Merry Christmas?

Christmas is hurling itself in to our lives with record speed. Didn't we just have Thanksgiving a week ago? Our family is growing exponentially with all Momma's children married, the grandchildren are mostly married, and some of them have children, spouses, and in-laws to wiggle into the holiday calendar. There never has been any wiggle room for Christmas at Momma's. My brothers and I never considered having time for more than a quick unwrap and look back with longing at new toys at our homes. It was pack up one toy and head for Grannieo and Popoo's house. I have spent 61 years honoring the Lord Jesus Christ and my momma by a command attendance on Christmas morning. This year I have been uninvited by proxy.

The whole mess started out by trying to assist momma in recognizing the fact that she was repeating herself four or five time in a single conversation. I thought by saying, "I know, you already told me that" in a sweet voice she would take note of this and go on with another topic. Not the case. I realized the error of my ways when I returned my brother's telephone call. All of our calls start the same way, "What has momma done now?" I was shocked to hear him say, "It's not momma, its daddy." Oh Lord, what had daddy done? My brother continued by saying that daddy bought some Drano. Oh Lord, he has killed momma! Again, not the case. It seems that daddy, who does NOT need cataract surgery, confused Drano with gas additive for the car, which he does not need to drive. Needless to say, the old Lincoln was no match for the Drano. My younger brother, who may have been the only one they were speaking to at the time, got the call for help. Daddy told him the car just quit running. My brother took momma and daddy home only to have daddy discover his mistake. Poor daddy. Momma, who has never made a mistake, let in to daddy like a schoolmarm. I know that you think I have digressed from my tale of woe but this is where the uninvited Christmas deal comes in to play. I told my brother that this was news to me because I hadn't called momma yet. He informed me not to call because she was mad at me for telling her she repeated herself. She was also mad at my older brother for the same crime, although I know he did not say it as sweetly as I did.

We are all now rethinking our Christmas traditions. My precious niece has volunteered her home for our big family. Poor thing, she never woke up at home on Christmas morning. This year will be a novelty for her. Her crazy father drug all their presents from Alabama, including Santa, over to Momma's every Christmas Eve. My two boys, grown men, will be off at sea working and my daughter has a new baby to go with her 12 year old son so I imagine she will appreciate the time at home.

Life can change on a dime, or a telephone call in our case. My "what has momma done lately?" telephone call revealed the fact that she had her house cleaned in preparation for Christmas! Dang, just when I thought that I would actually be able to spend Christmas with my husband. My daughter was pleased when she got the news, she said that she loved Christmas at Grannieo's. Who knew? I guess she got over momma giving her those big panties during her "chunkie" spell.

Christmas Nut

Long ago,my children accepted the fact that I was a Christmas nut. Probably they were thinking just a plain nut but they were kind enough not to mention it. Santa came to our house as long as any of the children lived there, no matter how old they were. I knew the Christmas morning my middle son would spent at home prior to leaving for the Army probably would be the last one Santa would attend for him. Can you imagine my dismay having to run upstairs at 8:00 a.m. to wake both he and his sister with loud shouts of "SANTA HAS BEEN HERE!". I was told, "Oh, go on momma, you are the only one that still believes." That hurt, but it didn't deter me. I knew that I was still on the right track when I overheard my nine year old grandson explaining to his friend that he didn't believe in Santa but his grandmother still did so please don't mention it in front of her. Each year, I continued to drag out all the Christmas decorations that had not been left up all year. Friends who have not visited my home in a while ask, "Do you still have the Christmas house?"

Of course I still have the Christmas house. Every room has something Christmas in it all year round. We drink out of Christmas coffee cups every day and Santas decorate every room. I discontinued leaving a tree in my bedroom after I had the accident. The accident happened one July after spending a week at the beach. Prior to the beach trip, I discovered that if you put Crisco on your feet they would stay soft and lovely. I neglected my Crisco treatment while on vacation because I didn't want to check into a nice hotel with a can of Crisco. You know how judgemental people are of Southerners. So, after a week of walking on the sand without my nightly Crisco foot therapy, I was starting to lose that lovely look. I decided that I would redouble my efforts by applying lots of Crisco and covering my feet with socks while I slept. This plan was working well until I forgot to reset my alarm clock after vacation. I woke up late, jumped out of the bed, my well oiled feet hit the hardwood floor, my head flew to the right while my feet took off to the left knocking out the Christmas tree. Angels and gold balls were flying all around the room. I salvaged the angels but the tree was a goner.

These days, I don't put my lone Christmas tree up until after the annual Thanksgiving blow out. It is crowded enough with my big family, plus I don't want my mother-in-law to take the Christmas tree out with her wheelchair. You would be surprised how long you can still find angels slung from a tree. This year I waited longer than I ever had to put the tree up. The morning seemed perfect as I carried the eight foot prelit tree downstairs while looking out at a soft falling snow. Even though I knew the snow would not lay, as we say in the south, I thought it added to the Christmas feeling. That Christmas joy soon turned to an evil spirit as I fiddled with the unresponsive lights on that darn prelit tree. Only an atheist or a terrorist would string a tree with lights that go out if ONE bulb is blown. Worse than that, I had three strings out. I just figured I would quickly take the lights off and replace them with my own lights. Have you ever tried to get those #$%@ light off? They are strung tighter than a noose and clamped on with these tiny plastic clips that will rip the skin off your thumbs. It was 2:00 p.m. and I was still working on the tree in my monkey pajamas when my friend called to remind me we were going on the Christmas Open House Tour. To put it mildly, I was not in the mood for a Christmas Open House Tour where everyone else had their homes fully decorated while mine lingered in shambles. Short strips of lights that had been snipped off my tree made the room look like a crime scene at the North Pole. My husband wisely didn't say a word, he went directly to the tool box for another pair of wire snips to aide in the project at hand. A sense of calm entered the room when the de-lighting was done and the Christmas decorations were strategically placed on the tree. Soon the frustration vanished when the tree was plugged in. Most of the lights worked. I like the new sporadic lighting look this year and I can't wait for Santa to come.

You're Are Driving Me Crazy

I hope that my children took note of the many times I told them that they were driving me crazy and will assume responsibility for their actions when I finally go over the edge. There were the repeated "I'm bored" exclamations that I countered with, "well I have a list of chores that might fill your time". Then let's not forget the "my sister bit the heads off my G.I. Joe men" which was not satisfied with my reply -"call them war victims". Even a road trip to the grocery store was always cause for a battle over who "calls" the front seat. Take turns? Are you kidding? I would have needed a CPA to keep track of whose turn it was and did a turn involve the entire trip or was it a one-way deal? Then we had the "he touched me" followed closely by "he breathed on me". I know "for God's sake quit breathing" was not an exhibition of my best parenting skills but they were getting on my nerves. We solved some of the "they are sitting too close to me" issues by trading in my sporty Chrysler Le Baron convertible for a large ugly brown and white van that could transport more children than I wanted to deal with at one time. The beauty of it, and I use that phrase figuratively, was each child could have their own row of seats.

My children grew up in the "pre-time out" era. In my purse, I kept a handy paint paddle, normally used for stirring paint, in my purse. I could just start to pull it out and get immediate behavior modification. Once in church I jerked the paint paddle out of my purse and the entire choir sat up straight. Actually, the fly swatter was the predecessor to the paint paddle but I started to notice how people looked at me when I carried one into a restaurant. When the children got old enough to understand "consequences" we got quite a lot of yard work in exchange for bad behavior. There is a nice row of arborvitaes planted on Pine Grove Road that was the consequence of mischief. Running an auger with a headache was a painful reminder of house rules.

So the children are all grown up and I still have episodes of nervousness. Of course my children are not responsible for my current nervous condition; I can lay that squarely on my aging parents. My once reasonable, responsible parents have gone in to their second childhood. Unfortunately they have settled on an age that resembles a teenager, not the darling toddler stage. They do not want to be told what to do; they are making some unwise decisions; they are terrible drivers, they sneak around trying to keep us from knowing what they are doing, and they have been caught in a falsehood or two. Unfortunately they are not candidates for the fly swatter, paint paddle, or time-outs.

An example of their unreasonable behavior came last Thanksgiving. My sister-in-law took off her reading glasses and could not find them when she got ready to go back home to Alabama. As we say in the south, we tore the house up looking for them. It occurred to us to call daddy who had already left with my other brother's family to see if he had picked them up by mistake. No, he did NOT have her glasses. Daddy continued to be our prime suspect. We kept looking and sent my poor sister-in-law home with hopes of locating an old prescription that she could use until we confiscated her glasses from the unrepentant glasses thief. The next day my brother went to our parent's home only to find the glasses - daddy had put in his pocket. My parents' comment, "Those were dollar store glasses, we couldn't even see out of them". I rest my case.

This Thanksgiving we were excited to see the entire family again. I had purchased some wine just in case we needed it. There was plenty of good food, the children played without arguing, the dog didn't bite anyone, momma did not point out what she felt was any one's short comings, and everyone who wore glasses rested them on top of their heads rather than putting them down. My youngest brother was the driver of the revered PT Cruiser and not one word was mentioned about his driving skills or lack there of.

My oldest brother brought copies of the book he just published,"Letters from Viet-Nam - A Love Story". We were all excited to see it in print. My niece did the photography for the cover - a real eye catcher. I asked her if she would do the cover for my book. Sweet thing, she said "Why sure Aunt Linda". I told her it would be a photo of me with a glass of wine and a bottle of Zanex.

I think that I am doing quite well for someone suffering from such a long standing case of "shot nerves".

