance of whale song.”

I thought, “The trees and leaves and the river and mountains have a grace I’ve never noticed before.”

For two hours,

I experienced a world I had never seen before.

For two hours, I only saw the world.

For two hours, the world was a backdrop,

To Whale Song.

The gravel driveway back to the house felt crude and indelicate.

Entering through the door in the garage seemed odd and primitive.

The trappings inside the house looked foolish and unnecessary.

I lay down on the living room carpet to stretch my legs.

Whale Song still humming in my ears.

I expelled my last breath.

Whale Song still humming in my ears.

A beautiful solitary sound.

An Almost Perfect Companion

Uma is eleven years old. In a word, her exuberance for life is unsurpassed. She possesses the notable capacity for embracing every possible opportunity to play or run with undaunted enthusiasm and boundless energy.

Uma is a dog—specifically, a Field Bred English Cocker Spaniel. She has been my constant companion since I first claimed her, in the summer of 2000, from the airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan, delivered obediently by her trusty human escort from Duluth, Minnesota. She (Uma, not the escaort) was no bigger than my two outstretched palms, had the roundest gentlest brown eyes, a lustrous ebony coat save for the dusting of white whiskers at the point of her mouth and nose, and a relentless desire to be loved. Except for her size, she has not changed since that day.

When I made the decision in the summer of 2000 to take on a six week old puppy, it was, in part, to satisfy my desire for a hiking companion, a couch companion, a walking companion, a sleeping companion, a living companion. A companion who would not argue with me, tell me I was too fat, tell me how to dress or not to dress, insult my way of life, or make me choose between my children or him. In short, a companion who would expect nothing more from me other than daily meals, frequent pats and strokes, and a regular routine that included the occasional game of fetch. We have not disappointed each other. It is the longest voluntary relationship I have had with another living creature.

Last night, I stood in my bedroom, looking out at the black night, as I often do, and I contemplated the somewhat depressing reality that if something unforeseen should happen to me at home, it would likely be a while before anybody would find me. In the midst of this inner revelation, I glanced over and noticed Uma, sitting just off to my left, watching me, oblivious to the gravity of my thoughts, waiting only for my next move. Was it time for bed, or was I going to return to the computer room, or perhaps to the kitchen, or maybe the living room? What would it be? Huh? Huh? Huh?

Uma and I stared at each other a good long while—thirty seconds for me; a hardy two minutes for her. I was suddenly reminded of Dad’s famous phrase that so perfectly illustrated his general dislike for people—“People are no damn good..” I recalled how Dad has always repeatedly said how he prefers dogs over people. For the most part, I always agreed with him. That is, until that moment, when a little glitch in Dad’s logic suddenly became glaringly evident.

I got down on the floor to Uma’s level, grabbed her muzzle in my hands, looked her straight in the eyes and said, “How are your CPR skills?”

Sugar Cookie Cocoa Tea

This post has absolutely nothing to do with my mom or my dad or caregiving. But it has EVERYthing to do with my continuing efforts to discover the little joys in life.

I'll be brief.

I was in the kitchen early this morning, it had just hailed, and the bird bath on the garden table outside was frozen completely solid.

It was cold.

So....there I was in the kitchen, still in my PJs, barely awake, filling up the tea pot for my regular morning tea when I was overcome with the strangest urge to veer from my usual chamomile blend. Something different seemed to be called for on this frosty autumn morning.

I opened the pantry where the non-chamomile options live--orange-mint, Good Earth, Coconut Chai, Santa's Sleigh Spice, Throat Soother, Tummy Mint. I dunno.......nothing sounded like the perfect choice for such a chilly morning. I searched again, pushing boxes and bags aside to see what might be lurking behind the Good Earth. And, there, wayyyyy in the back, sitting all by itself, almost pulsating with the glowing light of soothing tea goodness, was my all-time holiday favorite--Santa's Sugar Cookie Tea (shameless plug for Celestial Seasonings). I scooped up the box and held it tight in my chilly little hands like it was the prodigal tea--newly discovered, never to be forgotten again.

This might have been the answer to everything, except........I wasn't really in the mood for Santa's Sugar Cookie Tea. The sound of it was......just okay, not enough to take the frosty edge off the brisk autumn morning.

So I stood........and I thought........and KABLAMM! like a bolt of culinary inspiration straight to my right cerebrum, it came to me--OVALTINE! I'll add just a wee bit to my Santa's Sugar Cookie tea--a hint of malt and a kiss of cocoa (Remember where you heard that first!)--to give my Santa's Sugar Cookie tea that extra pizazz.

Thus, my new favorite tea, which I have created myself--Sugar Cookie Cocoa Tea. Go on, say it, you know you want to--SugarCookieCocoaTea, SugarCookieCocoaTea. Just brings the holly right out of you doesn't it?

Any now if you'll excuse me, my tea pot is whistling....

Dumpsters

I have mixed feelings about dumpsters.

On the one hand, thanks to the rented dumpster that sets just outside the barn as I type: hundreds of boxes of "stuff" have been eliminated; the daunting task of sorting through all the "things" that Mom and Dad have carted around for the past fifty years (or more) is complete; my ToDo List is significantly shorter.

On the other hand, I can't help but visualize the local landfill where now, all of the umpteen photos, musty linens, broken picture frames, and ancient memorabilia I tossed into the dumpster are but tiny trivial specks scattered over the sea of who-knows-how-many-other-people's unwanted "stuff."

