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.