Christmas Eyeballs
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Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 05, 2008
Freddie and Sue, How are you?
My aunt Freddie and her friend Sue were great travel buddies. Once a year, Freddie flew from Tampa to Sue’s home in Tennessee to join a local group for a far-flung adventure. They had a grand time traveling here and abroad.
To my knowledge, their annual trip was about the extent of their contact, and yet it was enough. Many friendships are like that—bonds that seem to transcend time and space. Perhaps those are the best kind; the ones where you can always pick up right where you left off.
On Wednesday, both Aunt Freddie and Sue died—one in Florida, the other in Tennessee. Hmmm…what are the odds? Make of it what you will, I choose to believe that those ladies were ready for their next exciting road trip and decided to go together.
That “coincidence” got me to thinking about Judy, my travel buddy and grandmother-in-law (we share Tyler, our grandson). The other day, Judy suggested that we plan our next trip. I sure do hope she meant something a little closer to home.
Bon voyage, Freddie and Sue!
My aunt Freddie and her friend Sue were great travel buddies. Once a year, Freddie flew from Tampa to Sue’s home in Tennessee to join a local group for a far-flung adventure. They had a grand time traveling here and abroad.
To my knowledge, their annual trip was about the extent of their contact, and yet it was enough. Many friendships are like that—bonds that seem to transcend time and space. Perhaps those are the best kind; the ones where you can always pick up right where you left off.
On Wednesday, both Aunt Freddie and Sue died—one in Florida, the other in Tennessee. Hmmm…what are the odds? Make of it what you will, I choose to believe that those ladies were ready for their next exciting road trip and decided to go together.
That “coincidence” got me to thinking about Judy, my travel buddy and grandmother-in-law (we share Tyler, our grandson). The other day, Judy suggested that we plan our next trip. I sure do hope she meant something a little closer to home.
Bon voyage, Freddie and Sue!
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
The Eulogy
My dad’s story is familiar to the men of his generation. By all accounts, he has lived the American dream for which his generation sacrificed so much. He was born the second son of Lee and Ruth Miller. He was raised on a farm in Madison County and hated picking cotton. He had a dog named Bounce and mules Maude and Blue. He had three brothers and a sister and remained close to them throughout their lives. He felt a deep affection for his aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. He believed that family was the most important thing in life.
He graduated from high school at a time when so many young men dropped out of school to work on the family farm. He struggled through the Great Depression, embarrassed and hurt when his family lost their farm. He joined the AL National Guard and found himself in Kodiak, Alaska when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. When the news reached him on the Aleutian Islands, he was eating breakfast out of his mess kit. He ran to his tent and his breakfast froze. He lived in a tent for three years on Kodiak before going to France where, as an army medic, he tended to German prisoners of war.
After the war, he returned to Ryland, and according to him, his mother worked the stew out of him, so when someone offered him a job and a car, he took it and moved to Huntsville. There he met the love of his life, Mildred Berry. They carried on a flirtation through the mail with letters addressed to the Lonely Hearts Club. He took her dancing at Smith Lake.
After they married and started a family, their entrepreneurial spirit took over and they opened their own business. They were active in their church and community. Through years of good times spent with good friends, they celebrated a life filled with love for each other. He was devastated when she died. Twenty years after the death of his beloved grandmother, Jeremy honored them both when he spoke of how his grandfather’s love for her was an inspiration for his own marriage.
To his friends, he was a lot of fun.
To his brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and cousins, he was someone they could always count on for support.
To his customers, he was fair and honest.
To his four grandchildren and great grandson, he offered unconditional love.
To his daughter-in-law and son-in-law, he tried to be more father than father-in-law.
To his son and daughter, he was a blessing.
God doesn’t ask us to be perfect. He does, however, ask us to celebrate life. Chat Miller did as God asked.
After he kisses his wife and hugs his family and friends, I am certain that my dad is searching for Bear Bryant and yelling “Roll Tide.”
February 9, 2006
Words will always fail when they are needed to give the summation of a life.My dad’s story is familiar to the men of his generation. By all accounts, he has lived the American dream for which his generation sacrificed so much. He was born the second son of Lee and Ruth Miller. He was raised on a farm in Madison County and hated picking cotton. He had a dog named Bounce and mules Maude and Blue. He had three brothers and a sister and remained close to them throughout their lives. He felt a deep affection for his aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. He believed that family was the most important thing in life.
He graduated from high school at a time when so many young men dropped out of school to work on the family farm. He struggled through the Great Depression, embarrassed and hurt when his family lost their farm. He joined the AL National Guard and found himself in Kodiak, Alaska when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. When the news reached him on the Aleutian Islands, he was eating breakfast out of his mess kit. He ran to his tent and his breakfast froze. He lived in a tent for three years on Kodiak before going to France where, as an army medic, he tended to German prisoners of war.
After the war, he returned to Ryland, and according to him, his mother worked the stew out of him, so when someone offered him a job and a car, he took it and moved to Huntsville. There he met the love of his life, Mildred Berry. They carried on a flirtation through the mail with letters addressed to the Lonely Hearts Club. He took her dancing at Smith Lake.
After they married and started a family, their entrepreneurial spirit took over and they opened their own business. They were active in their church and community. Through years of good times spent with good friends, they celebrated a life filled with love for each other. He was devastated when she died. Twenty years after the death of his beloved grandmother, Jeremy honored them both when he spoke of how his grandfather’s love for her was an inspiration for his own marriage.
To his friends, he was a lot of fun.
To his brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and cousins, he was someone they could always count on for support.
To his customers, he was fair and honest.
To his four grandchildren and great grandson, he offered unconditional love.
To his daughter-in-law and son-in-law, he tried to be more father than father-in-law.
To his son and daughter, he was a blessing.
God doesn’t ask us to be perfect. He does, however, ask us to celebrate life. Chat Miller did as God asked.
After he kisses his wife and hugs his family and friends, I am certain that my dad is searching for Bear Bryant and yelling “Roll Tide.”
Carrot Soufflé
September 14, 2005
They all came home for Mother’s Day this year. They knew how difficult that particular day was for me, so they rallied around and, as usual, helped me celebrate instead of dwelling on how much I missed my mother. They understand that I still cannot bear to go to church on Mother’s Day. Some wounds never heal.
My three brought their three. It is interesting, and often amusing, to watch the brothers and sister relate as adults. When the wife, fiancé, and husband are added to the mix, things get a little nuts, but they are beginning to figure things out for themselves. Sometimes, in order to keep the peace, one will simply go to bed early. They are learning how to be a family.
I never had a sister although I always wanted one. I envied my friends who had sisters. I suppose that was why my mother and I were so close…neither of us had a sister. However, we both were blessed with sisters-in law who took us in and loved us. To mine, I will be eternally grateful.
Over the years my friends became my “sisters of sorts”. They know who they are. Their names are on my distribution lists. They are colorful characters---every last one of them. I like strong women who are not afraid to speak up, state their opinions, and chart their on course. They are also skilled at celebrating the good times and commiserating during the bad.
This morning I am mostly thinking about my brother and what he means to me. We grew up in an old-fashioned extended family where grandparents and a family friend lived with us. An assortment of relatives often visited and helped us understand the bigger family picture and where we fit into the scheme of things. We absorbed a sense of responsibility to and for one another.