The Umbrella

Some people have trouble spelling the word umbrella. I have trouble keeping up with one. Over the years I have lost so many umbrellas that I refused to spend more than $5.00 on one. With inflation factored in I had to raise my maximum price to $10.00 to even purchase a cheap drug store variety. The old saying, you get what you pay for, certainly rings true with a cheap umbrella. They either will not open with ease or once you finally get them open the wind turns them inside out. Closing a cheap umbrella offers you the opportunity to wear all the water you originally displaced with the umbrella.

Once, a long time ago when people would actually loan me their umbrella, I borrow by boss's umbrella to use while going to a dentist appointment in Atlanta during a rain soaked lunch hour. I was sitting in the back seat of the cab fooling around with the umbrella when it suddenly popped open. It was a really big umbrella so the driver noticed right away. He looked in his rear view mirror and calmly asked, "Are you ready to get out lady?"

Just because I won't spend much on an umbrella for myself doesn't mean that I won't spring for a pricey one for some other responsible person. One year at Christmas I gave momma a beautiful black umbrella with a handle made from a silver plated dinner knife. She loved that umbrella. it had snooty written all over it. Next thing you know the umbrella was gone. She looked everywhere for the missing umbrella. Wouldn't you know the boutique shop I purchased it from had sold out and did not plan to reorder. Momma looked everywhere for that umbrella until one day she saw a lady at church with the same umbrella. Momma was convinced that Louisa Whiteman, not her real name, had stolen her umbrella. Considering the potential crime happened at church and momma had gone to that same church with the suspected umbrella thief for over forty years we were offering alternative excuses why Mrs. Whiteman, not he real name, had the same umbrella. Finally, we decided that momma had left her umbrella at the church, remember the long drought,and did not pick it up at the lost and found so they sold it at the church yard sale. Momma would have definitely not seen it there. The next Christmas I gave momma another beautiful umbrella from the same boutique, unfortunately it was not a replica of the "stolen" one. This one was big with a Monet print and a beautiful wooden handle. Something not easily misplaced, say at church.

That same Christmas my daughter surprised me with an expensive Coach umbrella. It was the nicest umbrella I had ever owned. The handle extended rapidly with a light push, in the south we say mash, of a button and the umbrella itself went up quickly and effortlessly. I loved it. I could get in my car without getting drenched while trying to close it unlike one of those massive free umbrellas the bank gives to potential customers. It fit in my purse. It was perfect. I lost it. Have you ever noticed when you leave a cheap umbrella somewhere someone will run out into the street crying, "You left your umbrella!" You can't throw those darn things away. The coach umbrella, I bet Louisa Whiteman, not her real name, stole it. She has a history of such behavior.

Driving Secrets

Hot news of the week, Tiger Woods, America's sweetheart of golf, hit something with his car. Big deal, I have been hitting inanimate objects with my car for years. Just ask momma, I almost hit a garbage truck while learning to drive. Actually you don't have to ask momma, she tells anyone who will listen now that she has had her driver's license "snatched right out of her hand" at the Georgia State Patrol Office. She thinks that she is rubbing salt into an old wound when she mentions it.

Little does momma know about the incident at Miss Tommy's corner store the day after I successfully suckered the Griffin, Georgia State Patrol officer into giving me a driver's license. I will always view it as a gift considering he had to tell me to move the 1959 Dodge's push button gear shift from drive to neutral when the car wouldn't start. I would like to point out that momma left it in drive when she parked. Also he didn't make me parallel park, I guess his life insurance policy need to be increased before facing such danger.

Okay, back to the "incident". I was carefully backing that enormous car, have you actually seen how big a 1959 Dodge is, out of Miss Tommy's parking lot while carefully looking over those big blue fins that can easily obstruct your view when BAM the front end struck the car parked right next to me. Oh Lord, momma was going to kill me! I jumped out of the car crying and carrying on like any normal 16 year old girl who had been licensed to drive for one day. I could envision momma inflicting the death penalty, the death of my future driving. The driver came around to check the damage and told me not to worry about it. That is exactly what I did. I jumped in my car and carefully drove home. Have you noticed the careful nature of my driving during this entire incident? I did continue to worry about the incident for many years. I worried that momma would, in the rhetorical sense, run in to him. Now that I think back over those events I wonder why the other driver was so understanding. Perhaps he was not the owner of a driver's license or the car for that matter. Maybe the car was stolen. You know how damaged stolen vehicles can be when recovered by the police. Maybe he knew who I was and just called daddy who paid for the damage without saying a word to momma. So like the daddy I once knew. We could never get away with anything in that small town but sometimes daddy would not rat us out to momma.

You would think the early driving incident would make me a more aware driver, you would be wrong. Once a large concrete pillar in a parking garage jumped out and hit me as I was backing out of a parking space. One day I forgot something from the office at lunch and rapidly backed into my dear friend's pristine Chevy Nova. I have backed into both small and large trees. Once I backed up a hill in to a large bolder, leaving a permanent dent in my license plate and a small dent in the bumper that my husband removed with some sort of hot air.

Backing up is not my only driving disability, I wrecked my husbands 1972 Chevrolet pickup truck on a sharp curve, that incidentally has been straightened by the Bartow County Road Department. That Mission Road curve has taken it's share of vehicles off the road. My incident happened one Saturday morning as I carefully drove to town in the truck. One minute I was driving, the next I was sliding across the road into the guard rail. I hit the rail and started spinning through the entire length of the deep curve, which by the way has now been straightened if you fail to remember that. You know you don't want your last words recorded to be an expletive so I was hoping my heavenly father thought the S word I shouted was in regard to the cow's activity in the adjoining pasture. Miraculously when the truck stopped it was on the correct side of the road heading in the right direction. It scared the tarnation out of the poor young man driving behind me. He said, "I can't believe that you pulled out of that spin". I told him to mention to my husband how well I was driving during the accident. My husband's reaction, "Ah don't worry about it. It is nothing that a little Bondo and a re-chromed bumper can't take care of".

One advantage of being married to a body man is he can fix anything I tear up. My driver's license doesn't expire for five more years. Watch out.

Lewis Grizzard

I fell in love with Lewis Grizzard the first time I saw his name in print. Momma foretold it. She gave me his book, "Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You" when I was having my last baby with whom she hoped would be my last husband. Momma thoughtfully exclaimed, "I know that you will just love him, he has been married as many times as you." Momma always had a way with words. Even though I had been reading his columns in the Atlanta Journal Constitution long before, the book sealed the deal. I couldn't wait to see what he wrote next. He made me laugh every time I read anything he wrote.

My friends and I laughed all the way back home from Athens the first time we heard Grizzard tell the story about Uga on the football field taking care of some personal hygiene matters and Bubba admiring the dog's, let's say flexibility. I don't remember the year, who Georgia played, nor the outcome of the game but I will always remember Lewis' advice to Bubba, "That dog will bite you".

Grizzard made me laugh for years. Then he made me cry. It seemed like a pig valve would be well suited for him and his humor. He got lots of miles out of joking about his new affectation to sunshine and mud. He married, had a child in his life, life seemed good for Lewis. Then he up and died. It was the first time I ever cried at the news of a writer's death. Even though I never got around to marrying him, or meeting him for that matter, I miss his humor, his slant on life, and his childhood memories. Lewis, if you are out there, I want you to know that you inspired me to write. I know that it took thirty years to get my stories on paper but I have been busy. I want you to know that you were and are still my inspiration. Thank goodness we never met or we might have had to cross your name out of the family bible.

Growing Old Gracefully

I have always heard that old is a state of mind. Well I can tell you one thing, it is not a state I want to live in. Isn't funny how the number connected to old is always a much higher number than your age?

I didn't mind forty, I finally reached the triple digits on the scale. It was a major milestone to weigh one hundred pounds. The greatest thing about being in my forties was that I found myself no longer cold. In fact I was hot. Real hot. I really never cared for cokes but I did discover how to cool off by holding an ice cold can of coke to my neck during long board meetings. Have you ever noticed how no one questions a menopausal woman's actions. My children were growing up and I was pleased that they had not killed each other nor had I done them in. I soon came to realize that menopause and puberty did not mix. Thankfully every one in my family survived my forties.

Fifty was fantastic, I felt great and had accomplished many things in my career and personal life that I found satisfying. Fifty didn't bother me until I started getting invitations to join the senior citizens center for God's sake. I was incensed that someone thought that I would fit in with those old people. My first inclination was to go over there and give those old men a heart attack. I quickly came to my senses and just ignored the invitations to AARP and senior banking discounts.

I have been sixty for one year. I am learning to go to Ross on Tuesdays for the 10% discount, eat lunch at Captain D's on Wednesday, and take advantage of all sorts of "senior discounts". I can even get in the movies cheaper than my grandson. Older was starting to look better and better. I didn't even mind being asked for my I.D. at the grocery store when purchasing a bottle of wine, even though I knew the 12 year old cashier wanted to yell out "old lady on 5 buying wine".

I'm thinking that I am doing pretty darn good with this aging thing. I have come to accept the fact that major league baseball must be drafting from the Little League, doctors are starting their practices at fifteen, and maybe I better check with my grandson before I say something like "I could hook you up". Yes, I watch my weight now. I swear that am never going to weigh as much as I did the day I had any of my children. So what if it was only 119 pounds. That is my number I keep in my head and I even kind of have to work at staying below that. I still call grown men boys if they are young enough to be my children. So I now know 41 year old boys. I discovered cougar has a new meaning. I don't think that is a complementary term and I sure don't want it ever applied to me. There is something foolish looking about older women looking at boys that are young enough to be their children, or at least their younger brothers, as possible dating material. I was, however, dismayed to see the term applied to Courtney Cox in her new TV series "Cougar". If someone as young as her, isn't she about 30, could be called a cougar then I must be a dinosaur. Don't get me wrong, I am happy that I am married to a wonderful man my own age who appreciates how the years have changed me.

