I sit on the front porch, or the back deck with my mom. Day in and day out. I follow her conversations, when I can. Nod indifferently when I can't, hoping that is a satisfying response.
I start novels in my head.
"All Mama does now is sit on the front porch with my grammy. Before Grammy came to live with us, Mama had things to do, places she went, she liked to go to to the lake. Before Grammy, Mama took me places, to the store late at night, and we would giggle that we were in barefoot as we picked out pints of ice cream. Now Mama rushes to make more sweet tea so Grammy has it when she wants it.
I can hear Mama mumble to herself, as my room is right off the kitchen. She says things like, "I swear that woman is going to drive me to drink"
She used to say that about us kids too when we were all little, but I have never seen her take a sip.
Just her sweet tea, and her diet soda that no one else in the house is allowed to have.
Life was different before Grammy came here."
That is one book, told from my daughter's point of view, except my daughter would not speak like that. She is an amalgam of many people. Maybe of all my children.
I do feel like I have abandoned them in a way to take care of Mom.
The Catholic guilt runs deep and the imaginary Nun speaks looming at me. Finger waving in the air "You should never abandon your children, or your spouse (clearly this Catholic nun has no clue my spouse is a woman) you must take care of everyone and everything! You are selfish and needy and you will burn in hell!"
My Catholic Nun is different from my Jewish (fictional) Grandmother.
"What were you expecting? You are the girl of the family, you have to take care of everyone. Quit kvetching, and get on with it. Did you think you would have a life? (she fake spits) That is for other people. The Gentiles that don't care about family and throw their mothers into "homes"! What kind of a home doesn't have kugel on Sundays?
No Bubbala, that is not a life for you, now come help your Bubby out of this Fercockt chair. would it kill you to get me a barcalounger? The Grossman's got one for their mother, but you? (fake spit again) I have to sit in this!"
In reality it is not so colorful.
During the time it took me to write this, I fed mom a Lean Cuisine, in a bowl, passing it off as my own. Got her sweet tea, twice, took her to the bathroom once, fed the dogs, and just now filled the dog bowl with water and started to walk out front with it to give to my mom.
Okay. Stop. Deep breath. Dog bowl in kitchen on the floor. Sweet tea on counter for mom.
It is okay. It is all okay.
Mom is getting ready for bed, and the cast of characters in my head are arguing amongst themselves. It is amazing how my fictitious characters all get along enough to gang up on me!
As I tuck my mom, and my cast in bed for the night I take another deep breath in.
And listen for silence.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Adventures With Sticky Things
Since my mother has moved in with us, we have had to make certain adjustments. Not just the usual day to day care, but moving furniture a certain way, decorating a certain way, placing her photographs that arrive in care packages all over the house. We want her to feel at home.
My house is not a large house and simultaneously holds a southern charm, and ranch style. The front has a covered porch, just big enough for a few chairs and a small table. I like to sit out there at night, and listen to the traffic.
The back has a deck, which overlooks the spacious backyard below. We found a wonderful table and four large comfortable chairs to sit in, as mom prefers to be outside most of every day.
Another adjustment I have made is to wear a bra. I am not a fan of wearing bras, especially on hot days when I know there is little to no chance that I will be leaving the house.
My mother, maintaining her fashion sense and great looks wears a bra every day without fail. She has on more than one occasion asked why I do not.
I looked online and found the perfect solution. They are sticky bras! They look like chicken cutlets that clasp together to give some cleavage and lift.
The sticky strapless cutlets arrived last night, and I was anxious to give them a go today. I can wear them with strapless dresses, I can wear them with just a tank top. Everyone would be happy!
I applied them, gave myself and my new cleavage a once over and presented myself to mom. She noticed and smiled approvingly.
We began our day on the back deck, reading newspapers, drinking sweet tea.
Mom prefers the front, she can watch the passerby's and comment on them all. The only problem with sitting out front is mom has the misfortune of letting the dogs out.
We have installed a lock high up on the door so she won't let them out front when we are all inside, but walking out the door she often opens it wide enough to let them loose.
Wanting to make mom happy I agreed to sit in the front even though it is hotter at this time of day,
I held the two glasses of ice tea, the news paper, and my sanity in one hand.