A couple of weeks ago, my brother and I had to face the difficult truth that we could longer take care of our dad. His physical, social, and mental needs were more than we could handle. After a year of trying desperately to tend to him ourselves, we moved him to an assisted living facility. Three great meals a day, a wine and cheese party, loads of women—what more could a man want?
According to Daddy, I drove him out there and dumped him. I am not arguing the semantics of the situation. Let’s just say he did not go willingly. He called the store five times that first afternoon demanding that I come and get him or he was going to call a taxi. I didn’t respond, and he didn’t get that cab ride home. It was a horrible afternoon, but Ted and I survived—thanks in part to Caller ID. One does not need to be surprised at a time like this.
As hard as it was, I did it—alone. You see, for me that was not my “unbearable” – it was my brother’s. Every living soul has something that is so painful that they simply cannot bear it. Whatever it is may be universally recognized as tragic and garner sympathy. More likely, it is personal and seemingly trivial. My friend Dannye’s unbearable is carrot soufflé at Piccadilly. It was her mother’s favorite. Better to just leave it alone.
Facing his fear, Ted took Daddy to church the following Sunday and returned him to his new home. Perhaps one day I will go to church on Mother’s Day and Dannye will buy a bag of carrots. Until then…
Precious memories, How they linger!
September 14, 2005
They all came home for Mother’s Day this year. They knew how difficult that particular day was for me, so they rallied around and, as usual, helped me celebrate instead of dwelling on how much I missed my mother. They understand that I still cannot bear to go to church on Mother’s Day. Some wounds never heal.
My three brought their three. It is interesting, and often amusing, to watch the brothers and sister relate as adults. When the wife, fiancé, and husband are added to the mix, things get a little nuts, but they are beginning to figure things out for themselves. Sometimes, in order to keep the peace, one will simply go to bed early. They are learning how to be a family.
I never had a sister although I always wanted one. I envied my friends who had sisters. I suppose that was why my mother and I were so close…neither of us had a sister. However, we both were blessed with sisters-in law who took us in and loved us. To mine, I will be eternally grateful.
Over the years my friends became my “sisters of sorts”. They know who they are. Their names are on my distribution lists. They are colorful characters---every last one of them. I like strong women who are not afraid to speak up, state their opinions, and chart their on course. They are also skilled at celebrating the good times and commiserating during the bad.
This morning I am mostly thinking about my brother and what he means to me. We grew up in an old-fashioned extended family where grandparents and a family friend lived with us. An assortment of relatives often visited and helped us understand the bigger family picture and where we fit into the scheme of things. We absorbed a sense of responsibility to and for one another.
A couple of weeks ago, my brother and I had to face the difficult truth that we could longer take care of our dad. His physical, social, and mental needs were more than we could handle. After a year of trying desperately to tend to him ourselves, we moved him to an assisted living facility. Three great meals a day, a wine and cheese party, loads of women—what more could a man want?
According to Daddy, I drove him out there and dumped him. I am not arguing the semantics of the situation. Let’s just say he did not go willingly. He called the store five times that first afternoon demanding that I come and get him or he was going to call a taxi. I didn’t respond, and he didn’t get that cab ride home. It was a horrible afternoon, but Ted and I survived—thanks in part to Caller ID. One does not need to be surprised at a time like this.
As hard as it was, I did it—alone. You see, for me that was not my “unbearable” – it was my brother’s. Every living soul has something that is so painful that they simply cannot bear it. Whatever it is may be universally recognized as tragic and garner sympathy. More likely, it is personal and seemingly trivial. My friend Dannye’s unbearable is carrot soufflé at Piccadilly. It was her mother’s favorite. Better to just leave it alone.
Facing his fear, Ted took Daddy to church the following Sunday and returned him to his new home. Perhaps one day I will go to church on Mother’s Day and Dannye will buy a bag of carrots. Until then…
Precious memories, How they linger!
Preying
March 7, 2005
I am convinced that there is a special place in hell for people who take advantage of the elderly. All kinds of mean people in this world abuse children, animals, and the mentally and physically disabled. However, predators who target old people are often overlooked, because we are reluctant to admit that our once vibrant parent can no longer distinguish between a kiwi and a kumquat.
Telemarketers have created an industry selling magazines and vacuum cleaners to old people who cannot possibly read 100 subscriptions a month. And whose mother really needs three brand new vacuums?
Several companies sell organic cures to the elderly. Every possible ailment from constipation to memory loss, from baldness to impotence can be cured by products from these companies. Although I am not exactly worldly, I did not just get off the turnip truck. I do find it unseemly for my 84 year old father to be inundated with brochures advertising, in language generally found in an X-rated movie, all the various things he will be able to do after taking “the cure.” So far, he has taken garlic (and garlique), gingko biloba, shark cartilage, bee pollen, and horny goat weed in his quest for eternal youth.
Regardless of your opinion of Paul Harvey, you must admit that the man hawks everything under the sun. Convincing people over 80 that a memory improvement pill can really do the job is stretching the ethical basis of truth in advertising. And it comes with a video tape! This miracle was purchased by my dad who has never owned a VCR and didn’t remember writing the check.
My dad believes every nut case that comes his way. At one time he was rubbing apple cider vinegar on his head to cure dandruff. The entire house smelled like he had been dying Easter eggs. For gastric dysfunction, he ate eight golden raisins soaked in gin. He was probably more interested in the gin than in alleviating gas.
Someone gave him foolproof techniques for keeping the squirrels out of his pecan tree. When an assortment of rubber snakes and owls did not convince the critters of the folly of their ways, he tried filling the legs of pantyhose with moth balls. This wasn’t too bad until he tied the pantyhose to the tree, crotch side toward the street. Now he has sheets of tin wrapped around the tree in hopes that the squirrels will slip and cut their throats.
Out of the goodness of his heart, he responded to a couple of mail requests for contributions to causes that he considered worthy. The scoundrels then sold his name to every fundraiser in America. Before it was over, he was sending money to eradicate diseases that we had never heard of. And good Methodist that he is, he was unwittingly supporting charities sponsored by every religion except Wicca.
Daddy’s desire to help those in need has morphed into the equivalent of feeding stray cats. One woman was selling him sacks of home-cooked meals for $25-$50. I tossed the fine dining before he succumbed to food poisoning. While her pimp waited in the alley, a crack head demanded money for “medicine.” After she got pregnant, her sob story was that she needed money for the baby. I explained that if the baby wasn’t his, it wasn’t his problem. He nearly fainted at the thought.
I firmly believe that everyone should have a job that they love-one that provides a feeling of accomplishment and a reasonable financial reward. However, I abhor the slime balls that find satisfaction in conning the elderly and get rich in the process.
Deciding exactly who is doing the preying is subjective. My brother overheard Daddy tell a friend that I sold his car, took the money and his checkbook, and moved to Georgia.
March 7, 2005
I am convinced that there is a special place in hell for people who take advantage of the elderly. All kinds of mean people in this world abuse children, animals, and the mentally and physically disabled. However, predators who target old people are often overlooked, because we are reluctant to admit that our once vibrant parent can no longer distinguish between a kiwi and a kumquat.
