The Little Stool

 

The other night my niece asked my brother about a stool that had been in our family for many years...

Were you excited little stool the day the man and woman brought you to your new home? You had recently been discarded, unwanted, no longer useful; put out at a curbside yet someone saw in you what you could become.

The man and the woman brought you into their home and into their kitchen, a place with wonderful sights and aromas. It was always warm and cozy in that room, and it was there you would find your permanent place under the table.

They painted you white, a color that befitted your position. You wouldn't be like any other seating; you would always shine.

The man and woman spent many hours in this room, your room, and they talked and laughed and made plans and listened and loved. The woman cooked and sang. Music was everywhere in those days and it was happy, always happy.

When others would come to visit, you felt useful because your family, as you would come to think of them, never had enough seats and some truly lucky person would choose you and sit at that wonderful table, the place where talk and happiness lived.

Sometimes, they put books and papers onto you, little stool, important things that needed to be gone through and you felt useful and oh so happy.

You listened to stories, oh so many tales of times past and sweet hope for the future. You saw two children grow up and then become replaced by two little girls who would fight for who might sit upon you. And you felt proud--proud to be chosen and adored.\

You watched little craft projects, paints, dollhouse furniture, and pumpkins to be decorated. You proudly  held a warm body when that huge meal came once a year, the thankful holiday. You saw twinkly lights being untangled and listened to cheerful music at the colder time of the year; the time with the presents and love all around.

After a while, your man and woman began to age. They still sat near you, still talked, but it was different somehow. Maybe even a little sad. Sometimes there wasn't anyone to sit on you, to know how much you wanted to be useful. And time passed.

One day the man didn't return and a short time later the woman didn't either. That was the loneliest time for you, the waiting, waiting, hoping, watching. What would happen to you, little stool?

Then the boy, now grown came with a family of his own. There was life again and you were put back to work, the bonus seat for new meals, new conversations, new music, new stories.

One day, the little girl, slowly becoming a young lady, asked about you, little stool. She wondered where you came from and how long you had been with the family who'd loved you so much. The dad and his sister knew you had been around for a long, long time. They knew all you'd seen, all you'd done for their family. They appreciated you and they were happy for the day that the man and woman had chosen you. They knew you had heard much and seen much in your time with them. They loved you and they would always have you.

Bushel and a Peck: Hope, Healing, and Unconditional Love

 

My mother told me that she’d had a secret name for me. She called me her ‘Shining Star.’ Like a blazing trail of light, I was always the one thing Mom could come back to. When she knew nothing else, she still knew me. She said I’d been like a beacon of hope to guide her home. It was a title that rooted my love deeply for my mom. I could see the patterns of her life now. It became clear that she’d never been weak. My mother had only wanted to be loved . . .

 Mom’s mental illness stigma made my early life anything but ordinary. But my father’s quiet courage helped to guide us through. Later, from strong businesswoman to Alzheimer’s, my mother would leave a legacy of lasting love, and Dad, one of incredible strength.

It took me four years to write this novel, but a lifetime to live it. Though sometimes I look back now and feel there was never enough time with Mom and Dad, I know that my parent's lives and their love carry on in me, my brother, and son.

This memoir is deeply personal to share, and it isn't just another journey of Alzheimer's though there are many wonderful books on the subject from my fellow authors. This is a story of how one man loved one woman unconditionally enough to go through hell and back, and how a family's faith allowed them to glimpse times of miracles. It is my own story of insecurity, fear, anxiety, and tears. It is God's love poured into me so much that I pray it overflows into you as you read it.