The door opened and before I could tell her no, mom let the dogs out.
I yelled "ANNIE" which caused both my mother and my daughter of the same name to respond. I needed the younger Annie. I through her a leash and we walked down the street, both of us barefoot.
Annie caught one dog and headed home, the dog I was after was more tenacious or stupid and would not listen to me.
I picked up my pace and along with that came sweat. My feet hurt on the gravely street. Mental note to keep shoes by the front door.
As I ran I felt something begin to slide, the right side of my sticky bra lost its suction in the heat and sweat, the left side held on for dear life.
Barefoot, dog finally on a leash I had no choice but to finish the walk with one fake breast hanging down my shirt.
I had to stop, catch my breath and boob and just laugh. In the middle of the street dog in hand, breast dangling, I became the passerby people would comment on.
Finally arriving home safely, I put the dog in the house, ripped off the left sticky boob and threw them on the table.
I poured more ice tea, braless, brought it outside to mom who calmly asked, "Did you have a nice walk?"
"Yep"
"You really should wear a bra if you are going to walk in that shirt."
"Okay mom, I will look into that."
My house is not a large house and simultaneously holds a southern charm, and ranch style. The front has a covered porch, just big enough for a few chairs and a small table. I like to sit out there at night, and listen to the traffic.
The back has a deck, which overlooks the spacious backyard below. We found a wonderful table and four large comfortable chairs to sit in, as mom prefers to be outside most of every day.
Another adjustment I have made is to wear a bra. I am not a fan of wearing bras, especially on hot days when I know there is little to no chance that I will be leaving the house.
My mother, maintaining her fashion sense and great looks wears a bra every day without fail. She has on more than one occasion asked why I do not.
I looked online and found the perfect solution. They are sticky bras! They look like chicken cutlets that clasp together to give some cleavage and lift.
The sticky strapless cutlets arrived last night, and I was anxious to give them a go today. I can wear them with strapless dresses, I can wear them with just a tank top. Everyone would be happy!
I applied them, gave myself and my new cleavage a once over and presented myself to mom. She noticed and smiled approvingly.
We began our day on the back deck, reading newspapers, drinking sweet tea.
Mom prefers the front, she can watch the passerby's and comment on them all. The only problem with sitting out front is mom has the misfortune of letting the dogs out.
We have installed a lock high up on the door so she won't let them out front when we are all inside, but walking out the door she often opens it wide enough to let them loose.
Wanting to make mom happy I agreed to sit in the front even though it is hotter at this time of day,
I held the two glasses of ice tea, the news paper, and my sanity in one hand.
The door opened and before I could tell her no, mom let the dogs out.
I yelled "ANNIE" which caused both my mother and my daughter of the same name to respond. I needed the younger Annie. I through her a leash and we walked down the street, both of us barefoot.
Annie caught one dog and headed home, the dog I was after was more tenacious or stupid and would not listen to me.
I picked up my pace and along with that came sweat. My feet hurt on the gravely street. Mental note to keep shoes by the front door.
As I ran I felt something begin to slide, the right side of my sticky bra lost its suction in the heat and sweat, the left side held on for dear life.
Barefoot, dog finally on a leash I had no choice but to finish the walk with one fake breast hanging down my shirt.
I had to stop, catch my breath and boob and just laugh. In the middle of the street dog in hand, breast dangling, I became the passerby people would comment on.
Finally arriving home safely, I put the dog in the house, ripped off the left sticky boob and threw them on the table.
I poured more ice tea, braless, brought it outside to mom who calmly asked, "Did you have a nice walk?"
"Yep"
"You really should wear a bra if you are going to walk in that shirt."
"Okay mom, I will look into that."
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Wanna See a Dead Body?
I have never been much of a goal-oriented person. If there was something I was wanted, I wanted it immediately. Much like many people of my generation. The MTV generation. I am sure there is a letter linked to it, but I do not care enough to look it up.
My summers as a youth were for the most part lazy. I lived by a lake, I swam, saw friends, was shipped off to sleep-away camp for many summers. Nothing special. So it seemed at the time, camp for me would in my later years turn out to be one of the happiest times of my life.