Yes I still look at the obits and exclaim how young some dead person was if they were any where close to my age. I'll admit that old age is on a sliding scale and it will always be older than my current age. I get that from my mother, she used to say she was going to the church to help the old people. She was 80. Good God, I wondered how old the old people were. Now I know, much older than me.

The Accident

I remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It was in 1978 on a hot summer afternoon in Marietta, Georgia. My children, Greg 4 and Tory 10, and I had been invited eat with some of my college friends who lived in an older neighborhood of quaint cottages bordered by a city park. What a safe place for the boys to play. I was in the kitchen when I heard the tires squeal in a vain attempt to stop which ended with the sound of an impact followed by screams. Above all the noise I heard Tory screaming, "It's my brother, it's my brother". Everyone in the neighborhood ran out, a panicked neighbor had picked up Greg's limp body without thought of injuring him further. When I reached him the back of his head was bloody and swollen. His breathing was shallow. We jumped in my friend's van to drive the two blocks to Kennestone Hospital. As we left, I shouted for someone to alert the ER we were in a private vehicle transporting a serious head trauma. Those two blocks were the longest journey I had ever taken, holding my precious boy in my arms, urging him to breathe with mouth to mouth resuscitation, willing him to live with my entire being.

The E.R. was expecting us as they met the van with a trauma team that took my injured child from my arms to the inner sanctum where the doctors do battle with death. Finally the attending E.R. doctor came out with the report, my child, my baby, was in a coma induced by a non-compressed fracture of the occiput. What I heard was, "he's alive". The endless wait had begun. My brother, Tim, came to sit with me through the long night. My parents were in the height of their square dance era so I was not able to reach them until they got home very late that night. Their response of "Do you want us to come?" has shaped the rest of my life as a parent. I never wanted my children to need ask for me to come, I always wanted them to know that I would be there for them just as my brother had been there for me.

The coma dragged on for three long days. Good news came in the form of no other broken bones, the skull fracture did not compress into his brain tissue, and the pneumonia caused from the impact was able to be treated. My parents came the next day. I maintained my bedside vigil sleeping in a chair, eating only what was put in front of me, and going to Greg's bedside with every sound heard in the room. Dr. Causey, the pediatrician, came to visit on the third day and commented that as soon as Greg was over the head trauma he would see to it that his ear was fixed. Ear was fixed? I looked at Greg and laughed with joy. Greg had always folded the top of his ear down and tucked the side of his ear in to his ear canal. He amused everyone with this trick but I was concerned that he would grow up looking like a bloodhound. He was awake and tucking his ear! Greg never went to Dr. Causey's office after that without him asking Greg display his ear tucking ability to everyone in the office.

We came home later that week to our tiny little apartment in downtown Marietta. It was a single building with 4 apartments, two up and two down. It was perfect for us, we were only living with three other poor families. My 80 year old neighbor, Bertha Millholland, looked after the boys as I returned to school and work. Momma and daddy decided that they could take better care of Tory in school than I could so they moved him off to Hampton to live with them until I graduated. Greg and I were alone. He had terrible headaches as the swelling surrounding his brain resolved, the doctor said that he could not sustain another blow to his head so he missed out on playing with other children. He and Bertha were fast friends. The only entertainment we could afford was to walk downtown at night after the heat of the day had dissipated. One night we were walking past the Marietta First Baptist Church when Greg said, "there is the man that was with me when I got hurt" as he looked up at the beautiful back lit stained glass depicting Christ with his arms held out. That moment I knew for sure that there was a loving father in heaven who held my child in his arms and nudged him back into this life where his days were not finished.

Greg has little, if any memory of the accident. He is a healthy, good looking 36 year old man with a mentally challenging job as a Chief Engineer on a ship servicing the oil industry. My memory has softened and become less painful over the years. After the accident it seemed as if I had an audio clip of the event embedded in my brain. At first the sounds of the accident would play without provocation through to the time I saw Greg's lifeless body, I could not stop the sounds. As time passed the sounds would only start with the squeal of a tire or the sound of an impact, I could not stop the sounds. Later the internal audio tape would start and I could mentally stop it. Thirty-two years later I do not hear the sounds of the accident but the memory will never leave me.

How To Treasure Your Mother-In-Law

I have some sound advice; if you are having difficulty treasuring your mother-in-law, spend a weekend with your own mother. My mother-in-law is accustomed to being cared for as she has been in a wheelchair and catered to by her son, my husband, for almost 15 years. She not only accepts it, she relishes the idea of someone being at her beck and call. Fast-forward 80 miles to my parent’s house. Momma is legally blind and daddy has an eye infection in both eyes, which he got from caring for momma’s eye infection. Momma’s eye looked great when I went to see them the week earlier, daddy was in full-blown trouble. Momma’s comment to the situation was, “mine was worse”. Difficult for a blind person to make that assessment I would say. I told daddy that he needed to see a doctor immediately for some antibiotics. He informed me that he was using momma’s eye drops, which is just another indication that he is not making good decisions. Finally daddy did call my son, his oldest grandchild, to take him to the doctor four days later. The first doctor said that this was the worst case of pink eye he had ever seen. Daddy was given drops to put in his eyes every hour. Daddy has lost his sense of time. He put the drops in every time he thought about it, which was constantly because his eyes really hurt. He ran out of medicine.

Monday morning the grandfather and grandson were sitting in the doctor’s office for a re-exam. The eyes were worse. They were referred to an eye clinic. Medicine was changed and an appointment was made for Wednesday. Wednesday morning the grandfather and grandson were back at the eye clinic. Eyes worse. A new doctor’s appointment at a Piedmont Hospital cornea specialist came with a new diagnosis, eye infection in both eyes with the added insult of shingles in his right eye. A new, urgent, course of treatment to prevent imminent blindness was prescribed. Every hour four procedures had to be performed on each eye. One might think that their four grown children were ignoring their parents, one would be wrong. The stubborn, independent parents refused outside intervention. This was it. I called momma, who mercifully had been left at home, and told her that she could not see to take care of daddy and he had to have some help or he would also be blind and to quote an old family saying, "they would be in a hell of a mess". When momma is scared she will agree to anything. When daddy came home she had changed her mind. That was really it. Their next-door neighbor who thankfully is their youngest child came to the rescue. Tommy became the administrator of prescribed treatments. This was a new role for him as his wife has always filled that position in their family. Remember, Tommy is related to momma who does not deal well with medical emergencies. I’ll have to say, he really stepped up to the plate and did a wonderful job.

My brothers and I have made momma so mad in the past by showing up unannounced to do major house cleaning. Apparently blindness can fool you in to thinking your house is actually clean. I know blindness can lead you to leave things in the refrigerator that resemble a science experiment. Our efforts were met with such resistance that we were relieved to hear that momma had relented and hired a house cleaner. Once a month, are you kidding? Oh well, it was a start. We were thinking more on the lines of someone four to six hours every day. We sought their support in that effort by saying things like, “We want you to stay in your own home for as long as you can.” I vowed to never come to clean her house again. This was different, we could not let momma make a poor medical decision for daddy. His eyesight was at stake. I told my brothers that I would take over the eye-care for the weekend if they would interview and hire someone to stay with them for eight hours a day. We had grand visions of this becoming a permanent thing.

You have heard the saying, “It takes a village to raise a child” Well I am here to tell you it takes more than that to raise elderly parents. Momma and daddy have a guardian angel at my brother Tim’s office. April attempts to keep track of daddy’s bills and checking account, which is like trying “to nail Jell-O to the wall”. She peruses his credit card bill looking for donations to scam artist TV preachers, one time vitamin orders that have been scheduled on a monthly basis, and other things that senile people subject themselves to. Paying daddy’s other bills is quite a trick. The first part of that trick is getting him to bring them in to the office before they get lost in a stack of old magazines. The most intriguing part is dealing with the unaccounted for checks. My parents would be living without lights, heat, or telephone if it were not for her efforts. We have come to depend on April for our parent issues. She schedules and keeps up with their doctor’s appointments because they can’t remember and go on the wrong day. She gets daddy’s prescriptions filled because he could not make it out of the pharmacy without misplacing his prescription. She is the one that put herself on the line to hire someone to stay with momma and daddy. If there were ever a star in anyone’s crown in heaven, it would be in April’s.

Let me get back to the mother-in-law treasuring aspect of the story. Momma was terrible the entire weekend. She didn’t catch on to the infectious nature of their situation. She did not want me to wash their towels, pillowcases, and clothing. She could do that. I got her on board when I told her that SHE could get re-infected. Things don’t go well when you forget one of the founding principles of living in the Steele family, “It’s all about momma.” Momma wanted to forgo the 11:00a.m. eye care routine because it interfered with their set lunchtime at Cracker Barrel. We can do it when we get home was not an acceptable statement so we started the trip out to eat on a bad note. I bravely headed for my car with daddy in the front passenger seat and momma and my daughter-in-law in the back seat. Momma was complaining about my poor driving skills in a stage whisper the entire trip. She recounted over and over how she could drive as well as I. In an effort to convince me that she could actually see how to drive she pointed out every approaching vehicle, intersection, and stop sign. Let me tell you this, there is nothing that can get on your nerves more than a blind person in the backseat telling you how to drive. In my defense I might add that if I had followed her instructions I would be writing this from either a hospital or the morgue. Let’s just say the day went downhill from there. Just think, this was only my first day there.

