MEMORY
Not memories. Memory.
It is often said that memory loss in older people leaves them with remembrances of times past, days when they were young, when they were healthy and strong, not necessarily perfect days but days when they were productive and still in control of their lives.
Forgetting where we left our keys or whether we sent a birthday card to a grandchild is not what I am writing about.
Forgetting where one was on January 2nd, at a loss to recall why a bill was received from the emergency room for January 2nd, the day one fell three times and had to be taken to the hospital...that is part of what I am writing about.
Forgetting how to write a check or looking at the ledger one has been using for years and not understanding what to do with it - that is what I am writing about.
Being sweet but distant, sitting in a chair with a book but never turning the pages, watching TV but with little interest or comprehension - that is what I am writing about.
There may be concern for details that do not matter. There may be frantic worry about a letter or a bill that seemingly cannot be understood. There may be insistence upon doing something or following a routine which is time-consuming and does not take into consideration the people who care for us. A stubbornness, a continuous asking of the same questions without comprehension of the answers.
And the tears.
How does one cope? By remembering...the good days of yesterday. Appreciating the not-so-bad days now. Praying and hoping and - always - loving.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
KINDNESS
At the Bethany YMCA where I work out in the pool three mornings a week, there was a little boy, maybe three years old, with his mother. She was carrying a baby in one of those carry-seats, and all three of them were coming in the front doors as I was leaving.
I stood back while she came through. Her little boy stood there and held the door open for me. I thanked him with a smile, he smiled back. My day became brighter and warmer.
Such a little thing, kindness.
At the Bethany YMCA where I work out in the pool three mornings a week, there was a little boy, maybe three years old, with his mother. She was carrying a baby in one of those carry-seats, and all three of them were coming in the front doors as I was leaving.
I stood back while she came through. Her little boy stood there and held the door open for me. I thanked him with a smile, he smiled back. My day became brighter and warmer.
Such a little thing, kindness.
Darlin'
"Darlin'"
There is something sweet about men who hold open the doors for me, or women who offer to reach items on high shelves at the grocery store. But for this yankee from northwestern Illinois, the most charming habit in Oklahoma is the use of loving names.
"Let me get that door, darlin'", said one man wearing boots and jeans and a backwards baseball cap.
"Here, hon, that bag of groceries looks mighty heavy," another man, the age of my grown sons, offered as I tried to open the car door.
A frizzy-haired woman said, as she brushed by me, "I'm sorry, doll, I didn't mean to bump you. 'You okay?"
And the old lady and her old husband who grinned at me when I trundled by on the riders at Buy For Less and advised me to "watch them corners, sweetie." They were probably almost as old as I am. We understood each other.
Then there was the young guy, not a day over 20, who saw me lifting groceries from my basket at Target, struggling to find my keys in my jeans pocket at the same time. When will I learn to do one task before starting another? But he simply walked over, pulled open the hatch back and turned to take my sacks. As he put them in the car, he smiled and said, "There you go, ma'am. Have a blest day."
I thanked him, and he replied, "That's okay. You remind me of my grandma." Another loving name.
There is something sweet about men who hold open the doors for me, or women who offer to reach items on high shelves at the grocery store. But for this yankee from northwestern Illinois, the most charming habit in Oklahoma is the use of loving names.
"Let me get that door, darlin'", said one man wearing boots and jeans and a backwards baseball cap.
"Here, hon, that bag of groceries looks mighty heavy," another man, the age of my grown sons, offered as I tried to open the car door.
A frizzy-haired woman said, as she brushed by me, "I'm sorry, doll, I didn't mean to bump you. 'You okay?"
And the old lady and her old husband who grinned at me when I trundled by on the riders at Buy For Less and advised me to "watch them corners, sweetie." They were probably almost as old as I am. We understood each other.
Then there was the young guy, not a day over 20, who saw me lifting groceries from my basket at Target, struggling to find my keys in my jeans pocket at the same time. When will I learn to do one task before starting another? But he simply walked over, pulled open the hatch back and turned to take my sacks. As he put them in the car, he smiled and said, "There you go, ma'am. Have a blest day."
I thanked him, and he replied, "That's okay. You remind me of my grandma." Another loving name.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Uncle Omar
Tonight I met a relative, my uncle who died before I was born. I met him via the computer, on my grandson's genealogy website.
My dad was the youngest of seven children, orphaned at age seven, bounced from relative to relative. His sisters were all much older than he was, but I remember them well. They spoiled me, possibly because, of the four boys in the family, only two lived long lives.
There were three little boys at the tag-end of the family, and one died shortly after serving in the U.S. Navy during W.W. I. One was adopted by a family in Ohio. The third was older, and he graduated from the Augustana College School of Business in 1902 - a fact I did not know until this evening.
What absolute fun genealogy can be!
And then there was my dad, seven years old, at his mother's funeral where he overheard the relatives asking each other, "Who will have to take Freddie?"
No wonder he cherished my mother, and me. He was 27 when I was born, and I never in my life felt unloved, unwanted. He gave me what he never had as a child. I am so thankful.
My dad was the youngest of seven children, orphaned at age seven, bounced from relative to relative. His sisters were all much older than he was, but I remember them well. They spoiled me, possibly because, of the four boys in the family, only two lived long lives.
There were three little boys at the tag-end of the family, and one died shortly after serving in the U.S. Navy during W.W. I. One was adopted by a family in Ohio. The third was older, and he graduated from the Augustana College School of Business in 1902 - a fact I did not know until this evening.
What absolute fun genealogy can be!
And then there was my dad, seven years old, at his mother's funeral where he overheard the relatives asking each other, "Who will have to take Freddie?"
No wonder he cherished my mother, and me. He was 27 when I was born, and I never in my life felt unloved, unwanted. He gave me what he never had as a child. I am so thankful.
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