Thank you for allowing me this little bit of self-promotion as I share my book with you. If you are blessed by it, I would truly love to hear from you. My email is scoutfinch15003@yahoo.com

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 https://www.amazon.com/Bushel-Peck-Healing-Unconditional-Memoir-ebook/dp/B08T243T5M/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=karen%20malena&qid=1610752671&sr=8-2&fbclid=IwAR1TJleeABOW-qDgHEG7mix3ymsyjsuZqjGGZzevCgx8PfuX1z2UQyAsuZY

Home

 

This photo evokes so many memories. I can picture Mom sitting on the couch, trying to hear the television while we all gabbed sitting around the old living room. I can picture Dad in his favorite chair telling a story about some infraction that happened on one of his bills, or a high-priced grocery item he found for less elsewhere. Many laughs were shared in this room, and a few tears were shed. Lessons were learned, and love surrounded those who entered.

This is the home of part of my youth where we moved when I was about twelve. We left old memories--ghosts if you will--and began a new life in the home on Highland.

Mom became well and strong in this place putting behind the sadness she had carried for so long. There were woods behind the house and all sorts of new creatures: raccoons, chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels and deer. For my mother, someone who adored animals, it was a Disney dream-come-true.

I can see countless beloved cats and dogs lined before my mother; each with adoration in their eyes vying for her attention. And I can see Mom stroking each one, talking to them in that special way she reserved for her dear animals as if they understood every word.

This home holds a place of peace and solitude in my heart. It carries memories of holidays, birthdays, and wonderful meals cooked. It welcomed friends and relatives old and new. It became a steadfast rock of Gibraltar to us all. It welcomed the birth of my dear brother.

In later years, my son would come to know and love this house. He would learn that his grandparent's stories were special and to be treasured. That their legacy was something to keep alive long after they were gone.

There's a golden glow to this photo, as if the Lord placed a blessing over this precious room, this house so dear to me. I would come to know God as true Love while living there. My parents had a simple faith, a quiet faith. But their lessons came from how they treated each other and everyone they knew. My mother said that everyone has a story and I learned that they did.

Home in a small town. A place where simplicity thrived. A time when goodness was in the very fiber of lives well-lived. Let me visit there for a moment, but let me not tarry too long. For sadness may begin to creep in as I walk the path of memory lane. And at least for today, I'd like the memories to be ones filled with nothing but happiness.

The Birthday Slice

We have a crazy tradition in my family. Whenever someone has a birthday and is ready to cut the first slice to "wish upon," Mom would always come up beside us and grab the knife to guide our hand as if one of us would chop a finger off. It got to be a running joke in our family, and with our mother now gone, we have still carried it with us.

Mom was fun to tease, and even with dementia, she mostly kept her sense of humor. I loved my mother's laugh--for she had an infectious, addicting laugh when something struck her completely hilarious. She would almost lose her breath, and the most adorable sounds would come from her.

My mother always said in a good-natured way: "You guys will have lots of stories when I'm gone." And, "I hope you laugh always when you think of me."

As I approach the last year of my fifties which I can hardly believe, I think strongly of my mother and all the years she made my birthday special. She made a chocolate cake with chocolate cream cheese frosting that me and my father adored, but my son and brother never liked. The pages of the cookbook that she used for this recipe is so encrusted with dried cake batter, I feel you could pop it into the oven and bake it!

She drew cute stick-type figures on many of my birthday cards, and always had something humorous to say. The envelopes of the cards were always adorned with my name spelled out and little sayings:

K is for kisses, lots of them or  kitties or kindness or kandles (oops)
A is for always loving you no matter what
R is for remember the good times and laughs
E is for ever be who you are and know that God loves you
N is for never change my darling

And another:

K is for Kan't think of a thing to say
A is for Ahhh
R is for Rot Roh
E is for Empty brain, lol
N is for Never stop laughing

One year in my mid-thirties, Mom pulled off a little surprise birthday party for me. She gathered some of my best friends and I had no idea about it. I kept joking that day that she ordered a male stripper to dance at my party, so my dear adorable ten-year-old step son got into the spirit when he heard me say that. He was gone for a few minutes and then popped into the living room with no shirt and a towel wrapped around his waist. He did a little dance and then whisked the towel off to reveal his shorts underneath! What a wonderful laugh we had!