But back to the first hand.......thanks to the convenience of a dumpster, I imagine pieces of the electric blanket I used when I was five have been shredded by some enterprising sea gull and used for nesting material. That seems fitting.

But back to the other hand......I have a little trouble with the idea of voracious beetles gnawing away at the pages of my mother's fifth grade scrapbook, or the edges of that really old photograph of the unidentifiable-woman-in-the-really-great-hat. Then again, beetles have to eat.

Crazy Or Not So Crazy? That Is The Question.

Don't bother to remind me about how I used to crave silence. Don't even try to tell me about how I used to complain and gripe about Dad constantly engaging me in conversation. That was then; this is now.

Now.........I talk to my dogs.

A lot.

This afternoon, for example, I practiced a monolog from Titus Andronicus (I know. A bloody Shakespearean tragedy of all things) in front of a captive audience of one--one curiously-enthralled-but-ultimately-indifferent bulldog by the name of Emily.

Emily sat, and watched (Really, she did. She actually watched. See the photo of her at top of the post? That's exACTly how she looked!), and like any polite audience member, she remained sitting as I worked on the monolog, line by line, word by word, trying this inflection and that inflection. Sadly, like too many audience members, she sat expressionless, giving me virtually nothing by which to gauge my effectiveness, or lack thereof.

But back to my original point--the whole conversing with the animals bit.

So yes......I now chat with my dogs. I'm thinking (hoping?) this is normal. I'm thinking (hoping?) this is common. Let me be clear. I am NOT talking about a casual rhetorical comment thrown out to one or both dogs from time to time. Nooooooononono.

I'm talking about........a conversation.

I....have.....CONVERSATIONS........withmydogs.

Granted, they don't answer........in words.

But I HAAAVVVEEEE conversations with them.

I tell them what I'm thinking of doing that afternoon, or the next day.

I share my feelings about the movie I've just watched, or the article I just read.

Apparently they know that I'm addressing them.

They look me right in the eyes!

They cock their heads when I pose a question to them, rhetorical or otherwise. If they're paying attention, is it so wrong to engage them in simple conversation? I mean........we're not discussing world politics here. And it's not like I'm asking their permission to go anywhere or do anything (cuz that WOULD be a little crazy).

No, our conversations run more along the lines of, "Oh look at the carpet girls. It looks a little mufty (my word). Maybe I should vacuum. What do you girls think?"

Okay, okay, so maybe that WAS asking permission...

Or....."OK girls, I'm running out to the store. I'll be back soon. Do you need anything?"

oh shit.

Where's the Floppy Hat Man When I Need Him?

I watched a documentary the other night about Buddha. I'm not a religious person by any stretch of anybody's imagination, but I've been on a documentary kick lately--like I'm craving reality, facts, historical accounts. Go figure.

Anyway, there was this one part in the Buddha doc that talked about how Buddha spent x-number of years wandering around the jungle, or the forest, or the desert, trying to seek enlightenment, or the secret of enlightenment. What he discovered, and this is the statement that stuck with me, is that "enlightenment is in the moment."

This is not an unfamiliar concept--the idea of "being in the moment," "savoring the moment," "nirvana is now" (okay, I just made that one up, but you get the point.) For some reason, the way the statement was made in the documentary, coupled with the mood I've been in lately....it just had an affect on me. "Enlightenment is in the moment."

Then I reflected. I started reflecting a lot. Like.....about how angry I've been for the past several years. Like how.....I haven't been finding much enlightenment anywhere.

Then, I started having a bonafide "moment" of my own. You know how there are those life-changing moments in your life? This was one of them for me.

I put the documentary on Pause.

I thought to myself, "Okay, I'm tired of waiting for things to get better. I'm tired of waiting for when I'll be happy again."

I said to myself, "I want my 'better' to be right now. I want 'happy' to be right now. I want my enlightenment to be right now."

Then I asked myself, "What is my moment right now?"

I listened. All I could hear in the entire house was the gentle snoring of Emily, the bulldog, and soft breathing of Uma, the cocker. And I thought, "Enlightenment doesn't get much better than this." How perfect is that.

But wait, there's more...........

The next day, I decided to go for my usual 6 mile walk. This time, though, I decided I would walk with my new mantra in my head--Enlightenment in every moment, Enlightenment in every moment, Enlightenment in every moment....

This is big.

See, in the past, my typical walk looked like this--Me with my dark glasses on (so nobody could see my eyes); Me walking at a brisk, destination-oriented-do-NOT-get-in-my-way 4mph; Me with my iPod earbuds in; Me purposely NOT making any connection with anybody on the trail--NOT the annoying Audobon birdwatchers who inevitably ALWAYS blocked the trail but who always cheerfully said hello to me as I quickly power-walked by them in silence without acknowledging their presence (see, I told you I've been angry); NOT the ridiculous elderly gentleman with the floppy hap who regularly walks the trail and who voluntarily and unsolicitously comes up to me from time to time, chirps out a Good Morning, and then asks if I'd like him to join me on my walk even though I always firmly say No and keep moving past him while maintaining my 4mph pace; NOT the perky Eagle Lady who uses the trail to ride her bicycle out to the Eagle Tree to see if the bald eagles are perched at the top of the tree and who never fails to try and engage me in a running dialogue about how she has "ridden her bicycle all the way out to the Eagle Tree to see if any eagles are perched in the tree" and did I know that actual bald eagles perch in "that big tall tree down the trail" and have I seen any eagles today??? (Yah. I ignored her too.)