Sunday was the prearranged day to interview the caregiver, Julie. We were all so nervous that they would change their mind, which was not an option as none of us could be there to perform the eye care the next week. Sweet Julie came with her husband Sunday afternoon. We all sat and talked on the porch. She had cared for her grandparents and seemed like, and was, a wonderful choice. We agreed on the price of $10 an hour, 40 hours a week. This was going to work, we thought. There were three big problems. Momma and daddy didn’t think they needed any help, they didn’t want any help, and they didn’t comprehend the price difference of being able to stay at home verses being in an assisted living facility. Julie came as arranged on Monday. Momma wouldn’t let her do anything except the eye care. When Julie asked about doing the laundry, Momma said that she had already done it. Later that night momma told me that it was stupid to have someone sitting around the house all day with nothing to do. I told momma that what was stupid was having someone in the house to help them and not letting them do it. I have to commend Julie she saw to it that daddy wore clean clothes, she didn’t let him drive, and she lasted three days. Myself, I could only do two. Daddy sat her down and told her that he couldn’t afford her prices, a term that he has never uttered to momma. She wouldn’t have batted an eye to spend $400 on a dress. To add insult to injury to Julie, my sister-in-law had an emergency appointment for her child Wednesday afternoon when she had planned to take momma to her retina specialist. Poor Julie, she got fired and then had to take momma to the doctor. I can just imagine that she will not include elder caregiver on her resume again.

This is all a very long explanation of why I came rushing home, grabbed my husband and told him that I loved him and where was his precious, sweet, darling mother. Then I purchased a Miata the following day. I just love cars with no backseat.

Life Is Cool

Some times it just becomes necessary to pitch a hissy fit. A strategically placed hissy fit in a Southern Woman's life can bring life in to focus and add a sense of direction. Now don't get me wrong, pitching hissy fits all over the place is not productive and can brand you with an identity that is not named hissy fit pitcher. A woman of southern culture adheres to the unspoken rule, do not to gloat over the spoils of HFP (hissy fit pitching). You just smile like nothing has changed and say things like, my how nice and cool the house feels and what a lovely shawl you have on. That being said I will just retire fully clothed to the sofa and drink a glass of sweet tea.

Air Conditioning War

When you get right down to the nitty-gritty, the phrase climate control can drop the pretense of the word climate and just get to the business of control. Granted there are many factors that regulate the desire or lack there of for air conditioning. We all know that as your muscles age or atrophy from lack of use they loose the ability to generate body heat. Well, maybe we all don't know that but that is how it works. When you are busy, say cleaning house or preparing a meal with the use of an oven or stove top, not only does your internal temperature rise so does the temperature of the house. Throw in the fact that the windows are up letting hot air in and most of the ceiling fans are not on because some older person in a sleeveless gown is "cold" the temperature in your home could actually be say 88 degrees. To say that can make you crabby would be an understatement. The air conditioning war is on.

The first strike was to close the windows and turn on the central air conditioner that has very few miles on it's three years of age. This battle move was not with malice, the temperature was set at 75-76 as our household is anti-digital, but it was with might. The gauntlet was thrown down by stating the air conditioner better not be turned off during the night because someone is cold. There are blankets and other sleep clothing available. The defensive move, that came at some undisclosed time, was to turn the temperature up to 80. This was noted but not acted upon.

To say this is a cold war would not be an understatement. A plan for action was devised with a clear head in the comfort of air conditioning at work. The heat of the day, the ceiling fans turned off, and the stove top on aided in the temperature elevation. A quick check of the temperature control revealed the setting to be cemented on 80. With out a word the stealth attack came with the removal of a blouse while continuing to clean the kitchen. Suddenly there was no one at the dining room table. Mopping a floor can make you really hot so off comes the Capri's. This counter attack was not misinterpreted as an amorous move, a line had been drawn in the hot air.

The near nudity was not mentioned until I calmly sat on the sofa next to my husband, who had shielded his 93 year old mother from my cooling off by putting her to bed, when he sweetly said, "Honey, if you are hot turn the air down". I told him that was a great idea because there was not much more I could take off.

We will see what happens tonight. He knows now that I am fearless. In fact this morning as I left he mentioned I was getting kind of crabby. Georgia heat can do that to you.

The Last Baby

I went to St. Louis to spend a summer with my grandparents and my father in 1959. I loved going to my grandparents home even though my grandfather, who always had a cigar in his hand, was a little grumpy. He worked constantly in his flower garden and wanted nothing to interfere with his handiwork. We secretly called him Mr. Wilson after Dennis the Menace's neighbor. My father, who lived with his parents after his tragic motorcycle accident, was a little odd. His idea of summer entertainment was to work algebra problems. My grandmother made up for all their short comings, she loved me for the little skinny southern girl I was and did not expect me to be anything else. All us children heard from our St. Louis grandparents on Christmas and birthdays with special cigar scented cards topped off with cigar scented cash. The smell of cigars always brought fond memories back to me. Once I worked for the Department of Revenue with cigar smoking Mr. Benson. Every one complained about the cigar smell when he entered a room. I wanted to make him feel better about himself so one day I kindly said, "Mr. Benson, you smell just like my dead grandfather". His reply, "How long has he been dead".

Little did we know just how the summer of 1959 would change our lives forever. I thought my momma and little brother Tim went to Iowa to spend the summer with a friend. Momma came to pick me up with a new husband. He was our daddy from the get go. He worked part time at the Strombecker Toy Factory while he was in his last year of chiropractic college and we couldn't wait to see what factory reject he brought home each day. Who cared if the Bill Dings had a paint kick or the doll house furniture had glue drips. Our own father had brought home items such as a Geiger counter, slides of bombs going off, and an occasional parachute. Beside this, daddy Tom didn't yell at us and scare us half to death. Granted we deserved some of the yelling. My brother Bob and I spent all our money at the trick shop purchasing things like trick ink spills and plastic vomit. We almost got our dog Rover killed over the plastic vomit strategically placed on our father's new Air Force uniform. I would like to point out that Bob led the way in the trick department, but I was a willing participant. The other big surprise when we went back to Montgomery was that momma was pregnant! No one knew momma was married much less pregnant. Mr. Moncrief, one of the less tactfull neighbors, asked momma right to her face when the baby was due and then asked when she got married as he proceeded to count to nine on his fingers.

Tommy came in March and Tim had a playmate five years younger. I was much too old to play baby doll as I was in Junior High School. I was big enough, however, to pick him up. With the new daddy and new baby came a move to Georgia. Moving was the worst part of the deal. We were ripped away from all that we knew and held dear. Tommy was a great consolation. We loved him so much if he even looked like he wanted something we got it for him. That being the case, he did not find it necessary to talk. He looked thirsty, we got water. He loved Gerber Jr. Baby Food. He ate it so long that he would go to the cabinet and pick out the dinner he wanted. Momma made him eat from the table when he could open the jar himself. Poor Tommy, it is a wonder he ever survived having siblings. We used to strap him in a rocking chair with a belt around his tummy and he would rock so hard the chair would turn over and he would hit his head on the floor. Tommy has turned out to be a handsome, well adjusted man with tremendous speech capabilities and Tim and I are happy to say carries no sign of cranial damage from the frequent head trauma. We no longer call him our little brother as he is the biggest kid in the family.

Bob, Tim, and I had the momma who never went anywhere and Tommy had the momma that was never home. This change came when square dancing entered her life. She and daddy were do-si-do-ing all over three states. It was good, clean fun which my brother tagged along until he could opt to stay home. Momma, Daddy, and their square dancing friends always stopped off at a Denny's Restaurant after a night of dancing. You would think that all the Denny's were laid out the same. That's what momma and her friends thought when they went rushing in to the restroom with their crinolines flying to wash their hands after an evening of ala-mand-ing left. They saw a woman standing at the sink washing her hands so they all rushed over. They were in the men's room and it was not a woman standing at the sink washing her hands. The poor man turned around mid stream spraying the entire group. I asked momma what they did, she said they screamed and ran out of the restroom. Some where in Georgia there is a man who has had to spend lots of money on therapy in order to use public restrooms again. Needless to say, Tommy never took up square dancing.

Tim

I was seven years old when my brother Tim was born in Clovis, New Mexico. I thought that momma had him just for me. She let me pick the name Tim. I chose it after Sally's toy bear from my Dick and Jane reader. Be careful where you get your baby names because I can tell you now he is not thrilled about being named after a stuffed animal. I told him it could be worse, he could have been named Spot or Puff. Tim came during the heyday of my doll playing days and he was much more fun than Tiny Tears. I wasn't actually big enough to carry him around when he was born. I don't know how big I was then but I distinctly remember the year before being carried around during recess by the older kids at Alabama Christian College. I started first grade when I was 5, weighed 30 pounds, and wore a size three dress. Tim's first sentence was "Eat Linda" so I guess we always looked out for each other.

Tim was two by the time we got back to Montgomery. Momma soon learned to keep his shoes off so he wouldn't slip off to see Uncle Bill down the street. Do not take these excursions all the way down the block as evidence of his bravery, he just loved Uncle Bill and Aunt Lee. The first time Tim really got scared, he scared himself. Momma made him the cutest clown costume for Halloween. The first stop on the Trick or Treat route was our next door neighbor, Ruth Parker. As it turned out, it was also his last stop. She took Tim to see himself in a floor length mirror. He was so frightened by the clown we had to go home. I don't think this actually led to psychological problems but I can tell you this, he never enjoyed the circus.

Our older brother, Bob, liked to use Tim as a date magnet. He would cart him everywhere so the teen aged girls would come by to talk to the cute little boy. He worked the crowd much better than our dog Rover.