Birthdays have always been great especially because of my mom. And I can't help but miss her terribly as my special day approaches tomorrow. During her last years with dementia, she still would try to bake or make something for us. One year all she could think to do was boil eggs, and she placed a little food coloring in the water as the eggs boiled to turn them pastel. I actually thought it was kind-of a sweet genius idea. Her cakes no longer worked because of some missed ingredient, but Dad would stoically eat them and freeze a few slices which were always left over.

Tomorrow for my birthday we will gather at my parent's old house where my brother and his family now live, and I will look around, smile, and remember some of the most fun times growing up, and how very special my mother made me feel. And as the family sings "Happy Birthday" to me, I will picture Mom standing next to me with a glorious smile on her face, and feel her hand guiding me as I make the first slice on the cake.

Best Memory

When the priest asked what my best memory of my mother was recently at the blessing service for her at the funeral home, it  didn't take me long to recall one for it was recent.

What does one say to a lifetime of love and memories? How can a person choose their absolute best moment or moments with a beloved parent that they are saying goodbye to?

Like snippets of a movie, years worth of laughter, tears, joy and fears played before me. I remembered Mom standing by during my surgery for scoliosis as a teen, even though she'd been a nervous type but she remained steadfast and my rock of strength.

When divorce reared its ugly head in my early twenties, my mother was there to rescue me. When fat, ugly tears fell from my eyes and the lies kept surfacing that I wasn't good enough for him and never would be, Mom helped me feel worthy again.

Moments of giggling together like school girls, though she was my parent, surfaced and drew me in once again and I warmed from the glow. Times of celebration and holidays, the birth of my son, her first grandchild. So many wonderful memories.

But when asked the question by the priest, I almost immediately responded: "Being caregiver for my mother with her journey of dementia." Father Carr almost fell from his chair. "Really?" he asked.

Why are those the dearest memories my brother and I hold now? The answer is simple. We got to experience unconditional love given back to a woman who had once loved us the same way. This woman had given her all many times for us.

 When a parent has Alzheimer's or dementia -related issues, it is never easy. You wonder if you are the one losing your mind at first. For the questions begin--oh so many questions. Things are forgotten, appointments are missed, and everything seems upside down.

Then the anger sets in. And for all of us, it is a time of great guilt. When you find yourself snapping at your elderly parent and watch the hurt in their eyes, the words practically hanging in the air, you wish you could pull them back, place them into a locked box never to surface again. But they do. Just when you feel strong, confident and a little cocky, a challenge arises and you fail. You ask forgiveness and you fail again. The maddening cycle--the new normal. Why oh why couldn't they have kept their wits about them to the end?

But then you see them in the most innocent of ways: thinning hair, gummy, lost-tooth smiles. Skin stretched too tightly over prominent bones. You hear whispered words and the innocence of a child, and you realize in their mind, that is where they are. You see fears of showering, falling, even eating foods they once loved. It's all this and more, and you fall deeply in love with your aging parent more than you ever did before. They rely on you, they trust you, and you begin to know that you will never betray that trust.

You also see wise, knowing eyes and the laugh- lined wrinkles around them from years of laughter. You hold onto a hand that worked hard at putting food on the table. You lay your head against their frail chest and listen to the beating of their good heart--wondering just how long it will continue. . .

You look at them and see inner beauty shining. No longer a body with a soul, they are now becoming a soul with a body. True loveliness as God intended, no longer superficiality.

There are treats they love, brought to them and watching their eyes light up. Sometimes there are favorite places to drive to. There are songs to be shared--ones they once sang to you as a lullaby. It's all this and so much more. Mostly it's giving of yourself. Giving selflessly and totally, turning your emotions and your loved one totally over to God. Knowing He adores them and you, and that we are the apple of His eye. He has all of our best interest at the center of His heart. Even if He chooses to take them home, how can we question that glorious time?