This was different. On this day, I walked with NO sunglasses and NO earbuds. Just me listening to every moment, and thinking over and over in my head, "Enlightenment in every moment, enlightenment in every moment." The first mile down my street was magnificent. Truly. Asphalt never felt so good.

Then, I made the transition onto the Discovery Trail. I passed several other trail-goers. I smiled (yes I really did). I actually even said, "How are you today?" to a few. It was pretty magnificent. For the first time in a long time, I was walking NOT to escape the world. I was walking.......to be part of the world. Armed with my renewed sense of being part of the the world, all I could think of was, "Bring on the Eagle Lady! Bring on the annoying Audobon Birdwatchers! Bring on the Floppy Hat Man!

Well.....I'm sorry to report that the birdwatchers were not out, the Eagle Lady was obviously doing something else, and the Floppy Hat Man never appeared. BUT.........did I let that deter me???

Oh no, no, no, no! I did manage to have a very pleasant exchange with a slightly muddy but sweet-faced elderly golden retriever. We made plans.

"Outside My Window"

My mother is not a photographer.

Dad is the photographer. Dad can bend your ear for hours about composition, and focal length, and aperture openings, speak all sorts of photo-ese. Dad has taken some amazing, beautiful photographs. I can't say that I've ever even seen my mother with a camera in her hands.

The other day, the A.L.F. in Pouslbo, where Mom lived this year from January to June, called to tell me that they had a photograph Mom had taken while she was there. Apparently a bunch of residents took photos one day and the A.L.F. entered the photographs into the Kitsap County Fair.

Mom's photograph, they told me, was entitled "Outside My Window."

It won an Honorable Mention ribbon, they said.

Could I come and pick it up, they asked.

Sure, I said.

Today I finally drove over to pick up "Outside My Window."

They handed me a large yellow envelope. I thanked them, took the envelope, gave them a quick update on Mom and Dad (because they asked), then left.

It wasn't until I got into the car, that I actually opened the envelope.

I pulled the photo out. And what my brain initially saw was this blurry, almost impressionistic image of some pink and red rose bushes outside a paned window, an empty flower pot on the lower left corner of the window sill. It looked like a painting. But, as I stared longer, I recognized the view--the rose bushes just outside Mom's window in her room in Poulsbo.

The photo had a weird, haunting effect on me. I sat in the A.L.F. parking lot just staring at it. After several minutes, something in my head decided I needed to frame it. So I drove to WalMart, bought a frame for Mom'a photo, unwrapped the frame in the car, and fit the matted photo into the frame right there in the WalMart parking lot. I still couldn't stop staring at it.

The thing is........I've spent so many years, and so much energy trying to figure out what was going on inside my mother's head. And somehow, this single snapshot, one she took just a few months ago, most probably the last photo she'll ever take, somehow told me so much about her.

I look at the photo and I want to scream so many things straight into my keyboard. I want to take the photo to every person in my family, to every friend of mine who has patiently listened to me vent about how little I was ever able to understand my mother, and point to the photo emphatically and say, "See this? This photograph? THIS.........says so much about Mom!"

I mean....

It's so blurry!

But it's a picture of roses!

One stinkin' photograph.

One stinkin', blurry photograph........of roses.

Of blurry.........beautiful roses.

What Mom saw.......outside her window.

Off-White Laundry Basket

The off-white laundry basket

lived on top of the off-white dryer

in the laundry room

for seven years.

Dad would pile his freshly-dried clothes

Into the off-white laundry basket.

Clothes in the off-white laundry basket were

Dad's clean, dry clothes waiting for me to fold.

I asked Dad again and again,

"Please Dad, leave the clothes in the dryer.

If you put them in the laundry basket

They cool and get wrinkled.

I'll fold the clothes from the dryer. It's okay."

Dad always put the clothes from the dryer

Into the off-white laundry basket.

Dad's shirts were always wrinkled.

Today I moved the off-white laundry basket.

Now, the off-white laundry basket

Lives in the linen closet in the hall.

The laundry room looks bigger.

Spice Jars

My thirtysomething year old son who is far wiser than he knows (I think) made the most succinctly enlightened comment to me the other day. He and my nephew were visiting. We were going through all of the generic Stuff that my parents have been toting around for the last 68 years, from house to house, garage to garage. He, my nephew, and I went through at least a hundred boxes of....Stuff, carefully deciding (okay.....sometimes, maybe not so carefully) whether to "Keep It", "Sell It", or "Dumpster It."

I can't remember now what the object was that was in question. Doesn't really matter. But the three of us stood there, in the barn-that-is-now-more-of-a-gigantic-storage-room, and stared at the object while individually formulating an opinion about how to categorize it. I was the first to speak.

"Oh I have to keep that," I said decisively as I reached to take the object.

But my enlightened son stopped me mid-reach and said simply, "Why would you keep that?

Honestly, I had no answer. I didn't know why I wanted to keep it. It wasn't even for sentimental reasons. In fact, it wasn't so much that I wanted to keep it. I just didn't want to throw it out. And it was at that moment that I realized a profound truth: Keeping something simply as an alternative to throwing it out, is not a valid reason for keeping it.

