Monday, November 28, 2005
Thanksgiving Day Chatter
It wasn't until my dad got Alzheimers that I started talking to him. I was too busy growing up with interests and friends of my own. He was also the kind of dad that was either at work or at the bar at night. I know very little about him. I know he was born in Minnestoa, and has some half siblings, but other than that, he just never told me much, nor did I ask.
Now,we sit and talk for hours. We talk about Alaska, where I was born, and we talk about when we lived at the beach, and how he wished he bought a house down there. He had the money, I am now told, lots of it. He can't figure out why he didn't. We talk about all the new construction around town, as we go on our daily drive. Same route, same places, same buildings. The streets are busier this week. Cars are full of people trying to get ready for the holidays. My dad keeps commenting about how many horses are on the roads now. Lots of them. Yesterday, the sun was in our eyes, so I had to do some creative right turns to see the most of our regular route. We talk lots about the Navy, and his time serving his country. In fact, he shows me his uniform, and pictures all the time, just in case I forget.
The best place for our talks is around the kitchen table. He always sits in his regular seat and I've changed locations of my seat. I'm actually sitting in my older brother's spot. The sun would be in his eyes, if I sat in my chair on the other side of the table. He was telling me yesterday, about people that are trying to rob him of his money. Its very important for me to watch, he says, and to tell him immediately if I see anyone back there. We talked for over an hour about our strategy for keeping his money safe, and keeping the bad guys away. He sees everything, he tells me.
I also try to eat with him. I need to slow down though. I'm putting on weight eating hamburgers and milk shakes. I can't recall all the benefits of a Wendy's hamburger, plain, ketchup only, but I sure come up with positive things to say, when I eat with my dad. "Isn't this great Dad" and "Its my favorite" Sometimes he agrees, and takes a few bites. Sometimes he doesn't like it and spits it on the table. It reminds me of feeding my son when he was a baby. He spit out everything that didn't agree with him. I'm glad my dad still likes peas.
I wish I really could understand what he is saying. His words are all jumbled and mixed up. Some of the words aren't even real words you would find in the dictionary. I can find them in my heart, and I do get that translation. Sit with me. Talk with me. Let me see your smile. Let me know I am safe and you will take care of me. I think that might be what the robbers are all about. If they indeed took all his money, who would take care of him?
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We will all gather at my brothers. There will be about 35 of us. I wlll look around and see all the faces, young and old, and know it all started with my mom and dad. He doesn't know our names, he can't remember that we are his. He will cry I'm sure. His heart will tell him that somehow he is connected to all of us, even if his brain won't let him anymore.
Now,we sit and talk for hours. We talk about Alaska, where I was born, and we talk about when we lived at the beach, and how he wished he bought a house down there. He had the money, I am now told, lots of it. He can't figure out why he didn't. We talk about all the new construction around town, as we go on our daily drive. Same route, same places, same buildings. The streets are busier this week. Cars are full of people trying to get ready for the holidays. My dad keeps commenting about how many horses are on the roads now. Lots of them. Yesterday, the sun was in our eyes, so I had to do some creative right turns to see the most of our regular route. We talk lots about the Navy, and his time serving his country. In fact, he shows me his uniform, and pictures all the time, just in case I forget.
The best place for our talks is around the kitchen table. He always sits in his regular seat and I've changed locations of my seat. I'm actually sitting in my older brother's spot. The sun would be in his eyes, if I sat in my chair on the other side of the table. He was telling me yesterday, about people that are trying to rob him of his money. Its very important for me to watch, he says, and to tell him immediately if I see anyone back there. We talked for over an hour about our strategy for keeping his money safe, and keeping the bad guys away. He sees everything, he tells me.
I also try to eat with him. I need to slow down though. I'm putting on weight eating hamburgers and milk shakes. I can't recall all the benefits of a Wendy's hamburger, plain, ketchup only, but I sure come up with positive things to say, when I eat with my dad. "Isn't this great Dad" and "Its my favorite" Sometimes he agrees, and takes a few bites. Sometimes he doesn't like it and spits it on the table. It reminds me of feeding my son when he was a baby. He spit out everything that didn't agree with him. I'm glad my dad still likes peas.