Telemarketers have created an industry selling magazines and vacuum cleaners to old people who cannot possibly read 100 subscriptions a month. And whose mother really needs three brand new vacuums?
Several companies sell organic cures to the elderly. Every possible ailment from constipation to memory loss, from baldness to impotence can be cured by products from these companies. Although I am not exactly worldly, I did not just get off the turnip truck. I do find it unseemly for my 84 year old father to be inundated with brochures advertising, in language generally found in an X-rated movie, all the various things he will be able to do after taking “the cure.” So far, he has taken garlic (and garlique), gingko biloba, shark cartilage, bee pollen, and horny goat weed in his quest for eternal youth.
Regardless of your opinion of Paul Harvey, you must admit that the man hawks everything under the sun. Convincing people over 80 that a memory improvement pill can really do the job is stretching the ethical basis of truth in advertising. And it comes with a video tape! This miracle was purchased by my dad who has never owned a VCR and didn’t remember writing the check.
My dad believes every nut case that comes his way. At one time he was rubbing apple cider vinegar on his head to cure dandruff. The entire house smelled like he had been dying Easter eggs. For gastric dysfunction, he ate eight golden raisins soaked in gin. He was probably more interested in the gin than in alleviating gas.
Someone gave him foolproof techniques for keeping the squirrels out of his pecan tree. When an assortment of rubber snakes and owls did not convince the critters of the folly of their ways, he tried filling the legs of pantyhose with moth balls. This wasn’t too bad until he tied the pantyhose to the tree, crotch side toward the street. Now he has sheets of tin wrapped around the tree in hopes that the squirrels will slip and cut their throats.
Out of the goodness of his heart, he responded to a couple of mail requests for contributions to causes that he considered worthy. The scoundrels then sold his name to every fundraiser in America. Before it was over, he was sending money to eradicate diseases that we had never heard of. And good Methodist that he is, he was unwittingly supporting charities sponsored by every religion except Wicca.
Daddy’s desire to help those in need has morphed into the equivalent of feeding stray cats. One woman was selling him sacks of home-cooked meals for $25-$50. I tossed the fine dining before he succumbed to food poisoning. While her pimp waited in the alley, a crack head demanded money for “medicine.” After she got pregnant, her sob story was that she needed money for the baby. I explained that if the baby wasn’t his, it wasn’t his problem. He nearly fainted at the thought.
I firmly believe that everyone should have a job that they love-one that provides a feeling of accomplishment and a reasonable financial reward. However, I abhor the slime balls that find satisfaction in conning the elderly and get rich in the process.
Deciding exactly who is doing the preying is subjective. My brother overheard Daddy tell a friend that I sold his car, took the money and his checkbook, and moved to Georgia.
Chicken Tenders and Post-It Notes
October 22, 2004
I stay confused. For three years now I have been waking up in a different bed every few days. If I was on some sort of exotic vacation around the world, I might not mind so much. However, that is not the case. I just shuffle from home to someone else’s home and try to remember how to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I really should not complain. When I am in Huntsville, Ted and Shelley, my brother and sister-in-law, willingly take me into their home. I usually repay them with wine and dog food. They thank me by letting me work at the store.
I used to slip over to Decatur to stay with Rachel and BJ, who have decided to move to Charlotte. I am trying not to take the move personally. Rachel and I enjoyed talking until late, around 10:30 or 11:00, then I headed for bed. I scraped the cat hair off the pillow and climbed under the comforter. Rachel knew which comforter I liked, and it wasn’t the one heavy enough to use as protection from x-rays. I had to bring my own towels though. Their towels, the size of beach towels, made me list to one side when I wrapped them around my wet hair. I even bought my own lamp and alarm clock. I will miss them now that they have moved out of my crosshairs.
After a few days of putting out fires, Lucy and I would return to Bold Springs, GA. Life here is so quiet that I can hear the new sod grow. We sleep late and read the Atlanta Journal Constitution on the back porch. Lucy sniffs out squirrels and checks for deer that lurk in the woods.
That was five weeks ago. The Great Malvini, as he is known to assorted family and friends, turned his life, and ours, upside down. The day began much as every day had for the past six months. Daddy ate lunch at Tenders, a chicken establishment in Huntsville’s Five Points’ area. The girl knew his order—the snack pack, slaw, no fries, and the seven piece to go. After eating his snack pack, he collected his to-go order and delivered it to Kay, a lifelong friend and relative of sorts. He always handed her the chicken while standing on the porch. She handed him love notes, and he left, telling her that he had to get back to the store.
This scenario ran like clockwork until the unfortunate incident. On that fateful day, Daddy really delivered that chicken—stopping only when his Lincoln Town Car hit the house.
I had just pulled into the bank’s parking lot when Ted called and ominously asked “Where are you?” I knew immediately that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride had commenced.
Daddy was standing in the front yard, a paper towel on his bloody hand, staring at his car when I arrived at the scene. Both air bags had deployed, so he obviously drove full throttle into that wall. He had a few bumps and bruises but was fine—physically.
I hastily grabbed a garbage bag out of my trunk and emptied the car of aluminum cans (he collects them for a customer who has been banned from the store by Shelley), old Shrine newspapers, a hat, and old bread that he drags home for the birds but attracts roaches. Ted found a piece of cornbread stuck in the air bag. I explained the situation as best I could to the stunned tow truck driver while Kay rummaged around until she “found a bandage and some tape” for the bleeding hand. I doubt that she knows to this day that a Post-It note and Scotch tape aren’t recognized by the Red Cross as adequate first aid.
I learned many valuable things that day. According to Malvin L. Miller, American, he was driving a 1950 Pontiac Grand Prix. He does 50 push ups every day. And he told the guy in Star Market that he married in 1957. (Ted and I were devastated to learn that we were illegitimate.)
A couple of days after the wreck, his doctor told him that he could no longer live alone or drive. I threw in the “no vodka” rule for good measure. As we left the doctor’s office, he remarked, “I won’t be worth a damn until I get some transportation.”
Since that auspicious day, Daddy has been “visiting” Tim and me. Here at Bold Springs, our pine trees are the tallest that he has ever seen. The fountain makes him either go to sleep or go to the bathroom. Lucy shares his every meal. The man who totaled his car on the side of a house offers driving directions because “nothing looks familiar.” He rides the scooter at Wal-Mart. He ate at a food court for the first time at the Mall of Georgia. At Moe’s Southwest Grill, he loved the quesadilla and the black and red chips. His new tennis shoes have Velcro straps.
He attended Jeremy’s wedding at Seaside where he danced with Rachel and filled his pockets with the souvenir chocolates. Late in the evening, Evan drove his Gran back to the cottage; he had not missed a minute of the fun. He went to Washington to see the World War II Memorial and was amazed by the beauty of the Library of Congress. The airport security guard mistook him for an al-Qaida terrorist and threatened to have me arrested.
Every now and then, the restlessness that is born in my confusion must be addressed. I need to make sense of my life, to understand why some things have to be so difficult. I have discovered that life is so full of complexities that it defies pigeonholing. I distrust people who have all the answers; the ones for whom life is simply a matter of black and white, right and wrong.
More than anything, I want the peace that passes all understanding. Because I am unlikely to gain the understanding, I believe the peace would satisfy my soul. Chicken tenders brought about the demise of life as we knew it and a Post-It note could not restore it.