Now...a week later. I'm on fire with the ever-present question that, thanks to my son, is now burned into my brain--Why would I keep that? I've successfully and happily de-cluttered countless drawers (all of those 50+ year old spice jars in the kitchen drawer--are poppy seeds still good after 50 years? I doubt it.), cupboards (Really. How many containers of Adolph's Meat Tenderizer does a person need???), and boxes (Why I had 27 prints made of my first winter in Michigan, I'll never know.) with the singular objective in mind--Why would I keep that?

It's like a little mental miracle.

A Recovering Caregiver

I'm now a Recovering Caregiver. My therapist (yes, I'm seeing a therapist--decided it was more desirable for a paid professional to hoist me out of my emotional sewer than imposing that awkward task on friends or family) says I'm grieving, that it's normal for caregivers to grieve when the subjects of their caregiving are gone (whether by death or by geographical relocation--in my case, it's the latter).

I'm not big on grieving. I have things to do. Allowing myself time to grieve is not one of those things. But, as my therapist explains, I must allow myself time to grieve.

I'm working on that.

I thought this would be an easier transition. Maybe a few bumps here and there but all in all, quick and easy. I was wrong. From the moment I get up in the morning, until the time I finally go to bed at night, I wage an ongoing battle against the continuous stressors and structure that USED to define my day. That USED to define what I did, how I did it, when I did it. That USED to define.......well, everything. Including me.

It's amazing to me that I am having so much difficulty in sliding into a life without caregiving. A life in which I take care of just.....me. I seem to have forgotten how to do that.

Don't get me wrong. I don't constantly walk around hanging my head, a wad of damp Kleenex in my hand, bloodshot eyes, unable to function. I'm doing as much work as my project manager will send me, I'm playing with my dogs (they still seem to be confused by this....), I cook, I workout regularly. On the surface, I'm the picture of health. But inside my head....that's where the real battle wages. My therapist says I need to allow that battle to happen outside of my head.

A tall order....

Roller Coasters

I'm up. I'm down. I'm relieved. I'm depressed. I'm motivated. I'm lost. I'm happy. I'm sad. I'm excited. I'm apathetic. I'm energized. I'm lethargic.

It's like a postpartum thrill ride for caregivers. WTH?

Friends and Shit

I'm not gonna lie.......I'm not in great emotional shape at the moment. And since a blog is value-less unless it's honest, I figure I owe any other parental caregiver out there the courtesy of being perfectly candid about what's going on for me right now. "Now" meaning...........with Mom and Dad both gone, the house up for sale, all of the things my parents have carted along with them from house to house for the last 67 years being boxed up (by me) in preparation for the eventual estate sale, and me trying to figure out where/how I'm going to be living once the house sells. All those articles about how caregivers get really depressed after the people they cared for are gone.........I completely and totally understand that now. The sense of uselessness is overwhelming.

This is sort of Debby-Downer stuff. Sorry.

Earlier today I was standing in the sunroom and the morning sunlight was streaming through the windows, and the view of the Olympics was beautiful, and the sky was a perfect shade of cloudless blue, but all I could think of was that, aside from my slightly overweight English bulldog, Emily, and my significantly neurotic English cocker, Uma, I wasn't really "needed" anymore. It was one of those classic George Bailey moments--"Why am I even here? I'm worth more dead than alive. What a complete loser I am. " (Okay, Jimmy Stewart never said "complete loser" but the sense of total despair was certainly along those lines....)

It was somewhere in the middle of the thought, "What's the point anyway?" when my cell phone rang.

See, I have these two friends. And I don't know how to explain it, but on more than a few occasions over the last few years, when I have been really (I mean, REALLY) low.....one or both of them, for reasons that continue to amaze me, think to pick up their phone and call me.

So there I am, floundering in the sun room, up to my nose in some pretty serious depression, when my cell phone goes off. And it's one of my friends, calling to see how I'm doing, calling to say 'hi', calling to remind me that they love me and are thinking about me, calling to tell me that everything's going to be okay, calling to remind me to stay busy, move forward, or at least just keep moving. How do my friends know this shit?

Anyway..............so I want to say out loud here how indescribably grateful I am when anybody leaves any kind of comment or "heart" or....whatever on this site or on the Facebook site. Thank you. Really and truly. Thank you. I feel shitty and hopeless most of the time right now even though I know, on some intellectual level, that things will, indeed, be okay down the line. It's strange--going through a day feeling equal parts shitty, complacent, and apathetic, with glimmers of optimism sprinkled here and there. So if you feel like commenting with a word or two, please do. I'm not looking for sympathy. But a "hang in there" or a "You'll be fine" could be just the thing that gets me through the next twenty minutes.

Garbage

As long as I can remember, my parents have had, on the kitchen counter right next to the sink, one of those little rubber-coated-wire gizmos that you fit a quart-sized, clear, plastic bag into. It's for "wet" garbage--bones, peels, apple cores, melon rinds, meat scraps, etc. When it's full they just knot the bag and......and this is one of the things that makes me crazy about it.......toss it into the big plastic trash bag. Plastic in plastic. Makes every carbon-footprint in my bones shudder. As far as I know, the rubber-coated-metal-holder gizmo is the original one Mom got at the store at least twenty years ago.