I wish I really could understand what he is saying. His words are all jumbled and mixed up. Some of the words aren't even real words you would find in the dictionary. I can find them in my heart, and I do get that translation. Sit with me. Talk with me. Let me see your smile. Let me know I am safe and you will take care of me. I think that might be what the robbers are all about. If they indeed took all his money, who would take care of him?
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We will all gather at my brothers. There will be about 35 of us. I wlll look around and see all the faces, young and old, and know it all started with my mom and dad. He doesn't know our names, he can't remember that we are his. He will cry I'm sure. His heart will tell him that somehow he is connected to all of us, even if his brain won't let him anymore.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
The Secret Hiding Place
Even though I was the second one born into a family of 5 kids, it always felt crowded. Home base was a small new development in Southern Calif, surrounded by fruit orchards and tomato fields. My dad was a mechanic, and my mom an artist. There were 5 of us, in a 3 bedroom duplex, one full bath, and one/half bath. There was no separate dining room, or living room. The small kitchen was also the place where we ate around a formica table. The hallway that I used to run down and skid with my socks on, was an endless place of delight. I learned to climb the walls by putting one foot on one wall, the other foot on the wall directly across and climb. I could do this in doorways too. It was also the place of terror at night, when I had to walk down the corridor to my room. Ghosts and monsters would surely jump out at any minute to drag me to my death. I saw enough TV to know these things were true. I didn't sleep well in my bed. I knew that if I stretched out my legs to the end, wild German Shepherd dogs would eat my toes. I could never sleep with my back to the door. I still can't. I need to be able to see what is coming at me. Real or imaginative.
When my littlest sister was born, I was 13. There were 2 boys and 2 girls. My parents announced at dinner one night, that there would be one more soon. We immediately had a family meeting to discuss and vote on the name. We got our heads together and decided Zorro would be a fitting name to our new sibling. We also knew that the next addition would either go in the boys room or the girls room. We were already crowded, and there seemed to be little room for another. The baby, whatever it was, would spend the first month, not in a bassinet in my parents room, but in a pulled out drawer, lined with towels. I thought it was quite clever. Even though we never closed the drawer, I'm sure there were moments in the middle of the night, that we wanted too. A girl was born, and in our room she went.
There was so much daily activity and not a moments peace. There was also not a place to call my own. Even the bathroom was shared, or at least someone standing at the door needing to use it. Mornings were always a race to see who could get there first. I was laying in bed one night, back to the wall, legs pulled up, and decided I needed a place to call my own. I noticed a baseboard beside my bed, and thought "A secret hideaway". I took a small knife, and started sawing. Each night, when everyone was asleep, I sawed away with my dull dinner knife. Eventually, I broke through. Mission accomplished. I then constructed a small box to insert in the opening. My very own space. I put all my treasures in there. The ones that I didn't want anyone to know about.
20 years later, my folks were remodeling the room that had been vacated by all three girls. The bunk bed came down, and it was then that they discovered my secret hiding place. I got a call one night from my sisters and parents. They were all laughing at the discovery. "Was it mine?" they asked. I had forgotten about it for many many years. A moment of panic hit, as I tried to remember what I might have put in there. Some secret note...Maybe a stolen cigarette or two. No, just a empty box full of childhood memories.
In the midst of the overcrowded family, I carved out a place all my own. It was small, and hidden, but it was mine. Now as an adult, I have a nice home and in it aroom to call my own. I don't share it with the kids or even my husband. I want it to my mine alone. There is also, I think, places in each of our hearts that are not only hidden, but private. Its the part of us, that takes care of ourselves. Its the place that says that no matter what happens, I can find the place to find strength, and hope filled with whatever I need at the time. I'm glad that when my family found my hidden box it was empty. I know what was in it, all along. Me.
When my littlest sister was born, I was 13. There were 2 boys and 2 girls. My parents announced at dinner one night, that there would be one more soon. We immediately had a family meeting to discuss and vote on the name. We got our heads together and decided Zorro would be a fitting name to our new sibling. We also knew that the next addition would either go in the boys room or the girls room. We were already crowded, and there seemed to be little room for another. The baby, whatever it was, would spend the first month, not in a bassinet in my parents room, but in a pulled out drawer, lined with towels. I thought it was quite clever. Even though we never closed the drawer, I'm sure there were moments in the middle of the night, that we wanted too. A girl was born, and in our room she went.