Through some poor personal choices of mine, Tim and I ended up one quarter apart in college. Those were the days. Clayton Jr. College only had one building at the time but it did have an enormous parking lot. When I drove my 68 Cougar we parked close to the building, when Tim drove his car we parked in the most remote section where no one in their right mind parked. I was off to chiropractic college one quarter before him. Every quarter we discussed what system of note taking we were going to use. This was important to him because not only did he use my books, he used my notes. The quarter I deiced to use some shorthand was not his favorite. I redeemed myself by purchasing an IBM Selectric Typewriter. It was the bomb. I might not have been so proud of my purchase if I had know the future technology of delete, cut, paste, and spell check. Going to college in the B.C. days, before computers, was not all it was cracked up to be.

I had two young children when I headed off to chiropractic college. Tim gained a wife and a daughter before he graduated. It is a wonder we didn't all starve to death. Momma would come up with some interesting food items for us. Once she gave us a case of Spanish Rice. We donated Spanish Rice to every food drive they had at school. I still hate Spanish Rice. Then there was the little meat fingers made from some mystery meat. I tried every way I could to disguise the taste. Tim would laugh when momma would say, "Linda just loves those little meat fingers". I think he was responsible to me getting so many. We went to college not only prior to computers, we went prior to student loans. The best paying job I could find was as a cocktail waitress at Dobbins AFB. The job paid $5 and hour plus tips. The only problem was I had never even been to a bar much less worked in one. I didn't even know what color different liqueurs were. Tim had a friend whose father had owned a bar that was closed. I used him as a reference because they couldn't check it. Some how I got the job that I needed so badly. Lee, the bartender, took me under his wing and soon I was a top notch waitress. It was like working with your family, the same people there every day. Well, maybe not like working with my family but some one's drunk family. They had an opening at the package store so I got Tim a job. I would go in there to purchase cigarettes for customers and had to look through the entire stock before finding what I was looking for because I didn't know what color packages they were. in. I learned a lot working there. Like for instance, I didn't want that to be my permanent job. I kept my tacky short red cocktail uniform to keep me humble. One day I found it after years of being packed away my husband said, "I bet you can't still wear that." I put that baby right on. It was much shorter than I remember. All Tim had to remember from his package store days was an umbrella left by one of his most frequent customers. I borrowed it, and I use that term loosely, and quickly lost that memento for him.

I graduated and moved to north Georgia and Tim went to practice with our dad. Our oldest brother practices in Alabama, God's country. The baby, who is no longer qualified to be called "our little brother" lives next door to our parents. I have seen so many families not share in the responsibilities of Raising Their Parents, but I am proud to say my brothers are the best. We talk frequently, often starting the conversation by saying, "Your mother....".

Mrs. Hooks

Momma called to say that Mrs. Hooks died last week. Out of respect for my elders she will never be Mary to me, forever Mrs. Hooks. I was sad to hear of Joe and John loosing their mother. I was sad to hear of one more piece of my childhood slipping away. I loved Mrs. Hooks. Every time I have ever gone "home" to Montgomery, I always stopped by to see her. She never failed to recognize me and always welcomed me home. She also never failed to remind me that her son John could have met his death at our hands, the hanging she had always prided herself on preventing.

The Hook's house was one of the first homes on Sherwood Drive and it has remained their family home since 1955. Nothing ever changed there. Mrs. Hooks was swept away by the blond furniture rage,she purchased the same dining room furniture we had. Some where along the way we ditched ours but she still had hers the last time I saw her. Mr. Hooks, Joe Tom, passed away long before her. He spent his working days at a company that made dog food. I never remember them having a dog but Rover sure like to go to their house. We all like to go to their house. Mr. & Mrs. Hooks had a way of making you feel welcome, Mr. Hooks always teased us and made us laugh.
Their son Joe and my brother Bob would fight like cats and dogs over some quarrel that I was never privy to. The Hooks never took sides although I do recall them breaking up a fight with a cold spray from the water hose.

Joe Tom and Mary Hooks, they were the Ward and June Cleavers of Sherwood Forest. I can just hear Minerva Kennedy in heaven giving her the scoop on the streets of gold. Aunt Lee, Aunt Dora and Uncle Gene will be there too. All the old neighbors will always have a special place in my heart, especially Mrs. Hooks.

Back In The Day

My older brother was my hero growing up. Five years older and much wiser, he forged the way to all adventures in my childhood. Interested in all things mechanical, he commandeered various materials from our home and neighborhood that he could retool. As far back as I can remember he took the eyes out of my dolls to see how they opened and closed. I never saw what he did with them but it was very aggravating because you can only play blind child for so long. No baby buggy, lawn mower, or any thing with wheels was safe from him. He would build go-carts that he would launch from the top of Robbins Road hill. We were familiar with inertia and perpetual motion long before our schoolbooks introduced us to the concept. Bob never lacked for a test driver even though brakes were not his strong suit. The thrill of the ride over came the pain of the crash. In retrospect I am glad that he never put a washing machine motor on one of those carts because we never wised up and quit riding. A motorcycle and a paper route probably saved us from permanent disfigurement.

My older brother always earned his own money because there was no money for momma to give us after we returned to Montgomery, minus a father. Momma was raising three children on the $150 a month child support she got from our daddy. Prior to that my brother started working around our neighborhood in Clovis, New Mexico throwing newspapers that we helped fold in to some sort of configuration that would hold the paper intact when thrown from his English bicycle. The bike had a fold down seat on the back that held the newspapers as well as our dog Rover when he slipped off to school to howl under my brother’s classroom window. He also dug through snow drifts to get people out of their houses during our exile to New Mexico and Colorado two years prior to us becoming a fatherless family. Snow shoveling was not a sought after trade in Montgomery, Alabama but the paper route experience led him into work with the Montgomery Advertiser. His English bicycle as a form of business transportation eventually gave way to a Harley motorcycle. That purchase was not without resistance from momma. She managed to work out a payment deal for a wonderful new bike with Matther's Hardware. Unfortunately for my brother, he had to make the payments. This was momma’s attempt to make sure he had his income tied up on something other than a motorcycle. Somehow he worked his way through a wide assortment of Cushman’s in various running condition to the Harley ownership. Rain or shine he was delivering those papers and helping out at home with his meager income. It was his quarter that bought our lunch at school many days.

The paper route was replaced by a job after school at Matther’s Hardware Store then the Amoco Service Station and the motorcycle soon gave way to Thunder, a 1939 Ford Coup named for the movie Thunder Road. Bob saw that movie 40 or 50 times thanks to a neighbor’s father owning the drive in movie theatre. I guess Momma never saw that the movie was about moon shinning or she would have worried about my brother’s motivation. Not to worry, it was the car that captured his imagination. The hot rod became the focus of his attention, as it always needed some work. It became a family project as Momma and grandma added the finishing touches of rolled and pleated upholstery. I guess momma was glad that my brother finally had four wheels under him instead of two. Those were the days of no money but the creation of strong family ties.

Those family ties are still strong. The problem we now encounter with Momma is that she has lots of practice worrying about us but she has not acquired a taste for us worrying about her

Momma's telephone

Poor momma is so upset about her loss of sight. She can't see to do anything. She seemed most upset about not being able to dial a telephone. Wonderful daughter that I am, I found a large button telephone that actually spoke the number dialed. I got the telephone Thursday morning, the same morning I was going out of town for several days. It was not packaged for mailing so a friend volunteered to take it to a "post office like" store to mail it for me. The post office like store was the first mistake. I wanted it to go to my brother's address, second mistake, so he could read the directions and show them how to use the telephone. I wanted it to go U.S. mail so it would be delivered on Saturday. The third mistake I made was telling them I was sending the telephone. I should have let it be a surprise but I was trying to prevent momma from sending daddy all over creation looking for a large button telephone. This fiasco started on May 14, 2009. Not only did I get called several times a day to inform me that the telephone had not arrived, my brother got called at home and at his office. Daddy was mad that I didn't mail it directly to them. I thought that I was dong the right thing by sending it to my brother so he could figure the telephone out before showing it to our parents. Then he started in on did I insure the package. All I knew was that it cost $15 to mail. Daddy informed everyone who would listen to him that the post office didn't take care of packages that were not insured. My brother and I had a visual of the post office gently placing insured packages on the mail truck while wildly tossing anything that had been foolishly not insured. Daddy never passed up the opportunity to tell me I had made a mistake not insuring it. I told him that I had made many mistakes in my life but that was one I was learning to regret the most. Today, May 26, 2009, the ordeal is nearly over. My loyal postman, whom I will never ditch for look-alike service, brought the package back to my office. The fake post office person had put the wrong mailing address on the package and had not even mailed it until May 19, 2009. So when I went by on Monday, May 18, 2009 to see where the package might be, he informed me that it was at the post office in my brother's town. Liar, liar, pants on fire. My friend went Tuesday, and I went back Wednesday. Meanwhile back at the ranch I was getting called daily by my parents.

Today I can proudly call my parents to say the insured package has been mailed to their address and should be there by tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Hooray for the U.S. Mail.

Most Embarrassing Moments

I am sure that my children are mentally storing tales from their childhood to share with their children. They often re-live their most embarrassing moments caused by being one of my children. This embarrassment is not isolated to my children. I have had to ability to mortify my grandson, who in turn has made me blush with his recounting of family tales. Last year we made one of the annual Birthday Dinner Trips to Red Lobster that we initiated when my children were young. They could each go and have lobster on their birthday; it was a big deal then. We make it a big deal now. My grandson was the honored guest. We were sitting around the table laughing about things that had happened in our family. We got around to our most embarrassing moments. I was retelling the story of how I mistook my daughter’s former baby sitter for the mother-in-law of a friend while grocery shopping. When the baby sitter walked away my daughter said, “I thought that was Miss Louise”. My mind was immediately jolted into the right gear; we then hid behind the fresh vegetables at Kroger and laughed. When the waitress came to our table to check on us, the entire restaurant had one of those dead quiet moments. My grandson spoke up in a very loud voice “Oh no, I thought it was when you farted in front of the scout master at Boy Scout camp.” He still can not understand how eating pork and beans three times a day for a week can cause your gut to become a gas factory. The waitress did not miss a beat as she said; “Now this is your most embarrassing moment”.