Those of you who know "where I'm at" currently in terms of what's going on in my.....uh.....life, will understand the next bit.

Ten minutes ago......I walked into the kitchen, stopped, stared at that gawdawful, disgusting, rubber-coated-wire gizmo. Just stared it down. I observed that it was full. I realized......it's always full. I realize on top of that realization.......it's always BEEN full. In fact, I realize yet again.......I don't think I've ever seen it empty for more than 10 seconds. Full. Full. Full. Of garbage. Garbage. Garbage. Detritus. Debris. Shit. Gar-Bage. G.D.M.F.C.S. garbage.

So I walked very calmly over to the sink, picked up the whole works, the G.D.M.F.C.S. rubber-coated-metal-holder gizmo and the Garbage inside it, and I tossed it....dropped it really, for the last time in anybody's life......into the large plastic trash bag.

Eeeeyup. I done tossed the garbage.

Art Imitating Life

The place that has been my home for the last seven years is slowly being packed up, spackeled, cleaned, painted, rearranged, and transformed for its "New Listing" debut September 1.

My father leaves Thursday with my brother and sister-in-law via U-Haul and car for San Diego.

I drive my mother to SeaTac on September 4 where my brother will meet us, then fly with her down to San Diego, to join my Dad at the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility.

The walls are all bare and ready for paint. The kitchen cabinets have all been scrubbed clean of the grime and dirt I had apparently become all too used to over the past several years.

I'm rehearsing all week for Chekhov's Ivanov--to be performed Saturday in the park in Chimacum.

An actor friend called me the other day and asked how I was dealing with the move and my parents' leaving, etc., "How do you feel? Do you need to cry?" they asked.

I had no answer......at the time. Until we rehearsed Act 3 night before last.

Ivanov, end of Act 3--that's when I finally have time to cry. Every time we rehearse it, and probably for the performance too. Very blurry line right now between my life and my art.

Peaches and Hummus

Dad and I broke the big news to Mom--that she and Dad are going to move to San Diego, live together in the same facility, right down the road from my brother and his wife, and be closer to my two sons and their families. Her reaction? She kept saying how happy the news made her feel.

"I'm very happy" she kept repeating.

That was four days ago.

Day before yesterday my mother calls me while I'm at Sunny Farms. I answer the phone while perusing the peaches.

"Hello?"

"Dennnnnise......?"

"Hey Mom, how are you?"

"Dennnnnise......I want to commit suicide. I can't take this anymore. They're all witches here. I'm going to commit suicide."

"Well Mom, here's the deal. You can't commit suicide because you're moving to San Diego with Dad. "

"Oh?"

"Yes, remember? Dad and I came and told you?"

"Wellll, they keep telling me that Dad is a resident of San Marcos."

"No Mom. Dad is here in Sequim. Honest."

"Oh."

Suddenly the peaches didn't look so appetizing. I grabbed a container of hummus instead.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes....

My brain is mush. The whirlpool of change has sucked me in, pulled me under, and I am swimming like a crazy person to keep my head above water. Notice the lapse between now and my last post. There's a reason for that.

Thursday August 25 in my planner is marked--Dad --> San Diego.

Thursday September 1 in my planner is marked--Day 1 House Listed.

Sunday September 4 in my planner is marked--Take Mom to SeaTac--11:20am to San Diego.

Yup. Mom and Dad are relocating to SoCal. A more central location, closer to the bulk of the family, a break for me, less strain on Dad's pension, the opportunity for Mom and Dad to live together--all remarkably sensible and logical reasons.

I have a ToDo list that is longer than I am tall. I'm numb. I don't know how to feel. I wonder when I will.

Dad gives me big hug at least once a day and tells me how much he's going to miss me, and the mountains, and the trees, and the dogs. I tell him he'll be able to get great Mexican food whenever he wants. A feeble attempt to bolster his enthusiasm.

Bleeding Heart

I swear to all that's holy in the universe. This really happened. Today.

Premise: Dad has to go to the lab in Sequim for a fasting blood panel. He does this every six months. Standard. At around 10am I go into the living room, where he's in his recliner, head-deep in The Seattle Times.

Me: "Hey, let's go, I'm ready."

Dad: "OH! OKAY!" The paper is hastily folded, the halogen lamp turned off, and the recliner un-reclined in a matter of seconds. (Curious how much faster Dad is when he's not on his feet.) He grabs his walker, assumes the standing position, waits for the blood flow to return to his legs, and off he wheels toward the kitchen to put on his L.L. Bean jacket (even though it was 70 degrees today) and head outside to the Jeep.

Me: "I'll go get the Jeep and meet you in the driveway."

Dad: "YUP."

Note: We keep the Jeep in the barn now. After cleaning multiple rat nests from under the hood, we decided it was probably smarter to keep the Cherokee inside rather than outside, as it has been for the last couple of years.

I head to the barn just as Dad coming into the kitchen. The barn is twenty yards away from the garage. By the time I open the barn, get in the Jeep, back it out, and pull up to the garage, Dad will likely just be rolling out of the garage. No, I do not drive like a maniac. Yes, he is that slow.

Except.......when I pull up to the garage, he's not there, not in the driveway, not standing there with his walker, not waiting for me.

I park the Jeep, leave the engine running, get out of the car, thinking Dad is still in the kitchen trying to get his jacket on. I'm heading toward the garage when I spot Dad over by the shrubbery next to the front door, where the beautiful Hellebore and white Bleeding Heart bushes are.