October 22, 2004
I stay confused. For three years now I have been waking up in a different bed every few days. If I was on some sort of exotic vacation around the world, I might not mind so much. However, that is not the case. I just shuffle from home to someone else’s home and try to remember how to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I really should not complain. When I am in Huntsville, Ted and Shelley, my brother and sister-in-law, willingly take me into their home. I usually repay them with wine and dog food. They thank me by letting me work at the store.
I used to slip over to Decatur to stay with Rachel and BJ, who have decided to move to Charlotte. I am trying not to take the move personally. Rachel and I enjoyed talking until late, around 10:30 or 11:00, then I headed for bed. I scraped the cat hair off the pillow and climbed under the comforter. Rachel knew which comforter I liked, and it wasn’t the one heavy enough to use as protection from x-rays. I had to bring my own towels though. Their towels, the size of beach towels, made me list to one side when I wrapped them around my wet hair. I even bought my own lamp and alarm clock. I will miss them now that they have moved out of my crosshairs.
After a few days of putting out fires, Lucy and I would return to Bold Springs, GA. Life here is so quiet that I can hear the new sod grow. We sleep late and read the Atlanta Journal Constitution on the back porch. Lucy sniffs out squirrels and checks for deer that lurk in the woods.
That was five weeks ago. The Great Malvini, as he is known to assorted family and friends, turned his life, and ours, upside down. The day began much as every day had for the past six months. Daddy ate lunch at Tenders, a chicken establishment in Huntsville’s Five Points’ area. The girl knew his order—the snack pack, slaw, no fries, and the seven piece to go. After eating his snack pack, he collected his to-go order and delivered it to Kay, a lifelong friend and relative of sorts. He always handed her the chicken while standing on the porch. She handed him love notes, and he left, telling her that he had to get back to the store.
This scenario ran like clockwork until the unfortunate incident. On that fateful day, Daddy really delivered that chicken—stopping only when his Lincoln Town Car hit the house.
I had just pulled into the bank’s parking lot when Ted called and ominously asked “Where are you?” I knew immediately that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride had commenced.
Daddy was standing in the front yard, a paper towel on his bloody hand, staring at his car when I arrived at the scene. Both air bags had deployed, so he obviously drove full throttle into that wall. He had a few bumps and bruises but was fine—physically.
I hastily grabbed a garbage bag out of my trunk and emptied the car of aluminum cans (he collects them for a customer who has been banned from the store by Shelley), old Shrine newspapers, a hat, and old bread that he drags home for the birds but attracts roaches. Ted found a piece of cornbread stuck in the air bag. I explained the situation as best I could to the stunned tow truck driver while Kay rummaged around until she “found a bandage and some tape” for the bleeding hand. I doubt that she knows to this day that a Post-It note and Scotch tape aren’t recognized by the Red Cross as adequate first aid.
I learned many valuable things that day. According to Malvin L. Miller, American, he was driving a 1950 Pontiac Grand Prix. He does 50 push ups every day. And he told the guy in Star Market that he married in 1957. (Ted and I were devastated to learn that we were illegitimate.)
A couple of days after the wreck, his doctor told him that he could no longer live alone or drive. I threw in the “no vodka” rule for good measure. As we left the doctor’s office, he remarked, “I won’t be worth a damn until I get some transportation.”
Since that auspicious day, Daddy has been “visiting” Tim and me. Here at Bold Springs, our pine trees are the tallest that he has ever seen. The fountain makes him either go to sleep or go to the bathroom. Lucy shares his every meal. The man who totaled his car on the side of a house offers driving directions because “nothing looks familiar.” He rides the scooter at Wal-Mart. He ate at a food court for the first time at the Mall of Georgia. At Moe’s Southwest Grill, he loved the quesadilla and the black and red chips. His new tennis shoes have Velcro straps.
He attended Jeremy’s wedding at Seaside where he danced with Rachel and filled his pockets with the souvenir chocolates. Late in the evening, Evan drove his Gran back to the cottage; he had not missed a minute of the fun. He went to Washington to see the World War II Memorial and was amazed by the beauty of the Library of Congress. The airport security guard mistook him for an al-Qaida terrorist and threatened to have me arrested.
Every now and then, the restlessness that is born in my confusion must be addressed. I need to make sense of my life, to understand why some things have to be so difficult. I have discovered that life is so full of complexities that it defies pigeonholing. I distrust people who have all the answers; the ones for whom life is simply a matter of black and white, right and wrong.
More than anything, I want the peace that passes all understanding. Because I am unlikely to gain the understanding, I believe the peace would satisfy my soul. Chicken tenders brought about the demise of life as we knew it and a Post-It note could not restore it.
The Days Are Getting Shorter
September 7, 2004
Summer symbolizes the fullness of life for me. As a kid, I considered playing outside and catching lightning bugs long after dark as the best part of a lazy summer day. Perhaps it’s because I was born in July and can’t seem to get enough sunshine. My favorite day is June 21, the summer solstice—the longest day of the year. Unfortunately, the summer solstice is also the harbinger of the darkness to follow… the winter solstice.
I am generally an optimistic, happy person, but these days there is a sadness lingering in the shadows. The irony of the birth of a long-awaited child and the slow, but steady, decline of our father and grandfather does not escape my notice.
Mother was only 60 years old, far too young to grapple with the reality of death. She was ill for less than a year and stayed active until the last few months. In fact, she and Daddy went to Austria with GE two months before her death. She was cheerful, alert, and interested in the life around her. From the hospital, she called her friends and family “just to talk” and, I later realized, to say goodbye.
With Daddy, our experience is radically different. Through the years, he has said many goodbyes. Friends and family have gone ahead without him. He no longer walks through Thornton Acres, picking up abandoned cans and leaving them like a calling card on our porch. He stopped swimming at the old Dunnivant’s Mall, because he claimed that the chlorine in the water gave him the “itch.” He didn’t join the Quarterback Club last year. He doesn’t attend Shrine meetings or dance the jitterbug. Probably, the hardest was saying goodbye to the Alabama Crimson Tide football games.
However, he continues to amaze us. He buys Little Debbie’s and candy at Wal-Mart, giving them to an old high school friend whose son shares with classmates at the Opportunity Center. He frequents Piccadilly where the ladies know him and keep a watchful eye on him. Most days he takes a lunch of Tender’s chicken to a lady friend from church. He goes to an assisted living facility to visit a friend who now has Alzheimer’s. On his way home from Winn-Dixie, he often drops off a cantaloupe at the home of a war buddy. He fusses that the squirrels have eaten this year’s pecan crop, and he will not be able to supply the cooking needs of scores of ladies who depend on his generosity. He is excited about the birth of a new grandson and the wedding of his oldest grandson.
An American flag is proudly flown from his front porch on important and not-so important days. Next month Ted, Tim, and I are taking him to Washington, DC to visit the WWII Memorial. We request your prayers. These days the war is foremost on his mind. He regales us with tales from Kodiak, Alaska and France. He is rightfully proud of his service to his country. He tells every political pollster who calls that he is not a Democrat, a Republican, or an atheist. He is an American. They don’t call back.