Yes, this time can be our best moments, our best memories. With God it is truly possible. Forgiveness, mercy, grace. . . all ours for the taking.

Another Place

I received a phone call this morning. Your mother is being sent to the emergency room. She's throwing up blood, and it doesn't look good.

With legs that felt like iron weights, and hands that shook so bad, I had to hold them against myself, I walked into the emergency room not knowing what to expect. There I heard words from the doctor that didn't come completely as a shock. We recommend hospice care for your mother. She's so frail now, and perhaps it would be best for her just to be kept comfortable.

Every child of an aging parent asks themselves if they are doing the right thing. Are our decisions what our parents would want? Some of us are fortunate that our families have spoke freely about such things. Therefore when the time comes, we know immediately what must be done.

Others of us have spoken in deeper terms though. We've had the distinct honor to talk of things on a more spiritual level. We know that our loved ones are believers and even look forward to their next journey.

There is so much more than our eyes can see. So much more than we hear or feel. I am learning this now as my mom slips farther from us into sickness and Alzheimer's. It's not always about "crazy talk." I recently read a book that showed me that end of life and hospice produces some of the most beautiful messages from our suffering loved ones. It mentioned that we should pay close attention to what is being said as they transition from this world to the next.

When my father was in the hospital last year, there were several odd things we heard from him. And now I'm noticing that very thing with my mother. She's been talking more to someone that my brother and I don't see. Though I strain to hear her words, it's in a whisper quiet voice that perhaps I'm not meant to hear. She reached up once as if grasping someone by the hand. She has petted animals that aren't there. Today she said she saw a Bible, but when we pressed a little to see if someone was holding or reading it, she said no.

When my husband's uncle was in hospice care at his nursing home a few years ago, I remembered something powerful about that. The chaplain that was there at his side, said the most beautiful thing. He mentioned that Hubert was between this world and the next. Upon hearing that, the room almost seemed to change for me. I felt a Holy Presence surrounding us, and it was as if Jim's uncle was becoming more spirit than flesh at that time.

Also at my father's bedside on his last day, and I haven't told many people this, I sensed the presence of four strong angels surrounding him. One was at the head of the bed, one at the foot, and one on either side. There were a few of our dear friends and family members with us, but I distinctly saw with my heart and soul that Dad was surrounded by holy warriors ready to bring him home.

I don't speak about my belief freely. But during a time such as this in my family's life, more than ever, I feel the need to share things that I feel God has shown us and hoping it may also comfort anyone else who is going through this.

My mother is becoming that lovely spirit now. And I know where she is going, for she visited there once before. She'd felt a love like no other during a cardiac arrest in her earlier years. A love that surrounded her and permeated her very being. She often said she did not fear death after that.

Though my heart is heavy, and it's almost like deja vu from last summer, I feel how I did with my father--ready to let go, to picture Mom free from her suffering; dancing with Dad, feeling God's warmth and love, and reuniting with so many loved ones who have been gone for such a long time. For my mom lost so many people in her life, and I know they are there, ready and waiting with opened arms to greet her.

God, help us to see with the eyes of faith, not our limited vision. Help us to know just how wide and deep Your love really is. Help us to be able to let go and give all to You. 

It's Never Too Late

Mom was never the warm and fuzzy type. Not a hugger or a kisser, but my brother and I knew we were loved and adored growing up. She showed her care in so many other ways; with the baked goods and food she prepared every single day. With a listening ear for our school bully infractions, or the betrayal of our one true love. Advice given, words of wisdom, character building ones. A tender heart toward nature and toward others. No prejudice was allowed--Mom truly cared for all of mankind. This is who I am honored to call my mother.

Yesterday the tables were turned in a very dramatic way for me. Though her once beautiful mind has been faltering for some time with dementia, and my brother and I have been caregivers through it all, I had to step up to the plate of comfort in a major way.