Actually, I heard him before I saw him. He was singing, at the top of his 95 year old lungs, "Bess You Is My Woman" from Porgy and Bess, and as he was singing his heart out--"BESS.......YOU IS.........MAH WOMANNNNN............"--he was...........oh gawd I can't even believe I'm writing this............he was.........well, he was..........peeing..........urinating in the.......no, scratch that.....he was peeing ON the Bleeding Heart. One hand on his.......well, you know........the other hand sawing the air with song.

So there it is--Do you HAVE a mental picture of this? Do you have any idea how monumentally bizarre and equally.........just.......WRONG this picture was???? Do you? Huh?

ewwww.

Salad, Panninis, and Mama Chia

My brother and sister-in-law and I sat outside the Encinitas Whole Foods eating our salads and panninis and drinking our Mama Chia juices as we simultaneously discussed the current hot topic of conversation--whether or not to move Mom and Dad (and me) down to San Diego.

Reasons for and against moving are chewed concurrently with the chewing of toasted bread. Justifications for staying in or for leaving the PNW are tossed about along with our crisp greens.

The many factors-to-be-considered are bandied about--Will Dad consider moving? Will Dad refuse to move if I decide to move? Would Dad be happy living with Mom in an assisted living facility? Can I afford to live in SoCal? Can Mom and Dad afford to both live in a facility in SoCal?

We explore all of these questions and more. We drink, we eat, we talk. We eat and drink and talk more. We're all sort of thinking that Dad will like the idea of being closer to the rest of the family. That he'll rather like the opportunity to be closer to his great granddaughter, see more of the family on a more regular basis, be able to spend every day with Mom. It all makes good sense. The panninis are delicious and so seems our logic.

Then my cell phone rings.

It's my dad.

I answer it.

He's just calling to see how my visit's going. Am I having a good time? How is everyone? How's my granddaughter? Walking yet? Talking yet?

I fill him in on everything. My brother and sister-in-law munch away as I chat with Dad. We're having a lovely conversation. So lovely, in fact, that it occurs to me, as we talk, that a door of opportunity has suddenly opened and perhaps this would be a good time to possible plant a little seed, test the waters as it were, regarding Dad's feeling about the notion of moving.

I commit.

I dig.

I dip.

Then I begin to gush.

"Dad you should really see your great granddaughter! She's so precious! You know Dad......do you know how wonderful it would be if you could see her all the time? Do you Dad? Do you know how great that would be? To see her growing and changing ALL the time? You know what I mean Dad?"

Then I wait.

My brother and sister-in-law stop chewing their panninis, stop sipping their Mama Chia juice, stop spearing their salads, waiting to read my reaction to whatever Dad is about to say next.

"WELL...........TELL THEM THEY NEED TO COME UP FOR A VISIT SO I CAN SEE MY GREAT GRANDDAUGHTER?!"

This is NOT going to be easy.

HEAT!

"IF YOU DON'T STOP YOUR YELLING AND BANGING ON THE CAR, I'M GOING TO TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND TAKE YOU HOME!!!"

Sound familiar? You're nodding yes, aren't you? Right? Cuz.........Is there anything more frustrating than trying to be a safe and responsible driver when a temper tantrum is running amuck in the seat next to you?

First, you try to ignore it--maybe it will just stop on its own.

Nope.

Then, you try a direct command, "STOP IT!"

Nope.

Then, you try the fortified command, "STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

Nope.

Then,.......well just re-read the first sentence here. That's what happens next. Or some variation of that.

I thought I was taking Dad to visit Mom at the new A.L.F. in Sequim. I thought since the place is only a few miles away from the house, we could just zip over, have a pleasant visit, then zip home. I thought Dad would be in a great mood, excited to see Mom in her new digs after whining and moaning the last couple of weeks about how Poulsbo is soooo far away and how much he misses her.

I thought wrong.

In a word, Dad was in a mood. I have no idea why, but he was In A Mood. No sooner had we pulled out of the driveway and he was banging on the dashboard "HEAT! HEAT! WHERE'S THE HEAT?! BRRRRRRRR! IT'S GODDAMN FREEZING IN HERE! HEEEEEAT!" Vigorous running of palms together; exhaling of warm air into cupped hands...more yelling for HEEEEAT!...

It's a small car. There aren't a lot of places for the sound to go, except into my right ear. (Talk about a candidate for hearing loss!)

This is about the time when I tried the direct command. "STOP!"

Which had no effect whatsoever.

He continued--the banging, the yelling, more banging. Mind you......it was a warm sunny day; Dad had his L.L.Bean winter coat on. Sure, maybe he wasn't toasty warm, but it was a far cry from freezing in the car. Banging on the dashboard with both hands was definitely NOT warranted.

So, I refused to turn on the heat. (I can be moody too.) "No. We're almost there Dad! I'm not turning on the heat!"

That's when he got really belligerent about the whole thing. "WELL.....THEN I'LL TURN IT ON MYSELF! WHERE IS IT????"

That's when I tried the fortified command. "STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" Which, as I sort of figured, had absolutely no effect.