And every Sunday, he goes to the cemetery. He takes fresh flowers cut from the yards of friends and strangers. He will leave his car idling in the middle of the street to cut pink flowers because pink was Mother’s favorite color.
Recently, I watched him at the store, diligently working in his puzzle book. He is frail, fragile, and befuddled. We often wonder if he is aware of his tenuous hold on life. I put my arms around him and asked, “Daddy, what in the world are we going to do?”
His eyes cleared as he replied, “The days are getting shorter.”
When the Sun Goes Down
August 15, 2004
At ten o’clock in the morning, he seems like any other elderly Southern gentleman, circling words in his puzzle book as he sips the last of the coffee. He tells everyone who asks how he is doing, “Well, 50 years ago I was doing better.” To the casual observer, he is managing nicely, living alone and coping with day to day problems. But by late afternoon, the scene changes dramatically.
At first, we did not understand the strange and extraordinary transformation. Eventually, I stumbled upon the explanation—sundowning, a rare phenomenon occurring in the afternoon and evening among the elderly. It is characterized by distinct physical and mental changes. What may have been easy to accomplish in the morning is impossible by evening.
Family members are often unaware that their elderly parent is experiencing sundowning, especially if the parent is living alone. Typically, older people are in for the night by late afternoon. By the time the family catches on, the parent may have lived in an unsafe environment for a long time.
Our family has known for more than six months that Daddy should no longer live alone. The difficulty lies in explaining this to him. Because he functions reasonably well during the day, he resents the fuss over his continuing to live by himself. Conversations about driving are met with stony silence.
Why am I telling you all this? Recently I wrote two essays, one about taking my dad to Tampa, and the other for Father’s Day about how our family was coping with his decline. Many people told me that they were just beginning to experience the same things with their parents. Few knew about sundowning.
What does sundowning look like? Take an eraser to a picture of your 84 year old father.
When we take Daddy out for lunch, he orders from the menu and enjoys the meal and the company. At dinner, he struggles to read the menu. If given several options, he gets increasingly confused. “What are you going to have?” he often asks. I now order for him. He does not recognize the food, even if it is something that he eats regularly. He will often say, “I like this. I have never had it before.”
Table manners are forgotten at night. He may feed himself with his fingers, have food on his face and clothes, and help himself to food on the plates of others at the table. He tends to eat an inordinate amount of soup, because it is easy—no cutting. He devours his food as though he is starved.
Any time during the day, he repeats himself, telling the same stories over and over. Late in the day the stories begin missing parts and the names of the characters change. The long dead are resurrected.
Although Daddy has lived in Huntsville all his life, thanks to sundowning he often recognizes few places other than his own home at night. During the day, he drives to familiar places. At night, that is dangerous. On at least two occasions, he has gotten lost at night. We are looking at GPS devices.
Rational decision making becomes irrational. A couple was in the store late one afternoon. The man, dressed in a native, African costume complete with a walking stick, and a woman, also dressed in costume, talked Daddy into taking them to the bus station. While I was distracted at the back of the store, he left with these strangers. Nancy, one of our employees, yelled, “Come quick!” and ran to stop him. As I approached his car, I heard Nancy begging him to wait for me. He saw me and backed out of his parking space, the car door open and nearly running over Nancy’s foot.
A few months ago, the phone rang at 8:30 pm. He was asleep in the recliner and fell trying to answer the phone. He bled all night. The next morning, he called my brother and asked him to bring him a couple of band-aids. My sister-in-law found a bloody scene when she arrived at the house. He had slept in a long-sleeved shirt thinking that would stop the bleeding. Had he fallen in the morning, he would have made better decisions.
Most mornings he knows which day it is and takes the correct medicine. But by nighttime he is likely to take two days’ worth, forgetting both what day it is and that he has already taken the evening pills.
Physical difficulties become more pronounced. While Daddy is unsteady on his feet during the morning, he can hardly walk by evening. Normally quite talkative (hence nicknamed “Chat” by his grandfather) during the day, at night he is mostly silent.
Our family is neither unique nor courageous. My brother and I remember what it was like to live in an extended family—two grandparents and an old maid family friend lived with us. Today, more options are available for independent living. However, the day ultimately arrives when the family must make those painful decisions that satisfy no one.
One morning I tried to explain to Daddy that he could no longer live alone because of sundowning. I carefully and, as gently as possible, described his demeanor late in the day. I told him that he needed to be near other people for his own well being. I was proud of myself for the way I handled the situation. Later, he told my brother that I had accused him of having Downs Syndrome. Back to square one.
August 15, 2004
At ten o’clock in the morning, he seems like any other elderly Southern gentleman, circling words in his puzzle book as he sips the last of the coffee. He tells everyone who asks how he is doing, “Well, 50 years ago I was doing better.” To the casual observer, he is managing nicely, living alone and coping with day to day problems. But by late afternoon, the scene changes dramatically.
At first, we did not understand the strange and extraordinary transformation. Eventually, I stumbled upon the explanation—sundowning, a rare phenomenon occurring in the afternoon and evening among the elderly. It is characterized by distinct physical and mental changes. What may have been easy to accomplish in the morning is impossible by evening.
Family members are often unaware that their elderly parent is experiencing sundowning, especially if the parent is living alone. Typically, older people are in for the night by late afternoon. By the time the family catches on, the parent may have lived in an unsafe environment for a long time.
Our family has known for more than six months that Daddy should no longer live alone. The difficulty lies in explaining this to him. Because he functions reasonably well during the day, he resents the fuss over his continuing to live by himself. Conversations about driving are met with stony silence.
Why am I telling you all this? Recently I wrote two essays, one about taking my dad to Tampa, and the other for Father’s Day about how our family was coping with his decline. Many people told me that they were just beginning to experience the same things with their parents. Few knew about sundowning.
What does sundowning look like? Take an eraser to a picture of your 84 year old father.
When we take Daddy out for lunch, he orders from the menu and enjoys the meal and the company. At dinner, he struggles to read the menu. If given several options, he gets increasingly confused. “What are you going to have?” he often asks. I now order for him. He does not recognize the food, even if it is something that he eats regularly. He will often say, “I like this. I have never had it before.”
Table manners are forgotten at night. He may feed himself with his fingers, have food on his face and clothes, and help himself to food on the plates of others at the table. He tends to eat an inordinate amount of soup, because it is easy—no cutting. He devours his food as though he is starved.
Any time during the day, he repeats himself, telling the same stories over and over. Late in the day the stories begin missing parts and the names of the characters change. The long dead are resurrected.
Although Daddy has lived in Huntsville all his life, thanks to sundowning he often recognizes few places other than his own home at night. During the day, he drives to familiar places. At night, that is dangerous. On at least two occasions, he has gotten lost at night. We are looking at GPS devices.
Rational decision making becomes irrational. A couple was in the store late one afternoon. The man, dressed in a native, African costume complete with a walking stick, and a woman, also dressed in costume, talked Daddy into taking them to the bus station. While I was distracted at the back of the store, he left with these strangers. Nancy, one of our employees, yelled, “Come quick!” and ran to stop him. As I approached his car, I heard Nancy begging him to wait for me. He saw me and backed out of his parking space, the car door open and nearly running over Nancy’s foot.