Many of the stories people tell me or that I read involve a summer spent trying to attain a goal. Endless visits to the lake to climb the tallest diving board, only to slink back down the ladder again and again until finally, as the summer comes to an end, the person walks barefoot across the board that stretches out in time and distance and leaps. Their hair wet and heart pounding with as much fear as pride when they emerge. Goal achieved.
The part of the lake where the younger kids and families went to in my town was simply called, "Island Beach." I can tell you it is much larger in my memory than it is in actuality. About 100 yards out is a floating dock. Again my memory is increasing size and distance. Maybe it was 100 feet. Whatever the distance, if you were under a certain age you had to do a swimming test to get a little tag that would spend the rest of the summer pinned to your bathing suit. This tag said, "I passed the swimming test and I can swim out to the dock if I want. So there."
I passed that test more than one summer, but it was never a goal. I had grown up with swimming lessons, so passing was no big deal. And the mysteries of being able to hang out on the dock were not as mysterious once you were dry and realized you had to swim back.
Summers for me were a time to just be a kid. Not a kid you would read about in a novel. Not a kid who found a dead body, or bounced a ball for 79 hours straight to make it into the Guiness Book of World Records. If I did have goals they were always to lose something, weight, my virginity, my brother teasing me, myself lost in a moment laying on the grass swearing I could feel the earth's rotation.
My youngest daughter and her friends have made this summer one with a goal. One very specific goal. This summer, this group of five girls have decided that they want -- no need -- they need to raise enough money to buy tickets for a concert that will not take place until next summer.
The plans and chatter are endless. Selling old items, calling in to a radio show offering a cash prize. Setting alarm clocks to remind them to wake up and call. Making jam to sell for $5 a jar. Car washes, baby sitting, and even begging to be paid to clean their own rooms.
They have a goal. They have the ambition to follow up and the motivation to keep at it. I watch, I listen, I offer ideas. Mainly when I am not annoyed at the chatter, I am honestly impressed.
These are the kind of kids that are written about in books. These are the characters that make up a good movie. These are remarkable humans. I see into their futures and I see the tenacity continuing to grow, the goals they will create and achieve. I am slightly jealous.
If I am the one who instilled such stalwart values in my daughter it was by accident or default. I can not even claim that I had the goal to raise ambitious children. Just happy ones.
It is summer now in Texas and when I am not hiding away in my air conditioned happiness I will venture to take the children to the lake. It is not a walk down the block as I had, but it is worth the drive. The wood of the docks is such a familiar feeling, it is as if I am walking in my past.
I have become the mom who regales my children with, "Well when I was growing up there was a lake..."
My only goal for summer since moving to Texas has been to survive it. Ignore it. Avoid it. And on the occasional trip to the lake, enjoy it.
How is it that I have nurtured beings who have goals while I remain floating without an anchor? I am still the person who wants things immediately. I have not learned how to plan, plot, work toward and ultimately achieve any goal in particular.
I am completely apathetic about this awareness as well. I do not feel remorseful, or driven to pick up a sword. I feel no shame or guilt.
I am a watcher. I am a thinker. I prefer to sit on the dock and watch others attack the water over and over again trying to get the perfect dive.
Then I see that it is my children diving. My children with ambition. I am filled with unwarranted pride. I smile. I encourage. I bear witness. I may not achieve much else but deep thought and pleasure from what I have been given, but I am happy. Happiness alone is a goal worth striving for.
My summers as a youth were for the most part lazy. I lived by a lake, I swam, saw friends, was shipped off to sleep-away camp for many summers. Nothing special. So it seemed at the time, camp for me would in my later years turn out to be one of the happiest times of my life.
Many of the stories people tell me or that I read involve a summer spent trying to attain a goal. Endless visits to the lake to climb the tallest diving board, only to slink back down the ladder again and again until finally, as the summer comes to an end, the person walks barefoot across the board that stretches out in time and distance and leaps. Their hair wet and heart pounding with as much fear as pride when they emerge. Goal achieved.
The part of the lake where the younger kids and families went to in my town was simply called, "Island Beach." I can tell you it is much larger in my memory than it is in actuality. About 100 yards out is a floating dock. Again my memory is increasing size and distance. Maybe it was 100 feet. Whatever the distance, if you were under a certain age you had to do a swimming test to get a little tag that would spend the rest of the summer pinned to your bathing suit. This tag said, "I passed the swimming test and I can swim out to the dock if I want. So there."