My adult children are still complaining about how embarrassed they were by me making them wear dog-tags I had purchased with their name, my name, address, and telephone number. I was obsessed with something happening to them when they were too young or too busy to carry identification. How would anyone know who they were if they were in an accident while alone or traveling with non-family members? I when my son joined the Army I told him that I was having a Medic-Alert Bracelet made for him. He questioned this being he had no medical history that would require an alert. I told him it was going to say, “IN CASE OF INTOXICATION, DO NOT TATTOO OR PIERCE THIS BODY”. I am still convinced this bracelet would be a big seller to parents of young service men.

So, here many of us are with aging parents who might benefit from the “dog tag” idea. I have suggested this to my patients who have family members with Alzheimer’s. Monday I had an elderly patient who was in no physical condition to drive, drive himself to my office. His health had declined immensely since I last saw him. I sat him down for a case history review in which I had to pull information from him. What medications are you taking? Morphine. Oh Lord. Are you under another doctor’s care ? “Yes, I just had a flabbergaster installed.” A flabbergaster, are you talking about a defibulator? Here is a perfect candidate for a medic alert bracelet, not to mention a family member accompanying him to his doctor’s visit. His decreased reaction time was discussed along with the idea he should not drive. My guess, he snuck off.

See what I am saying? Our parents are acting like teenagers. Remember when our children were teenagers? It takes a village to raise them. Good luck on your journey.

Top Secret

Momma does not have any experience with poor health. She is 88, takes no medication, her blood pressure is normal, she is not a diabetic, her weight is perfect, and her natural teeth are so beautiful she was asked to remove them before a needle biopsy. The only thing missing in this testimony to a life well lived is her poor vision due to macular degeneration. Any thing that momma ever had, except the shoulder injury she earned from making ten purses for Christmas presents from duct tape, has resolved itself quickly. Up until recently she would go to the church to help the "old people". I wondered just how old they were being she was in her eighties. She made choir robes for the children, bought and distributed fruit baskets to the elderly, made sure the under funded had food and clothing. She has been a woman in charge of her life and other's.

So here we are with momma and daddy going to the ophthalmologist alone because they don't' need any help. Momma's vision is causing her to see "blocks in the road" and the shoulder of the road to appear as a "deep crater". Now we all know that she is screaming TOM which is making poor daddy a nervous wreck. Daddy's hearing is not good and the vascular dementia he is suffering from does not make him the best candidate to retain the medical diagnosis being rendered. Momma can't remember her doctor's name, when her appointments are scheduled, and what procedures are going to be done. She gets medical advice from friends who may or may not have a similar diagnosis and certainly is not identical to hers. She has an astounding network of friends who offer various forms of advice. She is trying to locate her friend who is blind yet drives to determine how she passed the vision exam at the State Patrol Driver's License Department.

Daddy does not want anyone to drive them anywhere because he is afraid that we are going to tell him he can not drive any more. His butt is glued to that driver's seat and it is difficult to pry him out of it. Sometimes after a death defying trip out to eat, with audio provided by momma, he will hand the car keys over to one of the poor suckers he has forced to ride with him. My parents might not have experience with being sick but their adult children have no experience telling their parents NO. We have made a life saving pact not to allow daddy to drive us anywhere. Our motto is going to be "Hell No, We Won' Go".

Our problem is obvious. They do not want us to drive them to the doctor because daddy does not want to quit driving; momma is blind and she does not want to quit driving; the doctors are not getting accurate information from momma and daddy; and the doctors have to abide by HIPPA regulations, which by the way are going to protect our parents to death. I am hoping that they will sign a consent for us to be able to access their medical information so we can make sure they get to their appointments and follow home care instructions. I am not sure this is going to happen as they are now acting like they are in the CIA and their health care is a top secret operation.

If you can't laugh, you will cry

I started writing stories of my childhood about a year ago. I like to write. I knew that I wanted to do something with them in a book but I didn't know how to connect them. Then I needed a mental therapy break from the rigors of caring for both my invalid 93 year old mother-in-law that lives in our home and my rapidly aging parents who don't live close enough for me to look in on daily. That is how the blog was born. My mother-in-law was old when I met her, she was in a wheel chair, could not even turn over in bed by herself. My parents on the other hand were young in spite of their age. They were still driving long distances out of state to visit relatives and doing pretty much what they wanted to do. I was blindsided by their rapid descent into old age. Over night they became old. It is a scary thing when the people you have always depended on for advice are not making good decisions and they certainly are not accustomed to asking for your advice. I think their new theme is "You are not the boss of me".

Thank goodness we have a sense of humor in our family genes that was passed down to most of the family. We look for laughter in every situation, sometimes it is difficult to find but we persevere. I am writing this blog to let other people in my generation know that they are not alone. If the parent parenting deal has not happened to you yet and you are lucky enough to have aging parents, it will happen. If you have not started a family yet you have no basis for understanding the parenting issues. You will. I hope you can laugh through some of the things your children will do and I hope that you will learn through this blog to laugh through what your parents will do. I write about my childhood to give a glimpse in to what wonderful parents they were and what they had to put up with raising us. Perhaps we earned them.

What ever happens to me in the aging process, I hope I can hold on to the laughter.

Momma Is a Shopper!

Here is how it always worked in our family, daddy made the money, momma spent it. I once told daddy that he spoiled momma and now he had to live with her. I was wrong, we are all suffering from the "spoiling". Momma has always managed to one up everyone with whatever they owned. Silk Christmas trees came out, momma had two; a friend collected Emmett Kelly clowns, momma bought the entire series with one purchase; I painted my cheap living room paneling, momma painted her expensive Windsor pine paneling; teapots, they cover the wall in the kitchen; perfume bottles, too numerous to count. Are you getting the picture.

The dilemma we are now facing is that daddy's income stream has reached the retired status. Fixed income is a new phrase that momma can't wrap her mind around, nor one I imagine daddy has ever uttered to her. First it was the Yorkie dog. We were all surprised that momma wanted a dog considering we never had a name brand dog nor was any dog ever allowed in our home. There was one instance where she let Rover in after she ran over him, She didn't explain that act of kindness for years. After all it was a fleeting moment of compassion for a yard dog that was never to be repeated. The Yorkie dog came with a price tag of $1,000. That did not include the cage, the dog carrying handbag, the girl dog blankets she made, etc, etc. Although I don't think daddy would have told her no, he did think she was only charging $40 on his charge card. That alone would be a testimony for a hearing aid advertisement. So here my parents are with a dog in the house, well not really in the house, she kept it in it's cage in the foyer. Poor dog. It's life was cut short by a premature spay. We assumed momma was out of the dog business. Nope, she went right back and bought another $1,000 dog. This one was on daddy because he knew the price this time. Did I mention that he can not say no? New dog, male this time so it would not have to be neutered as it would have no opportunity for a sexual encounter. He did get all new bed linens because he could not sleep on pink girly blankets. Momma does not have to look far to find something to buy.

Momma is an optimistic purchaser. She bought a new car when she was 85. She had her kitchen completely gutted and remodeled with new everything, including appliances. The kitchen is still brand new as she got accustomed to eating out during the remodel and has never cooked another full meal in the new kitchen. Now she discovers her friend has had some company come in and replace her existing tub with a handicapped walk in shower. You guessed it, she is getting two handicapped showers. Her friend paid $6,000 for her shower so even though she has had no estimate, not to mention looking in to other contractors, she is asking daddy to pull $30,000 out of their money market account to pay for the job. The increased in price? She wants handicapped toilets. She must be purchasing them though a government contract. I am just hoping that they use these new showers and not follow suit with the kitchen remodel. If so, there is a truck stop with hot showers close to the Cracker Barrel.

Long term planning must not be in her vocabulary. Perhaps that should be done while your parents are still making good decisions. Our dilemma is how can we save them from themselves? It is their money. We hope it can out last them.

Licensed to Drive

Daddy has earned the reputation of being a terrible driver. This reputation is not limited to family members. Long ago residents along the road to his office learned to watch out for the blue and white streak of the 59 Dodge speeding down the road. One time when we were on the way for a visit in Montgomery, we were stopped once again in Hogansville for a traffic ticket, my brother asked daddy why he didn't get a charge account with the police there. Momma sat vigil in the front seat offering sporadic screams of "TOM" which were effective to direct his attention back to the road. Daddy could spot anything along the road while driving as he felt his driving skills did not require constant attention to the road. Also, he probably knew that if anything serious came up he would be forewarned with TOM. Momma is the direct opposite driver from daddy. Her top speed is 40. She slows down for every car she sees at any intersection, which is an invitation for them to pull out in front of her. Longevity has not enhanced their driving skills.

Momma developed macular degeneration several years ago. The progression was mild until last year when she stated she could no longer see the black dot on her mirror with her left eye. All the children suggested then that she ought not to drive. She stated that she could see "fine". We were coward enough to hope that she would not be able to have her license renewed that year but somehow she got them renewed. This year she has developed a rapid degeneration in her "good" eye. She can't see the TV, can't dial a telephone, can't read, but she did want to get her driver's license renewed so she wouldn't have to take a test when her eyes got better. Daddy drove her to the State Patrol office to get her license. First thing they asked to check her site. She put on her reading glasses, which do not help, and was instructed to remove them. She could not pass the vision test so they took her license. Momma said, "They snatched them out of her hand." Not to worry, she had a spare left over from when she misplaced her purse for three months. Now she and daddy have plans to go to another city for the license. They are like two underage teenagers trying to beat the system. I hope the State Patrol has some universal protocol that will prevent her from being a blind licensed driver.