A few months ago, the phone rang at 8:30 pm. He was asleep in the recliner and fell trying to answer the phone. He bled all night. The next morning, he called my brother and asked him to bring him a couple of band-aids. My sister-in-law found a bloody scene when she arrived at the house. He had slept in a long-sleeved shirt thinking that would stop the bleeding. Had he fallen in the morning, he would have made better decisions.
Most mornings he knows which day it is and takes the correct medicine. But by nighttime he is likely to take two days’ worth, forgetting both what day it is and that he has already taken the evening pills.
Physical difficulties become more pronounced. While Daddy is unsteady on his feet during the morning, he can hardly walk by evening. Normally quite talkative (hence nicknamed “Chat” by his grandfather) during the day, at night he is mostly silent.
Our family is neither unique nor courageous. My brother and I remember what it was like to live in an extended family—two grandparents and an old maid family friend lived with us. Today, more options are available for independent living. However, the day ultimately arrives when the family must make those painful decisions that satisfy no one.
One morning I tried to explain to Daddy that he could no longer live alone because of sundowning. I carefully and, as gently as possible, described his demeanor late in the day. I told him that he needed to be near other people for his own well being. I was proud of myself for the way I handled the situation. Later, he told my brother that I had accused him of having Downs Syndrome. Back to square one.
Flying High
February 2, 2004
I believe that no good deed ever goes unpunished. When was the last time that you boarded an airplane with an 83 year old man who takes diuretics? Never you say? No sane person would do such a foolish thing! Well, there you have it!
Several months ago I decided that my dad should visit my aunt in Tampa and I would be the one to take him. At first, we were going to drive, but Tim said, “Are you out of your #**# mind?” Delta to the rescue.
Because my dad had not flown since 9-11, I explained all the new security procedures, including packing his pocket knife in his checked bag. I forgot the shoes. As he started through the scanner, the machine started clanging like a fire truck. A guard led the nation’s next terrorist over to a chair and asked him to remove his shoes. Then the wanding began. Of course, the watch, the eyeglasses case clip, the ring, the wallet…all had to be removed. Then it happened. The diuretics kicked into high gear. Apparently, the guard had not been briefed on such eventualities, because he insisted on finishing the inspection—only faster.
As soon as the guard said, “OK, sir, you may go,” Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride began. We managed to get the shoes back on, and I grabbed his coat, hat, and assorted stuff. As Daddy took off for the restroom, I made a mad dash for the bowl of pocket change that had made it through the scanner. He made it just in the nick of time…well, mostly.
As we settled into our seats at the back of the small plane, Daddy decided that another trip to the restroom was in order. I argued that the plane was moving; therefore, wandering around the cabin wasn’t a good idea. Well, sitting there in his state of emergency wasn’t a good idea to him. Within minutes I heard the attendant banging on the restroom door. “Sir! Sir! You have to come out now. The plane is leaving.” After a while, “Sir” emerged. There was a repeat performance when we landed. And another one at the food court in Atlanta. By that time I realized that some adjustments must be made. A restroom stop was scheduled for every 10-15 minutes.
When we got to my aunt’s house, Daddy produced a bottle of vodka from his suitcase. No wonder he packed his own bag even though I offered to do it for him. I should have been suspicious when this Scotch drinker suddenly switched to vodka, but No-o-o-o-o. I was tired and clueless. By the end of the week, I finally realized that all that iced water wasn’t.
The first round of stories began over Cuban sandwiches. Trust me. This was only the beginning. I heard the same stories over, and over, and over, and over. You get the picture.
I was grateful for bedtime which consisted of a trundle bed. Never did get used to that thing. Daddy got the king size. We had to keep the doors shut in case the cat, Tee Cee, decided to become our bed buddy. But I knew that Tee Cee would never get in bed with me. His greeting of hissing and biting a chunk out of my hand convinced me that we weren’t going to be friends.
The next morning brought warm Florida sunshine and a breakfast of toast and coffee. By lunch I was licking my lips for seafood. My family has always believed that if you are in Florida you should eat nothing but seafood…except for Cuban sandwiches. After a delicious salad at Wendy’s, we went to PayLess Shoes to get Daddy a pair of tennis shoes for the return trip. I looked forward to dinner.
My cousin’s family joined us for dinner at a nice restaurant across the street from the mall. I got directions on the way home. The shrimp was delicious and the wine helped considerably. When it came time to order, Daddy announced that he wasn’t hungry…soup would do just fine for him. Soup and part of my salad and shrimp. I got a second glass of wine. Somewhere along the way, Daddy finished his wine and poured some of my aunt’s water into his wine glass. Then he decided that I had gotten more wine than he had (and for good reason I might add) and tried to pour my second glass into his wine glass that, by now, had remnants of my aunt’s water. I suggested a trip to the restroom.
By morning I was determined to steer a new course. Preferably to the mall—with or without the two senior citizens. As it turned out, my aunt let me borrow her car. She carefully instructed me how to remove the Club from the steering wheel, and then suggested that I put the car in reverse to get out of the driveway.
I returned a couple of hours later, toting several packages. I had bought three pairs of socks for Daddy, because I was convinced that he had forgotten to pack socks. Not so! He informed me that he had not changed socks in three days because his feet did not sweat. I insisted that he take a shower before we went to dinner with my aunt’s friends, Joan and Wayne. And change socks!
Joan and Wayne must be experienced. They picked us up for dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, The Colonnade. Wayne must have known a new route because it took forever to get there, and Oh!, the stories. You do remember the earlier reference to the stories, don’t you?
After we were seated, Joan and Wayne explained that they always ordered the same entrée (fried flounder) and shared. I ordered wine and prayed. Then they each ordered a cup of clam chowder and I began to feel better. When the chowder arrived, Joan spooned each clam into Wayne’s cup. I caught the waiter’s eye and told him to keep my glass full.
I was almost giddy the next morning. My dear friend, Kirsten Muldoon, had suggested that I call her daughter-in-law while I was in Tampa. Somehow, I managed to con this jewel into picking me up for lunch. My aunt suggested we go to McDonald’s or the International House of Pancakes. We found an Applebee’s near the mall. Laura and I talked until I came to my senses and realized that she had to get back to work.
That night was pizza night at my cousin’s house. It was great to get reacquainted with far-flung family. Daddy was ready to go home at 7:30, but I wasn’t budging. Pizza and conversation. It doesn’t get much better than that.
On our last day in Tampa, my cousin and her daughter took me to two (count them, please) malls and lunch. I am forever in their debt. If they ever get to Opp, I promise to return the favor. I bet they would kill to shop at Fred’s Dollar Store.
I was sure that our last dinner in Tampa would be at some fine, however modest, seafood restaurant. I had the two piece, white meat, and a biscuit at KFC.
I was awake by 5 am even though we weren’t leaving for the airport until 7:30 for a 10 am flight. I had no idea how long the return trip would take, but I didn’t have a good feeling about it. (Foreshadowing) I found Daddy in the dining room in the dark with a glass of ice water. He claimed he was thirsty. Oh, brother!
The new tennis shoes were a stroke of genius. Everything was smooth until we got to Atlanta. We flew through a storm to land and as Evan will tell you, “Mom and Atlanta don’t get along too well!” Thank goodness for wheelchairs, because we were able to move quickly through the terminal and arrived with precious few minutes to spare before our flight to Huntsville. Little did we know that our hell was just beginning.