The nursing home had called me about two weeks ago. They mentioned placing Mom on an anti-depressant. Said she had bouts of crying and depression. Hmmm, this was not something our family had seen recently. On the contrary, we noticed her talking more and laughing more when we are there as the strokes she had have begun to heal a little.

Cute little remarks, old inside jokes and our favorite of all, the movie lines we know and love so well are all things that continue to make Mom smile. We'd do anything for that smile. And yet yesterday while visiting her in the early morning, I saw my mother break down uncontrollably for several minutes and my heart broke.

As the nurse was bathing and dressing her in bed, Mom appeared to have had enough. I think her arthritis was hurting as it always does in the early morning when rising. I think she realizes she is limited, so limited in her adult briefs and inability to dress alone or stand alone. I can't imagine what goes through her mind in times like these, but she started to sob, deep heart-wrenching cries, and I did something uncharacteristic, I hugged her around the shoulders and stroked her back gently, reciting words of love and of comfort. The nurse she had isn't the most patient, but she stood back and let me do what only a family member could. Mom cried and I soothed. I held onto her and kissed the top of her head tenderly. And then I was able to do what all of us in the dementia/Alzheimer's community know best. I was able to re-direct her by talking about a pretty bracelet she was wearing. Like a small child, her tears slowed to sniffles. She saw the bracelet and answered my questions about who gave it to her. I sat back content that a crisis had been averted, and thanked God for giving me the tenderness needed in that moment even though I had never done this before with her.

I know we all come from different types of families. There are some of us who grew up with adoring parents who snuggled with them, gave tons of kisses and showed affection. There were others who grew up with harsh words, barked orders, and slaps instead of hugs. There are some who don't even know their parents and would have given everything for even one word from them or about them. I consider myself blessed that even though affection wasn't a big part of my years, I got so much more.

Pull yourself out of your comfort zone and love a little. Even those of us who have been hurt in our upbringing. Forgive, and let go. See our precious elderly for who they are now. People just like us with human failings, with imperfections and good and bad inside. Perhaps their own childhood was hideous and they didn't know any better. Look at them in a new light. Be the light of Christ in their world. Give that hug, say those words. Never let it be too late.

Moving On

Do you know what I'm really missing most about my father right now? It's our inside jokes and all the sayings we had. It's the make believe language he made up, and the nonsense phrases he always said. It's the lines from comforting, favorite movies watched over and over. It's seeing him conduct an unseen orchestra as his beloved waltz or classical thunder music played. It's picking pine cones from under trees on walks together. It's that sweet smile, soft voice, always happy man that put everyone else before him. It's the slow, steady walk through his front and back yard admiring flowers he planted and cutting lilac and pussy willow branches. It's all these things and so much more.

Do you know what I'm missing about my mother? A listening ear, advice given better than any therapist. Laughter and silliness, secrets shared. And once again, movies, movies, movies. The comforting ones that meant something to me and her. In later years, the stories we heard over and over as dementia began robbing her of recent memories,yet playing old time ones again and again. I miss them now yet I know them all and I know them well. And I, too, will be able to tell them long after she is gone.

Soon, my brother and I will be faced with one of the hardest tasks of our lives. We will have to sift through years and years of the life of our parents. With Mom now in a care facility, the precious home we all shared together will be broken apart and items distributed to those who may want them: wooden crafts our father made; airplanes, boats and houses. Well-worn recipe cards with the smattering of batter splashed upon them, from some of Mom's best loved favorites.

I'll walk through the rooms which meant so much to me. The living room where I envision the countless Christmases. Huge, fat trees decorated with fragile, precious ornaments from when our parents first married. Mountains of presents so carefully chosen for each of us. A favorite chair, an old, worn couch. Then into the small dining room where a table filled with baked Italian goodies and laden with other fine delicacies sits empty now.

The heart of our little ranch home--the kitchen always feels the warmest. For out of this room came a fresh home cooked meal each and every night. Out of this room came gooey pecan loaves, tasty pineapple upside down cakes and homemade pizza that would put one of the best restaurant pizzerias to shame. The table where we all sat, and the conversation and laughter that echoes in the stillness now.