Mother's Day 2009

Why in the world would be expect momma, at age 88, to be able to make sensible health care decisions for herself and daddy when she always deferred those decisions to someone else, even strangers, is beyond me. To say that momma is not good during an medical emergency is a vast understatement. We have spent our entire childhood laughing at incidents that give credence to this statement. My earliest memory of her avoidance of offering emergency medical assistance comes from family tales of her screaming and running the other way when my brother enters the house with a bloody face that was the result of sledding down a steep hill in Richmond Heights, MO and being stopped by either a stop sign or a fence. I asked my brother about the particulars of this accident yesterday at our parents house where we had all gathered to honor our mother on Mother's day. He told me it was an angle iron post on a fence. I said that I always thought it was barbed wire. My other brother who was born at least ten years after the incident said he thought it was barbed wire too. See how family folk lore changes with the retelling of stories. At any rate the results of the crash were not favorable to his face or the sled. You would have thought that the fence post/barbed wire incident would have discouraged him from dangerous childhood activities but much to mamas dismay it only seemed to fuel the fire of adventure.

I clearly remember momma running the other way, are we starting to see a pattern here, when I had the mother of all bike wrecks while attempting to use my newly acquired riding skills in a bike race on a hot Clovis, NM subdivision street. A front wheel spoke broke only to find its way in to my shin. Ever since I have worn a scar that resembles the continent of Africa. I obviously do not have the ability to learn from other's mistakes.

When my little brother laid his forehead open as he ran under the back of a big farm truck, momma ran the other way. By now all mom ma's children have learned the benefits of direct pressure on a cut. She once waved me away when she was talking on the telephone when I approached her with an ice pick through my finger, don't you just love those frost free refrigerators we have now. My next door neighbor said in the telephone, "I have to go Linda is here with an ice pick through her finger." Momma thought she could prevent injury to her children by threatening to spank us if we got hurt. So we just didn't tell her when we got hurt. It saved time. This turned out not to be the best policy when my brother poured hot lead on his arm while making lead solders. We are not even going to go in to how dangerous our toys were then. He was afraid to tell momma because she said that she would whip him, so he waited until the red streaks started running up his arm. When he showed her his arm she said "I ought to whip you".

Turns out all of this self taught medical assistance and her remarriage to a chiropractor led three of her children to become chiropractors. We were never squeamish when we went to the lab to dissect frogs. Heck no, we had seen plenty of blood and guts just taking care of each other. Besides that my oldest brother and I had a little frog surgery unit on Sherwood Drive. We would catch frogs, use the Underwood Typewriter cleaner, which I now believe was ether, to put them "under" for their surgical procedure. We learned many things from our early surgery days, like a frog can not live without a heart. True, we had a high mortality rate and no frog ever returned to have their stitches removed. In fact they could hop remarkably well post surgery as they fled our yard. Maybe this is why momma and daddy do not want us to interfere with their health care decisions.

My youngest brother works for Delta Airlines so momma has a resource for running the other way if things get really bad at home. Thank goodness she has stuck with us all these years and we will stick with them to the end.

Momma & Daddy in 1960

My granddaddy said the summers in Alabama were hotter than 400 hells. That’s pretty hot if you ask me. My momma didn’t care. She sent us outside to play as soon as breakfast was over and we didn’t come in until she called us. I guess outside was just as cool as inside considering the invention of air conditioning was a thing of the future. We did have a window fan and my daddy could open windows just the right height to get a breeze going right through the house. Rushing hot air is not all that wonderful.

After breakfast I headed out to the shade of the mimosa tree. The only time anyone wanted to play under that scraggly thing was when it had beans on it. We used to cook the beans on our imaginary stove. We probably could have accomplished the job by placing them on a rock in our hot backyard. I couldn’t wait for Patsy Parker to get up and come out. Patsy Parker was the most popular girl in our neighborhood because she had a big oak tree in her backyard. Every one was especially nice to Patsy because they wanted to play under the shade of that big tree, which meant that she got perks like always getting the leading role in the plays we performed under her bedspread draped clothes line stage.

Once we moved one yard over to Fred’s house. His mother must have been sickly because she never came out in the yard to see what we were doing. She never noticed kids coming from everywhere on the block with buckets and shovels. We dug a deep hole at the top of their yard that 12 children could get in. It was our fort. Thanks to the clay texture of the dirt it was not our final resting place. In retrospect I think Fred’s momma was an alcoholic or suffered from some mysterious malady. My benevolent brother Bob said she was just shy.

We also had Blue Cave Hideout, a wooded area as you entered our neighborhood. Sherwood Forest. That name encouraged us to play Robin Hood in Blue Cave Hide Out. We picked blackberries in season and got chiggers in places you would not think they would go. Minerva Kennedy told us to put finger nail polish on the bites and it would kill the chigger. She should have mentioned using clear polish. That was so embarrassing. Minerva Kennedy was a source of bad information. She taught me everything I knew about sex and I am here to tell you she was in way over her head in that department.

Our neighborhood gang also consisted of the Hooks boys, Joe and John. John was the first boy I ever kissed. I had to hold him down in the Tunnel of Love at the State Fair to get that kiss. You can only practice on the back of your hand so long. I knew it was true love when the following Christmas he gave me a bottle of Evening in Paris. I now know his momma made him give it to me. Joe was my older brother’s age,they hardly ever let us play with them. One day they tricked us in to playing cowboys and Indians. After we had been captured for several hours in the fort we decided to escape and hang John Hooks. Mrs. Hooks just happened to look out the window and yelled in horror. We told her we were just going to hang him for a little while. The permanent nature of capital punishment had not yet sunk in.

Years passed, I moved to Georgia against my will, my brother joined the Air Force in time to go to Viet Nam, Patsy married her Van and raised her younger siblings, Joe and John married their sweethearts and left Mrs. Hooks in their childhood home, and Minerva died from breast cancer. Even so, life on Sherwood Drive remains ever so sweet as I go back to visit in my memories.

Some Things You Just Don't Talk About

There were just some things you didn’t talk about in our family. This would include sex, body functions, and all subjects that might include any mention of either of these. It is a wonder I came to be an adult without major psychological damage considering pregnancy was a taboo subject. A woman was “that way”. A miscarriage was whispered about like it was a curse on the mother, and Lord knows no one ever saw you naked after you were five. I grew up thinking that even though grandma had 9 children she only had sex on 9 occasions. My mother never had sex. I don’t know where we came from.

This leads me to the point of how in the world do you become your parent’s parent, taking them to the bathroom and bathing them? I don’t recommend this to my friends, but my parent parenting training came in the form of a home-schooled course when I married a wonderful man who left his business to take care of his invalid mother after his father died. True, he was thinking she was so frail that she would only live a few years. After fifteen years of excellent care her health has improved and he has learned how to dress her while preserving her modesty and his sanity; what type of gown is easiest to put on and take off a person with arthritic shoulders; and how to deal with all things related to the potty chair. We keep her potty chair in her room to eliminate getting the wheelchair involved in the process during the night. We get her into a sitting position by placing an arm under her shoulders and one under her knees and rotate her in one motion so her feet are on the floor. Then we use a walker that she supports her elbows on while helping her to a standing position. We then hold on to the walker while she takes steps to move to the potty chair. Remember the more they do on their own the more they will continue to do. If she quits using the walker to take those few supported steps she will not be able to continue to use the potty chair. My mother-in-law’s bedroom right off our dining room so I was highly motivated to find a way that she/we could clean her bottom. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to discover the portable bidet that sends a fresh spray of water to clean that said bottom after she used the toilet. I found the BIFFY. It is reasonably priced and well worth every penny.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness that is what I always heard. Taking care of an invalid parent brings that thought to mind often. The daily bath is not a luxury; it is a necessity if everybody wants to live comfortably in the same house. My husband installed an expensive tub with a seat that elevated and rotated. Two problems we encountered with this were one, it was installed in a 1950’s bathroom that was too small and two she couldnot lift her legs to get over the side of the tub. When we built a new house we installed a shower stall that would accommodate a tub transfer bench. The bench legs are adjustable so one side can sit on the floor and the other can sit in the shower, the bench seat rotates and slides. She can sit on the seat, turn facing the shower, and slide into the shower. Falling is one of the greatest fears of the elderly. This seat is sturdy so she does not resist using it. Now back to the naked part. My husband wisely hired a bath nurse who comes every day to bath his mother. Money well spent. She is trained to handle any situation that might arise during the bath, she can make her comply and leave without recourse during the day, and we don’t have to deal with naked.
I hope that this blog will entertain you and offer you some tips on caring for your parents. Please pass the site along to your friends and family. I look forward to hearing from you and would be pleased to pass along any thing you have learned.

Am I Becoming My Mother?

I pride myself on offering good advice to my aging patients. When they are upset during the Christmas season because they either can't get out to purchase presents or can't afford to buy gifts for a growing family I make suggestions like, look around your house, you have something that someone has admired give it to them now so you can see them enjoy it. The bonus is, it will clean out clutter in your house. This past Christmas I had acquired some of my grandmother's and father's possessions through an estate sale, that is another story for another time. I gave each one of my children something from their family history. I also found something of meaning to give to my brothers. I can enjoy seeing them use these things without owning them myself. I have too much stuff, so do you. I became acutely aware of this condition when working with my brothers on a family cleaning day at my parents. They are the Monarchs of owning stuff, none of which needs to be discarded. I made up my mind, while I still had it, that I was going to consciously discard broken or useless items when I ran across them.