I passed that test more than one summer, but it was never a goal. I had grown up with swimming lessons, so passing was no big deal. And the mysteries of being able to hang out on the dock were not as mysterious once you were dry and realized you had to swim back.
Summers for me were a time to just be a kid. Not a kid you would read about in a novel. Not a kid who found a dead body, or bounced a ball for 79 hours straight to make it into the Guiness Book of World Records. If I did have goals they were always to lose something, weight, my virginity, my brother teasing me, myself lost in a moment laying on the grass swearing I could feel the earth's rotation.
My youngest daughter and her friends have made this summer one with a goal. One very specific goal. This summer, this group of five girls have decided that they want -- no need -- they need to raise enough money to buy tickets for a concert that will not take place until next summer.
The plans and chatter are endless. Selling old items, calling in to a radio show offering a cash prize. Setting alarm clocks to remind them to wake up and call. Making jam to sell for $5 a jar. Car washes, baby sitting, and even begging to be paid to clean their own rooms.
They have a goal. They have the ambition to follow up and the motivation to keep at it. I watch, I listen, I offer ideas. Mainly when I am not annoyed at the chatter, I am honestly impressed.
These are the kind of kids that are written about in books. These are the characters that make up a good movie. These are remarkable humans. I see into their futures and I see the tenacity continuing to grow, the goals they will create and achieve. I am slightly jealous.
If I am the one who instilled such stalwart values in my daughter it was by accident or default. I can not even claim that I had the goal to raise ambitious children. Just happy ones.
It is summer now in Texas and when I am not hiding away in my air conditioned happiness I will venture to take the children to the lake. It is not a walk down the block as I had, but it is worth the drive. The wood of the docks is such a familiar feeling, it is as if I am walking in my past.
I have become the mom who regales my children with, "Well when I was growing up there was a lake..."
My only goal for summer since moving to Texas has been to survive it. Ignore it. Avoid it. And on the occasional trip to the lake, enjoy it.
How is it that I have nurtured beings who have goals while I remain floating without an anchor? I am still the person who wants things immediately. I have not learned how to plan, plot, work toward and ultimately achieve any goal in particular.
I am completely apathetic about this awareness as well. I do not feel remorseful, or driven to pick up a sword. I feel no shame or guilt.
I am a watcher. I am a thinker. I prefer to sit on the dock and watch others attack the water over and over again trying to get the perfect dive.
Then I see that it is my children diving. My children with ambition. I am filled with unwarranted pride. I smile. I encourage. I bear witness. I may not achieve much else but deep thought and pleasure from what I have been given, but I am happy. Happiness alone is a goal worth striving for.
Should I finish my book, that would be a goal achieved and yet my children will always be my greatest accomplishment.
Monday, July 6, 2015
There are Places I Remember
I awoke having a slight panic attack. Another dream about the dead. When I dream about the dead they are always still alive and just do not want to be part of my life. This time it was my father. I instinctively know to wake Meredith so I can have her calming words.
I guess I was so confused about everything that she felt the need to put me in the proper place and time. Much the way I have to remind my Mom we are in Austin, Texas.
Meredith asked me who the vice president is. My answers were : Mitt Romney, Al Gore and Tippy Hedren.
She coaxes an answer out of me, "Jooeee"
"BIDEN!"
She quietly gets up to make me some coffee.
Fully awake, I am more curious where I got Tippy Hedren from, than the fact that I could not get the answer right on the first, second, or third time.
I had to look her up on the internet.
The Birds. She is also the mother to Melanie Griffith. I did not know that.
Is this how my mom thinks all day long? In a constant state of perturbation? Almost like a kid with severe ADD, grasping at meanings and words.
Last night the three of us, Mer, Myself, and of course my mother, sat out front on the porch. I had been humming Beatles song, but for the life of me could not think of the lyrics. I asked Meredith. She looked it up and once the song began to play all three of us knew the lyrics completely.
This song is stuck in my head, but I now have the words to go along with the tune.