I walk down the hallway toward our bedrooms and see the one converted into Dad's little craft room. The walls are adorned with thousand piece puzzles so carefully glued together as artwork. Tins of small bric-a-brac and tiny pieces of wood just waiting for the crafter's hands to pick up once again.

There are albums filled with the pictures of our lives. There are cards and letters so well-preserved in drawers and it feels as if Mom saved all of them throughout the years. How can one weed through so much and not feel emotional? For I know my heart will be breaking even as I begin the task at hand.

This house, this home saved our lives. For it wasn't where I grew up. We moved there when I was eleven. It was after the roughest time that my parents had gone through. Dad had made the decision to leave the only place we'd ever known, realizing it was best for us to make a change and start fresh.

I can still see the first time my parents showed the new house to me. It sat in a quiet, wooded neighborhood, not the cement jungle I'd grown up in. There was a large back yard and another smaller one. There was a finished basement, screened back porch. There was a sense of belonging of "coming home" so to speak. Yes, this is where our little family belonged. And it would be in this house that my brother was born fourteen years after me. Our miracle.

It won't be easy to toss things away. For you see, there's still a package of cookies, the last ones Dad bought for himself sitting on a shelf like an item from a shrine. There's notes written to Mom reminding her to take her pills and how to work the television remote.

I know I need to cancel our cable, internet and phone. Yet I hang on as long as I can, for once the phone is disconnected, the number that had been ours--mine since childhood will be forever gone. It may sound crazy, but these are the thoughts that plague me. I know God will grant my brother and I the strength we need when it is time. For there is nothing that will take away what is in our hearts. Nothing will take away the parts of Mom and Dad that live inside both of us. We are products of them both. And that is something that will never be lost.

Rainbows Will Return

Where to begin? A year ago, six months or perhaps only three weeks ago. This has been a life-changing, earth shattering time for our family. It was about this time last year that I noticed my father acting differently. Usually cheerful, our rock and our strength, Dad began to complain more than ever about how he was feeling, how difficult it was with Mom's worsening dementia, every bill he got in the mail, etc. Dad always had such joy talking with me about Spring and flowers and seed planting and birds. Simple morning conversations that I could live on for the rest of the day. That ended around this time in 2016. Little did we know we would lose Dad later that summer. That he was winding down, and the time had come for his well-deserved rest with Jesus.

Now our little family is going through this with Mom. Words cannot describe the feeling in my chest--of my heart splintering into tiny fragments, each one burnished with a memory good and bad alike. Only three short weeks ago we were able to take her out to eat, go for drives to her favorite stone bridge and listen to the creek. Three short weeks ago we saw a high school play and Mom sang along to the Disney tunes she knew and loved so well.

Yesterday we moved our mother into a care facility. I saw a woman before me that I barely recognized, completely devoid of emotion. Gone is the laugh that was so cute. Gone now are the stories told over and over, stories we all knew better than her, but listened patiently as they were told once more.

Her eyes hold a tiny spark of light when she sees either me, my brother or son. But I'd give anything to rejuvenate life back to her; of memories that would fill her with emotions once again.

She was wheeled into her new room and as she looked around at perhaps a few familiar items, my brother handed Mom a beautiful dolly he got her a few Christmases ago. One story our mother always told us was about a doll she received one year from a family friend. She would describe the beloved doll in great detail, and my brother tried to replicate one by searching many sites and finding one that Mom claimed looked exactly like the one she'd had.

Mom sat in her wheelchair stroking her dolly, covering her with the blanket that lay around her own shoulders. My eyes filled with tears and it was difficult to remain stoic. I stayed with her until much later in the day, watching old movies, trying to get her to eat in the dining room with new friends, seeing if talking about cooking and baking would bring her around just a little.