I might think that I am able to give my patients good advice but I wish someone had taken me under their wing to offer advice on how to deal with my own parents. My brothers and I found it necessary to clean out our parents two car garage after daddy fell over Lord knows what and cut his face badly. Buried among the four trailer loads of broken, useless (to us) items we discarded I found an old Tom's Peanut glass jar that was in imminent danger of getting broken, an old handmade basket filled with rotten potatoes, and a large cotton basket that was being crushed from lack of space. I thought that my parents would be thrilled that I wanted to take these three things home and save them from certain destruction, use them in my home now, and pass on as memories of our family heritage. Not so, even though I asked my father if I could have them and he said yes, all he remembers is that I took things out of the garage. There are so many things in the garage and tool shed that they no longer use or need, not to mention having several of the same items purchased because they probably couldn't find what they were looking for, that would go to good use to the grandchildren who are buying their first homes. Well, it ain't gonna happen.

We have abandoned all plans to do anymore cleaning or discarding of any of their "things". The last time Tim and I cleaned in the house they had a panicked look on their face until we promised that we were only doing some deep cleaning and would not throw anything away, except the rotten fruit in the refrigerator. Momma and daddy were not so sure of our promise. They followed us around from room to room while we dusted, vacuumed, and cleaned glass. You would have thought that we were a work detail lent to them by Kilby Prison. They never took their eyes off us and had a distinct look of relief on their faces as we drove out the driveway.

Okay, I am going to consciously discard broken or useless items myself, but I am still deciding the usefulness of the stack of decorating magazines on the screened porch. I will not, however, be able to return the items to daddy's garage as I can not fit that cotton basket in the Miata. Have you ever uttered the phrase I am becoming my mother? Future stories may come from a psychiatric hospital. I'll keep you posted.

Ralph, The Ice Cream Man

Children on Sherwood Drive were outside playing various childhood games when the far off sound of Farmer in the Dell caused a sudden stop of activity followed by a burst of energy as everyone went running home to find their 5 cents to hand over to Ralph, the ice cream man. He rode through the hills of Sherwood Forest on a bicycle with a huge freezer compartment attached to his front handlebars, quite a feat for an old man. He must have been at least 50. Those years looked rough on him, he didn’t look like any of our daddies who went off to boring jobs each day and returned for the evening meal by 5:00. No one knew where Ralph went after the ice cream route; no one cared as long as he came back the next day. The mothers in the neighborhood must have never bought ice cream themselves or they would have asked Ralph when was the last time he bathed. When I think back on Ralph I am glad those ice creams were wrapped in paper to separate us from the unwashed.

We had rules in our homes. Daily bathing was not an option. All boys scrubbed extra hard because they didn’t want their mommas coming in there to finish the job. The girls just didn’t want momma to give them a permanent wave, even if it had paper dolls in the box. I knew they just put those paper dolls in there so a child would have something to do while they stayed in exile until the curl fell out a little. I think my momma picked up hair styling from the Tiny Tears doll Santa brought me for Christmas. There was no combing those tight little curls glued right to Tiny’s head. So Tiny could not brush her hair those requested hundred strokes. I brushed mine to no avail; it was still white blonde, thin, and dried out from my last Toni. Momma thought she would improve it by putting Suave conditioner on it. Then it looked dirty blonde, thin, and just plain dirty. I was glad when I got control over my own hair.
Momma in 1954

Raising parents is not kid stuff. Here I am just getting accustomed to getting older myself when I am confronted with parents I can’t do anything with. In all fairness I must say that my parents were blindsided by aging as well. They were bright, articulate, and socially active one minute and the next thing you know we noticed that perhaps they were not making the best decisions.

Daddy’s second mild stroke seemed to be the catalyst for their rapid decent into old age. The first I heard of “the stroke” was when my parents returned from a family reunion escorted by my mother’s brothers. She refers to them as “the boys”. Momma is now approaching 88 so I guess her younger brothers who are well into their 70’s seem like boys. At any rate, I get a telephone call from my mother when she returns from the reunion. The first thing she says is, “Well, I had a terrible time at the reunion. You father had a stroke.” That should have been a red flag for me but I have grown accustomed to things being all about momma so I missed it. She proceeds to tell me that daddy’s speech became garbled… STROKE,,,,and he could not walk….STROKE. The “boys” load momma and daddy in the boat and take them back to their brother’s house. Momma said that she had a terrible time with daddy that night; no they did not go to the hospital because the person who had the stroke was making the medical decisions. The “boys” were planning on visiting my parents anyway so one of them drove my parent’s car and the other one followed. So they get home, daddy cannot stand or walk without assistance, and they go to the Cracker Barrel to eat because momma has not cooked a meal since she had the total kitchen renovation. Here these people who have led sensible lives are dragging daddy into the Cracker Barrel to eat and they think it is normal behavior.

I alerted my brothers, who did not know anything about this, to discuss getting daddy to the doctor. My brother made an appointment with the doctor and guess what; momma didn’t go with him, she sent “the boys”. Daddy saw the doctor and did not mention he had a vascular event over the weekend. The doctor had not seen him for two years since the first stroke so he assumed the symptoms were not new. We are getting smarter at this point and realized that someone had to go with them or call ahead to give the real story.

Becoming the parent of your parents is the most difficult thing you will ever attempt. My parents think that they are fine. When you ask if they have taken their medicine they smile and say yes. It doesn’t matter if you put it in a cute little dose box because you will never see that apparatus again. They either take too much or don’t take it at all. One of the first medicine problems we had was getting the prescription out of the store without loosing it. My brother thought he solved that problem with mail order prescriptions that he keeps and gives out a month’s supply. When the prescription last more than a month you know they are not taking it. Sometimes it doesn’t last a month because they take it too often. We tried to get momma involved in monitoring the medication. This is how she did it. Did you take your medicine? Yes? Okay. Never put one old person in charge or another old person.

My parents are fortunate enough have earned a good income and to live in their own home. It is the home the last three children grew up in. It is too large for them to maintain, the yard is high maintenance with a pond and numerous shrubs and plants that require attention, and now it is too late for them to make a change. They should have sold their house while they were still able to adapt to new surroundings. The problem was parting with their things. Lord knows they have lots of things. We became acutely aware of the enormous amount of things when daddy fell coming out of the garage. It was family cleaning day again. We went into the garage cleaning project with one goal, safety. We came armed with a truck, a trailer, and those wonderful heavy duty paper yard waste bags that sit flat while you fill them. We were confronted with stacks of newspapers and magazines bound neatly together waiting for the school paper drive that they have not had in Lord knows how long. That was the first thing we loaded in the trailer. Daddy mentioned that the school made money on the recycling. I told him that I would write them a check but we were headed for the recycling bins at the dump. Daddy began to stand vigil beside the trailer. We would put something in, and he would take it out. What we needed was someone to distract daddy. We threw away parts of weed eaters, empty boxes, and broken tools. He was furious about us ditching the 1964 World Book Encyclopedias. I asked him when was the last time we went in the garage, dug through boxes to come up with some 44 year old information. He thought someone could use them. He didn’t realize that children now accessed information via the internet. Later I realized that he probably had made payments on those books. Here he was a 33 rpm record in an ipod world. Here we were, three grown children making trip after trip to the dump with items that should have been discarded rather than stored in the garage. Momma was happy for us to get rid of daddy’s junk. Daddy was not. At the end of the day we were dirty, tired, and sad to see how our parents have aged.

Momma in 1956

“If you get too hot, you’ll get polio”. That’s what momma said. This is what all the mommas said the summer of 1956. That is what my cousin Diane’s mother Aunt Lee said. Next thing you know, Diane had polio. She was whisked off to the hospital where none of us could go see her; polio was very contagious you see. We knew polio was real because our neighbor lived in an iron lung and we were frightened. Besides that our mommas mentioned it every time we went outside, which was everyday.

I can remember how it started. I was riding my bicycle way up on Nottingham when the headache began. My head hurt so bad I could hardly peddle by 20-inch bike. I don’t remember how I got home but I do remember my head drawing back and my mother screaming when she saw me. Polio. I had gotten too hot. My mother has never been good with medical emergencies so no telling how we got to the hospital. The doctor came in, took one look at me and ordered a spinal tap. Now a tap doesn’t sound like much, similar to a pat. That would be wrong. The spinal tap needle looked two feet long and it hurt like the dickens when they plunged it in to my spine. The tell-tale spinal fluid held the key to my future. That key fit in the door to my room at the Jackson Hospital. No visitors, one nurse per shift allowed in my room. My grandmother sent me two Ginny Dolls with several changes of clothes that amused me day and night.

Momma had her hands full with my daddy being stationed in Texas in the Air Force, my brother Tim less than two, my brother Bob 13, and lo and behold if my aunt didn’t drop her kids off with for the summer. I guess that she was not concerned about the contagiousness of polio. Poor momma, trying to feed three extra children along with everything else on her plate. As Grandma used to say, “If it ain’t one damn thing, its another”.

Meanwhile I was stuck in the hospital while Bob and cousin Donny were home with the Whitman Samplers that concerned neighbors had sent. This is where I can track my mental problem I have with Whitman’s Samplers back to. I couldn’t have any outside food brought in to the hospital. Bob and Donny found they couldn’t resist the Whitman’s Sampler. I am sure that they did not intend to eat both boxes. I found most of the cream filled candy with a pin hole in the bottom, that way they could leave them looking virtually untouched in hopes that they would not get killed by momma when I started crying. Quite frankly, I never got over that. I have been known quite recently to hide my highly anticipated birthday Whitman Sampler in my underwear drawer and eat the whole thing myself. I eat the creamed filled centers last.