Everyone has deep seeded fears that we live with, some of us admit them and are aware of them, some of us try to pray the little demons away, some of us do not know they have taken over.
My deepest fear used to be, and still is to an extent, that I will go blind. Photographs and faces mean so much to me. I see things in a way I do not think many people do.
I am not boasting, I have simply been told on many occasions that people like the way I am able to see things, find beauty in the grotesque, or grotesque in the beauty. My phone is always with me and I take pictures daily.
I keep a diary of one photograph for each day, and I have been doing this for over 4 years now. Sometimes when I go back a few years to a certain date I can tell you exactly what that day was like, even if it is a photograph of a tree.
I can not, however, recall Vice Presidents names, faces of people I went to high school with, or lyrics to a song until I hear it.
I vowed last night to play more music.
I have been making a musical playlist of songs that my Mom knows so she can sing along. Most of the songs hold memories for me as well, as they incorporate my own childhood. I am digging deeper in to the music of her youth, however so far her early 30's seem to be the ones she knows the best.
I am not sure I could think of important songs from my early 30's. I would have to look it up, again.
Amid the flurry of my dream where I confronted my Father for still being alive, I was helping my friend paint her kitchen slate grey. I did not have the heart to tell her that her chosen color was no longer in fashion.
Fashion, like memories, and Vice Presidents are so fleeting, so let her paint it whatever she wants.
Mom is not awake yet, and I am enjoying the respite of my repetitive days. Will today be a good day or bad day? Much of that depends on me, and I depend on Meredith.
If the day is bad or good, I do know that tonight we will sit out front and sing some songs that we all know the lyrics to once the chords begin.
I asked my youngest daughter if she has a song that she knows she will love for life. She had to think for a moment and finally said, "Not really." I told her I had found "my song" when I was 15 and I love it today as much as I did the first day I heard it. I do not need a lyrical prompt, I just know it. I have cried to it, laughed to it, mocked it, played it for other people, and made sure I always had it play within reach.
My family, meaning my mother, father and brothers have a song. Let it Be.
My family, meaning myself and my children have a song, Aint no Mountain High Enough.
I have songs for each one of my children.
Meredith and I have many songs.
If I play music while writing, it influences what I write about, so usually I write to the sound of silence. Literally.
I am not worried that I did not know the Vice President, I am not worried that I could not recall the lyrics to the song last night, I am not worried when I do not know where my keys are. These things are the little annoyances we all live with.
I worry that I may enter a fugue state and not return. I am fascinated that the word fugue also relates to music.
If you look it up, the first meaning usually is musically related, the second is a mental disorder (according to the DSMV). But both are linked. We are taken away by music and for a few brief moments, we wander around inside our heads recalling moments, creating moments, living.
The turn of phrase, "That is music to my ears." is used in the most common ways.
What about, "That is music to my soul."?
People speak in lyrics all the time and do not realize it, I will be listening and if they happen to say something that is part of a song, I sing the rest of the verse to myself. If I am with Meredith I say it out loud, and she instinctively knows which word to pick and choose another song with that word, then I must find a song with that word. This goes on until one of us runs out of songs.
I love doing music memory with my mother. She may not recall my name, but she smiles and laughs when we sing Stand By Me as I dance the silly motions of Ben E. King.
She claps her hands when the notes finally find their way to that part of her brain that still lights up and screams, "I KNOW THIS!"
I do not play music all day, as I am afraid not everyone wants to hear the soundtrack to RENT a thousand times, or the horrible rap songs that just make me laugh.
I will try to make music as important to me as my photos.
(If I ever lose my eyes
If my colors all run dry
yes, if I ever lose my eyes
Ooh I won't have to cry no more.)
I guess I was so confused about everything that she felt the need to put me in the proper place and time. Much the way I have to remind my Mom we are in Austin, Texas.
Meredith asked me who the vice president is. My answers were : Mitt Romney, Al Gore and Tippy Hedren.
She coaxes an answer out of me, "Jooeee"
"BIDEN!"
She quietly gets up to make me some coffee.
Fully awake, I am more curious where I got Tippy Hedren from, than the fact that I could not get the answer right on the first, second, or third time.
I had to look her up on the internet.