There was so much daily activity and not a moments peace. There was also not a place to call my own. Even the bathroom was shared, or at least someone standing at the door needing to use it. Mornings were always a race to see who could get there first. I was laying in bed one night, back to the wall, legs pulled up, and decided I needed a place to call my own. I noticed a baseboard beside my bed, and thought "A secret hideaway". I took a small knife, and started sawing. Each night, when everyone was asleep, I sawed away with my dull dinner knife. Eventually, I broke through. Mission accomplished. I then constructed a small box to insert in the opening. My very own space. I put all my treasures in there. The ones that I didn't want anyone to know about.
20 years later, my folks were remodeling the room that had been vacated by all three girls. The bunk bed came down, and it was then that they discovered my secret hiding place. I got a call one night from my sisters and parents. They were all laughing at the discovery. "Was it mine?" they asked. I had forgotten about it for many many years. A moment of panic hit, as I tried to remember what I might have put in there. Some secret note...Maybe a stolen cigarette or two. No, just a empty box full of childhood memories.
In the midst of the overcrowded family, I carved out a place all my own. It was small, and hidden, but it was mine. Now as an adult, I have a nice home and in it aroom to call my own. I don't share it with the kids or even my husband. I want it to my mine alone. There is also, I think, places in each of our hearts that are not only hidden, but private. Its the part of us, that takes care of ourselves. Its the place that says that no matter what happens, I can find the place to find strength, and hope filled with whatever I need at the time. I'm glad that when my family found my hidden box it was empty. I know what was in it, all along. Me.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Play Your Game!
Bleachers are usually not where you'll find me. Most of the time, I'm the one on the courts, running around, hitting the ball. These last two weeks, it just worked out where I was the spectator, cheering my team on to victory. It's given me a new perspective on the game of tennis. My 18 year old spirit body wants to dash quickly on the court, when in reality, my 52 year old body moves pretty slow. It doesn't feel like it when I play, but after watching my teammates, I know I'm the same speed. Its ok if I play others in my own age group. It becomes a problem when I play and an 18 year old with matching spirit and body. They not only look better, with they smooth skin, and flat tummies, but their knees don't creek when they walk.
I play with lots of enthusiasm, but also with lots of years behind me. Wisdom carries such things as, "Who's picking up the kids?" and "What am I going to cook for dinner?" Score is 40-15. "I wonder how my dad is doing in Calif?" Game, set. That's alot to handle while playing a match. That's why I have my partner keep score, and just point me in the right direction.
I found myself clapping today as each side made fabulous shots. The babes were playing the Grandmas, and the Grandmas almost won, until the babes started to play their game. They were aggressive, and charged, and looked really good in their outfits. I want to always play my game. In tennis, and in life. It's being honest and having integrity. It's giving it my all, and doing my best. In making dinner, it's trying to get all the food groups in one sitting. Planning, having a strategy, and a back up plan. So I forgot an important ingredient for the main dish. So, I gave away a point in a tie-breaker! It all works out in the end.
So, Go Team. Play your game!!!
I play with lots of enthusiasm, but also with lots of years behind me. Wisdom carries such things as, "Who's picking up the kids?" and "What am I going to cook for dinner?" Score is 40-15. "I wonder how my dad is doing in Calif?" Game, set. That's alot to handle while playing a match. That's why I have my partner keep score, and just point me in the right direction.
I found myself clapping today as each side made fabulous shots. The babes were playing the Grandmas, and the Grandmas almost won, until the babes started to play their game. They were aggressive, and charged, and looked really good in their outfits. I want to always play my game. In tennis, and in life. It's being honest and having integrity. It's giving it my all, and doing my best. In making dinner, it's trying to get all the food groups in one sitting. Planning, having a strategy, and a back up plan. So I forgot an important ingredient for the main dish. So, I gave away a point in a tie-breaker! It all works out in the end.
So, Go Team. Play your game!!!
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