We descended the stairs, walked through the pouring rain, left our luggage beside the plane, and climbed more stairs. I got a little queasy as we flew through the storm again, but I had my sights set on home. Ten minutes from touchdown the pilot informed us that we were turning around. Something minor was wrong with the plane, and we were returning to Atlanta (and the storm) for another plane. Slid back down the slippery steps, picked up the soggy carry-on luggage left on the tarmac, tromped through the rain, climbed the stairs to the terminal. An hour later, we repeated the Dance of the Flying Fools.
This time we sat on the plane and watched as our luggage was loaded and unloaded. Loaded and unloaded. After an hour it was obvious that something was wrong with plane #2. Daddy got stuck in the restroom as passengers struggled by the door that was caught in the catawampus position. Then a repeat performance of the Dance of the Flying Fools. I was not happy.
My poor brother had been dispatched to meet the first plane. He spent most of the afternoon in the bar at Ruby Tuesday’s. Six hours later we arrived, dazed and crazed. I managed to explain to the pilot of plane #3 that the next time I booked a flight I would find out if I had to go out in the yard to board. Not my finest hour.
My dad and my aunt enjoyed their visit. When I am 83, I hope my children take me to Disney World.
February 2, 2004
I believe that no good deed ever goes unpunished. When was the last time that you boarded an airplane with an 83 year old man who takes diuretics? Never you say? No sane person would do such a foolish thing! Well, there you have it!
Several months ago I decided that my dad should visit my aunt in Tampa and I would be the one to take him. At first, we were going to drive, but Tim said, “Are you out of your #**# mind?” Delta to the rescue.
Because my dad had not flown since 9-11, I explained all the new security procedures, including packing his pocket knife in his checked bag. I forgot the shoes. As he started through the scanner, the machine started clanging like a fire truck. A guard led the nation’s next terrorist over to a chair and asked him to remove his shoes. Then the wanding began. Of course, the watch, the eyeglasses case clip, the ring, the wallet…all had to be removed. Then it happened. The diuretics kicked into high gear. Apparently, the guard had not been briefed on such eventualities, because he insisted on finishing the inspection—only faster.
As soon as the guard said, “OK, sir, you may go,” Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride began. We managed to get the shoes back on, and I grabbed his coat, hat, and assorted stuff. As Daddy took off for the restroom, I made a mad dash for the bowl of pocket change that had made it through the scanner. He made it just in the nick of time…well, mostly.
As we settled into our seats at the back of the small plane, Daddy decided that another trip to the restroom was in order. I argued that the plane was moving; therefore, wandering around the cabin wasn’t a good idea. Well, sitting there in his state of emergency wasn’t a good idea to him. Within minutes I heard the attendant banging on the restroom door. “Sir! Sir! You have to come out now. The plane is leaving.” After a while, “Sir” emerged. There was a repeat performance when we landed. And another one at the food court in Atlanta. By that time I realized that some adjustments must be made. A restroom stop was scheduled for every 10-15 minutes.
When we got to my aunt’s house, Daddy produced a bottle of vodka from his suitcase. No wonder he packed his own bag even though I offered to do it for him. I should have been suspicious when this Scotch drinker suddenly switched to vodka, but No-o-o-o-o. I was tired and clueless. By the end of the week, I finally realized that all that iced water wasn’t.
The first round of stories began over Cuban sandwiches. Trust me. This was only the beginning. I heard the same stories over, and over, and over, and over. You get the picture.
I was grateful for bedtime which consisted of a trundle bed. Never did get used to that thing. Daddy got the king size. We had to keep the doors shut in case the cat, Tee Cee, decided to become our bed buddy. But I knew that Tee Cee would never get in bed with me. His greeting of hissing and biting a chunk out of my hand convinced me that we weren’t going to be friends.
The next morning brought warm Florida sunshine and a breakfast of toast and coffee. By lunch I was licking my lips for seafood. My family has always believed that if you are in Florida you should eat nothing but seafood…except for Cuban sandwiches. After a delicious salad at Wendy’s, we went to PayLess Shoes to get Daddy a pair of tennis shoes for the return trip. I looked forward to dinner.
My cousin’s family joined us for dinner at a nice restaurant across the street from the mall. I got directions on the way home. The shrimp was delicious and the wine helped considerably. When it came time to order, Daddy announced that he wasn’t hungry…soup would do just fine for him. Soup and part of my salad and shrimp. I got a second glass of wine. Somewhere along the way, Daddy finished his wine and poured some of my aunt’s water into his wine glass. Then he decided that I had gotten more wine than he had (and for good reason I might add) and tried to pour my second glass into his wine glass that, by now, had remnants of my aunt’s water. I suggested a trip to the restroom.
By morning I was determined to steer a new course. Preferably to the mall—with or without the two senior citizens. As it turned out, my aunt let me borrow her car. She carefully instructed me how to remove the Club from the steering wheel, and then suggested that I put the car in reverse to get out of the driveway.
I returned a couple of hours later, toting several packages. I had bought three pairs of socks for Daddy, because I was convinced that he had forgotten to pack socks. Not so! He informed me that he had not changed socks in three days because his feet did not sweat. I insisted that he take a shower before we went to dinner with my aunt’s friends, Joan and Wayne. And change socks!
Joan and Wayne must be experienced. They picked us up for dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, The Colonnade. Wayne must have known a new route because it took forever to get there, and Oh!, the stories. You do remember the earlier reference to the stories, don’t you?
After we were seated, Joan and Wayne explained that they always ordered the same entrée (fried flounder) and shared. I ordered wine and prayed. Then they each ordered a cup of clam chowder and I began to feel better. When the chowder arrived, Joan spooned each clam into Wayne’s cup. I caught the waiter’s eye and told him to keep my glass full.
I was almost giddy the next morning. My dear friend, Kirsten Muldoon, had suggested that I call her daughter-in-law while I was in Tampa. Somehow, I managed to con this jewel into picking me up for lunch. My aunt suggested we go to McDonald’s or the International House of Pancakes. We found an Applebee’s near the mall. Laura and I talked until I came to my senses and realized that she had to get back to work.
That night was pizza night at my cousin’s house. It was great to get reacquainted with far-flung family. Daddy was ready to go home at 7:30, but I wasn’t budging. Pizza and conversation. It doesn’t get much better than that.
On our last day in Tampa, my cousin and her daughter took me to two (count them, please) malls and lunch. I am forever in their debt. If they ever get to Opp, I promise to return the favor. I bet they would kill to shop at Fred’s Dollar Store.
I was sure that our last dinner in Tampa would be at some fine, however modest, seafood restaurant. I had the two piece, white meat, and a biscuit at KFC.
I was awake by 5 am even though we weren’t leaving for the airport until 7:30 for a 10 am flight. I had no idea how long the return trip would take, but I didn’t have a good feeling about it. (Foreshadowing) I found Daddy in the dining room in the dark with a glass of ice water. He claimed he was thirsty. Oh, brother!