The Birds. She is also the mother to Melanie Griffith. I did not know that.
Is this how my mom thinks all day long? In a constant state of perturbation? Almost like a kid with severe ADD, grasping at meanings and words.
Last night the three of us, Mer, Myself, and of course my mother, sat out front on the porch. I had been humming Beatles song, but for the life of me could not think of the lyrics. I asked Meredith. She looked it up and once the song began to play all three of us knew the lyrics completely.
This song is stuck in my head, but I now have the words to go along with the tune.
Everyone has deep seeded fears that we live with, some of us admit them and are aware of them, some of us try to pray the little demons away, some of us do not know they have taken over.
My deepest fear used to be, and still is to an extent, that I will go blind. Photographs and faces mean so much to me. I see things in a way I do not think many people do.
I am not boasting, I have simply been told on many occasions that people like the way I am able to see things, find beauty in the grotesque, or grotesque in the beauty. My phone is always with me and I take pictures daily.
I keep a diary of one photograph for each day, and I have been doing this for over 4 years now. Sometimes when I go back a few years to a certain date I can tell you exactly what that day was like, even if it is a photograph of a tree.
I can not, however, recall Vice Presidents names, faces of people I went to high school with, or lyrics to a song until I hear it.
I vowed last night to play more music.
I have been making a musical playlist of songs that my Mom knows so she can sing along. Most of the songs hold memories for me as well, as they incorporate my own childhood. I am digging deeper in to the music of her youth, however so far her early 30's seem to be the ones she knows the best.
I am not sure I could think of important songs from my early 30's. I would have to look it up, again.
Amid the flurry of my dream where I confronted my Father for still being alive, I was helping my friend paint her kitchen slate grey. I did not have the heart to tell her that her chosen color was no longer in fashion.
Fashion, like memories, and Vice Presidents are so fleeting, so let her paint it whatever she wants.
Mom is not awake yet, and I am enjoying the respite of my repetitive days. Will today be a good day or bad day? Much of that depends on me, and I depend on Meredith.
If the day is bad or good, I do know that tonight we will sit out front and sing some songs that we all know the lyrics to once the chords begin.
I asked my youngest daughter if she has a song that she knows she will love for life. She had to think for a moment and finally said, "Not really." I told her I had found "my song" when I was 15 and I love it today as much as I did the first day I heard it. I do not need a lyrical prompt, I just know it. I have cried to it, laughed to it, mocked it, played it for other people, and made sure I always had it play within reach.
My family, meaning my mother, father and brothers have a song. Let it Be.
My family, meaning myself and my children have a song, Aint no Mountain High Enough.
I have songs for each one of my children.
Meredith and I have many songs.
If I play music while writing, it influences what I write about, so usually I write to the sound of silence. Literally.
I am not worried that I did not know the Vice President, I am not worried that I could not recall the lyrics to the song last night, I am not worried when I do not know where my keys are. These things are the little annoyances we all live with.
I worry that I may enter a fugue state and not return. I am fascinated that the word fugue also relates to music.
If you look it up, the first meaning usually is musically related, the second is a mental disorder (according to the DSMV). But both are linked. We are taken away by music and for a few brief moments, we wander around inside our heads recalling moments, creating moments, living.
The turn of phrase, "That is music to my ears." is used in the most common ways.
What about, "That is music to my soul."?
People speak in lyrics all the time and do not realize it, I will be listening and if they happen to say something that is part of a song, I sing the rest of the verse to myself. If I am with Meredith I say it out loud, and she instinctively knows which word to pick and choose another song with that word, then I must find a song with that word. This goes on until one of us runs out of songs.
I love doing music memory with my mother. She may not recall my name, but she smiles and laughs when we sing Stand By Me as I dance the silly motions of Ben E. King.
She claps her hands when the notes finally find their way to that part of her brain that still lights up and screams, "I KNOW THIS!"
I do not play music all day, as I am afraid not everyone wants to hear the soundtrack to RENT a thousand times, or the horrible rap songs that just make me laugh.
I will try to make music as important to me as my photos.
(If I ever lose my eyes
If my colors all run dry
yes, if I ever lose my eyes
Ooh I won't have to cry no more.)
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