And it was at that point that my father's personal treasure hunt for the heater button/switch/lever ensued. Picture big ole' wrinkled withered ninety-five year old hands banging their way all over the dashboard (my side included) in search of HEAT....while I'm driving. He pressed everything. Coupled every press with "IS THIS THE HEAT?" Notice I said, "coupled" not "prefaced." The question is a mere formality. A obligation programmed from childhood that my father has not utilized with any sincerity for years. The banging continued...

The CD player suddenly blasted on.

I turned it off.

The FM blared.

I turned it off.

The CD player ejected.

I closed it.

The little CD storage compartment flopped open.

I shut it.

My GPS was toppled off its dashboard mount.

I re-attached it.

Now re-read the opening sentence again. Because this is where I finally lost my patience and resorted to using it. I pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, unbuckled my seat belt, turned to face my father, and yelled in his face, "IF YOU DON'T STOP YOUR YELLING AND BANGING ON THE CAR, I'M GOING TO TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND TAKE YOU HOME!!!"

And the most frustrating part--we were not more than thirty seconds from the A.L.F.! Sooooo close....

So I yelled at him. At my father. In the car. Like he was some out-of-control five year old brat. I wanted to drag him by the ear out of the car, shake my finger in his face, whoop his little arse, take him home and send him to bed without supper.

I didn't wait for a response. Started the car back up, pulled back onto the road, arrived at the A.L.F., when in to see Mom (Dad trailing behind me), hugs to Mom, pulled up a chair for Dad, pulled up a chair for me, started to chat idly away and not ten minutes into the visit.......

Dad is sound asleep.

Mom and I had a lovely visit.

Evil Puppetmaster God

When my daughter was four or so she wandered into the living room one beautiful sun-filled morning while I was talking on the telephone, giggled as she toddled over to me, began to climb up into my lap, then....as if some evil puppetmaster God decided to flip a switch inside of her little four-year-old tummy, she threw up her entire breakfast right there in front of me. Just like that. One second--happy as can be. Next second--barf on the floor.

What does this have to do with my parents? Everything.

When Dad and I were visiting Mom last Saturday at the A.L.F., it was a beautiful sun-filled afternoon. The sun streamed through her window, we chatted about her upcoming move to the A.L.F. in Sequim (next Friday....stay tuned), she said how excited she was to be moving closer to home, we remarked at how gorgeous the roses were outside her window, then.....as if some evil puppetmaster God decided to flip a switch inside of her 90 year old dementia-filled brain, she busted out into a full-on bawl and screamed, "I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN TAKE IT ANY LONGER!" Just like that. One second--roses and sunshine. Next second--bawling on the floor.

Just shoot me.

Dad's World of Dad About Dad For Dad

Maybe he's 95 and entitled to be self-centered and inconsiderate.

Doesn't make it any less annoying.

I fix myself a salad, Dad comes into the kitchen, sticks his nose into my salad and yells in my ear, "WHAT'S THAT?!" And before I can answer, he says, "IS THAT A SALAD?" And before I can answer that, he says, "PUT SOME BEETS ON IT!" (I hate beets. He knows this.) And before I can remind him (again) that I don't like beets, he says, "DON'T YOU LIKE BEETS?" Then, before he can dis on my salad anymore, I grab a fork and my beet-less salad and flee to the relative solitude of my office. This, or something very similar, happens more frequently than I can tell you.

I buy two of Amy's Green Tamales and put them in the garage freezer. A couple of days ago, I brought one into the house freezer so I could have it later in the week. This morning, Dad wheels into the kitchen and says, "HEY! I ATE THAT TAMALE LAST NIGHT FOR DINNER..." And before I can explain that that tamale was, in fact, for me, he proclaims, "DON'T GET IT AGAIN! IT WAS TERRIBLE!"

A few weeks ago, I took a stick of butter out of the fridge, unwrapped it, and set it out on a plate, on the counter so I could make cookies later on in the day. Dad wheeled into the kitchen, somehow homed right in on that solitary stick of butter setting on the kitchen counter, wheeled over, picked it up, took a big ole bite out of it and said, "WHAT KIND OF CHEESE IS THIS?!" (eeyup. He seriously did this.) Then he complained, "IS THIS CHEESE? HUH?! TERRIBLE! DON'T GET IT AGAIN! NO FLAVOR!" And then, and this is the most infuriating part, he threw it into the trash.

So, okay, Dad is 95. He's old. He's oblivious to most of what goes on around him because he can't hear or see most of what goes on around him. I love my dad. But chomping on my stick of butter without asking what it is first and then tossing it into the trash because you thought it was flavorless cheese is just plain annoying!

Everything but.....

Before I forget, and it drifts into the recesses of my cache memory, there is a topic I simply must address.

The contents of the basket of my mother's walker.

I'll be brief.

Because the contents are not.

As background, you should know that my mother is extremely territorial, and this quality has only been amplified by mom's age and her increasing dementia. You should also realize that in an A.L.F., frequent uninvited visitors to one's room is not an uncommon occurrence. And along that same line, the frequent disappearance of personal items is also not uncommon. I guess that's why everything, and I mean every thing, that belongs to a resident is permanently marked with their name. Of course, this doesn't prevent the unintentional pilfering, but it does help the staff to return said items to their proper owner.

Back to my mom's walker.

She has one of those walkers with a storage compartment under the seat. Within the compartment, there are also several pockets, some zippered, some not.

We're not talking about a large storage compartment here. It measures probably 24" in width by 12" in length by 8" in depth. Not huge, right? And yet.......