The new tennis shoes were a stroke of genius. Everything was smooth until we got to Atlanta. We flew through a storm to land and as Evan will tell you, “Mom and Atlanta don’t get along too well!” Thank goodness for wheelchairs, because we were able to move quickly through the terminal and arrived with precious few minutes to spare before our flight to Huntsville. Little did we know that our hell was just beginning.
We descended the stairs, walked through the pouring rain, left our luggage beside the plane, and climbed more stairs. I got a little queasy as we flew through the storm again, but I had my sights set on home. Ten minutes from touchdown the pilot informed us that we were turning around. Something minor was wrong with the plane, and we were returning to Atlanta (and the storm) for another plane. Slid back down the slippery steps, picked up the soggy carry-on luggage left on the tarmac, tromped through the rain, climbed the stairs to the terminal. An hour later, we repeated the Dance of the Flying Fools.
This time we sat on the plane and watched as our luggage was loaded and unloaded. Loaded and unloaded. After an hour it was obvious that something was wrong with plane #2. Daddy got stuck in the restroom as passengers struggled by the door that was caught in the catawampus position. Then a repeat performance of the Dance of the Flying Fools. I was not happy.
My poor brother had been dispatched to meet the first plane. He spent most of the afternoon in the bar at Ruby Tuesday’s. Six hours later we arrived, dazed and crazed. I managed to explain to the pilot of plane #3 that the next time I booked a flight I would find out if I had to go out in the yard to board. Not my finest hour.
My dad and my aunt enjoyed their visit. When I am 83, I hope my children take me to Disney World.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Drinking Chocolate Pudding
This year the Lulls are spending Thanksgiving in Charlotte. Like many families, getting together at holiday time is something of a hit or miss endeavor spread out over four states. Seven adults, two little children, two dogs, and two cats will spend three days cooped up in a house with two beds, one baby bed, and, thank God, three bathrooms. I am blessed.
This year the Lulls are spending Thanksgiving in Charlotte. Like many families, getting together at holiday time is something of a hit or miss endeavor spread out over four states. Seven adults, two little children, two dogs, and two cats will spend three days cooped up in a house with two beds, one baby bed, and, thank God, three bathrooms. I am blessed.
On the bright side, Thanksgiving is way better than Christmas as far as holidays go. I don’t have to buy gifts, and I don’t have to do much cooking either. Years ago I made the supreme sacrifice and turned turkey roasting over to my brother who rises before dawn to fire up the smoker. Unfortunately, Ted won’t be in Charlotte, so the rest of us are on our own. BJ, my culinary-trained son-in-law, foolishly mentioned “frying.” We have been down that sorry road before and have no intention of returning to the scene of the crime.
The first attempt at turkey frying took place on a particularly cold and windy Thanksgiving afternoon. By the time the oil was hot enough to fry a 25 lb. bird, everyone was full of cheese and crackers and the Jell-o mold was runny. Frustrated, BJ and my son, Jeremy, yanked the turkey out of the fryer, sliced it up, and fried it in a skillet. Yum.
Refusing to accept defeat, Jeremy continued over the years to pursue the perfectly fried turkey. Luckily for us, this foolishness took place in Montgomery with his wife’s family on the receiving end. Jeremy eventually destroyed three turkey fryers before conceding defeat. As Jennifer tells it, “One year, the fryer blew out every fuse in the house, and we were in the dark. I thought my aunt, Mary Jane, was going to have a cow. Another year, it literally blew up and I thought we were going to launch the house on fire, and then I think one year, it just didn't work and it was brand new.”
Along with the restaurant turkey, we will have Ted’s Ruthless Dressing, named for one my dad’s girlfriends who was quite unpleasant. Ted’s recipe is typical Southern cornbread dressing with a secret ingredient—sausage. Of course, there is a story here. A couple of years ago, BJ (remember, graduate of culinary school) read “sausage” and immediately thought “kielbasa.” The boy can really cook but don’t let him near Ruthless Dressing or chicken salad.
Mainly, I get to say the blessing, and this year I can think of tons of things for which I am grateful. I am grateful that Tim no longer has a job and can go with me anywhere and everywhere and at any time. I am grateful that the economy has collapsed, and I no longer have to worry about how to spend my money.
I am grateful that our lake house is now a farm house. For the past two years, I haven’t been seasick, and my dog, Lucy, hasn’t contracted the itch from a waterborne parasite. I am grateful for the sweet reminders of last November’s fall from grace at the doll store. The wrist mended nicely, while the crooked pinkie, frozen shoulder, and arthritic thumb are probably intended to build character.
I am grateful to live in a house that can’t be sold, so I won’t have to clean out closets or junk drawers during the holidays. I am grateful that my Toyota Camry is paid for. I am most grateful that my name isn’t on the government’s “No Fly” list. Traveling beats goat gazing every time.
A couple of weeks ago, Tim and I sat in a small café in Perugia, Italy and ordered hot chocolate to ward off the chill outside. Soon, we were sniffing two mugs of steaming chocolate pudding. One sip and our eyes rolled back. Talk about grateful! Then, we came home to a world that was quickly falling apart, where everyone was on the same slippery slope of disaster. I haven’t been right since.
The day after tomorrow the Lulls will gather around the table in Charlotte and acknowledge the bounty of goodness in our lives. Thanksgiving may be a uniquely American holiday; but make no mistake; gratitude is a universal expression of humankind’s need to reconcile God’s amazing grace. No one ever gets exactly what they deserve.
Blessings always include peace; you just have to know where to look.
Blessings always include peace; you just have to know where to look.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Carpetbagger's Wife
The Carpetbagger’s Wife
He tried to remember
What made him so.
Why was he like this?
What should he know?
Snippets of life
Came into view.
Vignettes from memory,
None of them new.
This New York boy
Didn’t know he was poor
When someone told him,
He stared at the floor.
He won’t succeed,
Wrong side of the tracks.
He won’t make it,
Those are the facts.
Those long-ago voices
Played in his head.
He’d proved them wrong,
Ignored all they said.
His family moved South,
He made a new start.
It was his chance
To play a different part.
Now he’s the sum
Of the experiences he’s had.
He cherishes the good
And accepts the bad.
He believes in God
And wonders about fate.
Why is he here?
Are his efforts too late?
Carpetbagger,
An old Southern slur,
Now applied to him
With venom and vigor.
What of his wife?
She doesn’t understand.
Why do they hate
This kind and noble man?
He will protect her
From the meanness at the door.
He will never again
Stare at the floor.
He tried to remember
What made him so.
Why was he like this?
What should he know?
Snippets of life
Came into view.
Vignettes from memory,
None of them new.
This New York boy
Didn’t know he was poor
When someone told him,
He stared at the floor.
He won’t succeed,
Wrong side of the tracks.
He won’t make it,
Those are the facts.
Those long-ago voices
Played in his head.
He’d proved them wrong,
Ignored all they said.
His family moved South,
He made a new start.
It was his chance
To play a different part.
Now he’s the sum
Of the experiences he’s had.
He cherishes the good
And accepts the bad.
He believes in God
And wonders about fate.
Why is he here?
Are his efforts too late?
Carpetbagger,
An old Southern slur,
Now applied to him
With venom and vigor.
What of his wife?
She doesn’t understand.
Why do they hate
This kind and noble man?
He will protect her
From the meanness at the door.
He will never again
Stare at the floor.
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