So here's what's in Mom's walker compartment:

two spare Depends, a hardcover book (currently, Carol Burnett's biography), a bag of Werther's Sugar-Free caramels, a box of plastic dental flossers, a square box of Kleenex, a brush, a few recently sent greetings cards from family members, a one pound box of See's candy (soft centers only), selected family photos, the current Vermont Country Store catalog, six pens, five pencils, Mom's reading glasses case, a can of Pepsi (and ONLY Pepsi), the key to her room (so she can lock herself in at night and keep the pilfering PeeBlossoms out), and five bottles of Afrin nasal spray hidden in the zippered side pockets (but don't tell anybody cuz she's not supposed to have those).

You know how they say you can tell everything about a person by looking at their checkbook?...

Just A Wet Dog

So....it rained all night.

And the dogs went out this morning for their early pee break.

They got all wet.

ALL wet.

And so Dad wheels into my office about a half hour ago, in his tidywhities, without his hearing aid (this is key), and yells, "UMA'S (one of the dogs) ALL WET. SHE'S IN THE FIRST STAGES OF HYPOTHERMIA!"

And I answer, "No. She's just wet."

And he says, "HUH!?" (because, of course, his hearing aid isn't in and he can't hear a word I'm saying). Then he turns to wheel out, shaking his head in disgust like he always does when he attempts to have a conversation without his hearing aid.....like it's the other person's fault. Geesh. So irritating.

Before he actually leaves the office, he turns back to me, all huffy and puffy and nose out of joint and skivvies in a bunch and yells, "SHE'S IN THE FIRST STAGES OF HYPOTHERMIA! SHE'S ALL WET! HOW'D SHE GET ALL WET ANYWAY???"

My brain goes into overdrive with all of the possible responses. Hello. We live in the PNW. Or, hello. Dad you just woke up, your brain's not working yet, go back to bed. Or, hello. Dogs get wet. Or, hello. Uma grew up in Michigan. In the snow. Hypothermia? I don't think so.

I opt for the simpler, "She's fine. It's raining."

To which he immediately blares angrily at me, "HUH?!" (because he still can't hear me because....well, you remember)

Then he turns, now completely disgusted and frustrated, and begins to wheel out of the office. Except, as he's turning, the other dog (Emily, also wet, but not, apparently suffering the early stages of hypothermia) steps on Dad's foot, and makes a little skin tear which promptly starts bleeding all over the rug (old people = thin skin = frequent skin tears = lots of blood).

Thus, I've spent the last half hour, bottle of Resolve in one hand, paper towel in the other, cleaning up blood spots and bandaging up Dad's foot.

Oh yeah....Uma's fine.

Wet.

But fine.

Dad's First Surfboard

I'm going to try something new.

The drive Dad and I take to visit Mom at the A.L.F. is an hour. A good amount of time to tell a story or two. As some of you may or may not know, Dad was in the group of pioneer surfers in southern California back in the thirties. So I asked him, "What was your first surfing experience?" The link takes you to Internet Archive where I'll be storing all of my Dad Stories. All you have to do is click on the link below, then click on the player that you'll find on the Internet Archive page that comes up. Enjoy!

http://www.archive.org/details/DadsFirstSurfboardrecordedMay212011

Here are a few photos to go along with the audio link. Hope this works...

Default Response

Keeping up a blog has its challenges. I have days when I have a half dozen events to blog about, but, I dunno, maybe I just get lazy. I tell myself, "Drag your sorry arse into the office and start typing!" 'Myself' just doesn't seem to listen.

Resistance is one decision away from productivity. (I just made that up. Pretty catchy eh?)

So here I am. Back in the saddle again.

My brain keeps tossing around the idea that, for both my mom and dad, the older they get, they seem to rely more and more on certain default responses. Certain phrases or statements, applicable or not, that get tossed into a conversation at random times for no other reason than something fires off in their brain and out comes the words.

Here's an example. Driving with Dad yesterday. He asks about my daughter and how she's doing in New York City, where she has lived for three years now. I tell him she's doing fine, working steadily, happy, busy. And he defaults with:

"SHE NEEDS TO HAVE SOMETHING TO FALL BACK ON."

And kaboinnnng, I'm jarred into a gazillion different reactions, most of which center around my having heard that EXACT phrase soooooo many times when I was growing up, I cannot even begin to tell you!

Or the other day, I was visiting Mom and we're talking about what she had for breakfast and she defaults with:

"I always fold my napkin when I'm done and I never lick my bowl."

That one was a little weird.

Here's what I've noticed. Dad's primary default mode is to be the All-Knowing, All-Powerful Sage for each and every family member, regardless of their age or level of financial stability. This would be great if he really was All-Knowing and All-Powerful. But Dad's warped and drastically out-dated sense of logic make it more like Sorta-Knowing and Not-So-Powerful. Imagine Obi-Wan with senility.

Mom's primary default mode is the ever-obedient, emotionally-needy, albeit somewhat spoiled, little girl. Like a sweet little puppy that just wants to be stroked and loved and kissed and hugged and held. Otherwise, it pees on your favorite shoe.

Anyway, so here's the status report. Dad is getting older. By the month. And if somebody could please find a cure for that....

Mom is struggling with depression and not getting her way at the A.L.F. Maybe it's the other way around--not getting her way, and therefore depressed. Not sure.