I left last night with the feeling of a tight band around the upper part of my stomach. The band of fear and uncertainty, for it was with me last August when my father was in the hospital. It is a hated companion this familiar tight knot of tension and worry.

I cannot find my laughter right now. I am not enjoying much. My work days are filled with stress and I don't like who I've become. I snap in anger over situations that I used to handle a little better. I'm not reading for pleasure, doing much writing, except these cathartic blogs. Most of my thoughts are of Mom and wondering how her day is going when we cannot be there with her every minute.

I've read about others who have gone through this before me. I see their smiling faces, their grandkids or trips they've gone on. I see that life does return and there will be rainbows and sunshine again. This is a season in my family's journey. The tale of two parents both so very loved and a life so very missed. My brother and I will hold on to what we have of our mother until her own story ends. And then we will make new memories and remember with fondness the old ones so lovingly tucked away in our hearts.

Sometimes strength feels like brokenness

Yesterday was a mixed feeling type of day while visiting my mother at her house. I felt wonderful that it went so well; that Mom and I bonded in the kitchen with a little cooking project. She peeled potatoes while I fixed pork tenderloin. She laughed so much, and shared some sweet stories. And yet at other times, she broke apart while talking about my dad.

I walked through the rooms of the house I had lived in from the early nineteen seventies. My old bedroom became my brother's room, and then later our father's little workshop. Many of Dad's projects are in that room--boat models, thousand piece puzzles he'd glued together and hung as pictures on the walls. A huge dollhouse, completed, sits on a built-in dresser--the tiny furniture askew in the many rooms--now forgotten. And everywhere--Dad. . . His little notebooks filled with writing; organizing the many bills he paid and doctor visits he kept in order. A few of his favorite DVD's still lay scattered about the room, as we haven't had the heart to move them just yet.

 My parent's room still had dad's shirts folded over and old blanket rack. I picked one up and became lost in the scent of my father, and memories which threatened to start me sobbing uncontrollably. I looked at the furniture in the room, an old bedroom set my parents had since I was a little girl. Many nights I used to wander into the room, frightened from a bad dream to make sure my parents were there. And Dad would wake to take me back to bed.

Mom began nodding off after our beautiful dinner yesterday. And the innocence of her dementia hit me hard. Once the strongest woman I'd known, she now talks like a little girl at times--memories of the past more clear than those that just happened. I thought about her life and the time she had with my father. They'd been married over sixty years. They'd shared a love like no other I'd seen, for they remained with one another through good times and bad. Moments of plenty and moments of lack. Sickness and health. Yes, they'd taken their wedding vows quite seriously. And my heart broke into tiny shards watching Mom sleep, and knowing she'd awaken alone once again without the love of her life there beside her.

We talked yesterday of death, replaying the moments Dad had been in the hospital and the events which led to his passing. When my mother seemed to spiral downward, when depression threatened at its ugliest, I reminded her that she knew better than anyone. The near death experience she'd gone through in the early seventies were proof of the Love we will know and the Place we are headed. Dad is waiting for her there, and she will spend eternity with him. In her cute childlike way, she said, "Oh, I'd forgotten about that."

We are broken right now--my family. And in our time of grief, there have been moments that we showed a strength I didn't think we'd possess.

 I chatted with a friend this morning who'd lost her beloved husband some months back. We spoke of our loved ones and how much we miss them. We reminisced about better times and happy memories. And she said something to me that really made me think. She said, "Sometimes strength feels like brokenness." It didn't take me long to realize just how true that is.

Such a good man

We painted small plastic football men with toothpicks. Made a Crystal Radio kit. Spent countless hours trying to understand word problems with my math homework.

We bonded over crafts: pine cone Christmas trees. The doll houses he so painstakingly put together. Would my brother and I please purchase some contact cement for him? Oh, and could we pick up a small can of tan paint? Tan is such a good color for the outside of a three-story miniature home.

Blip, bleep goes the hospital monitors. Whooshing sounds; the ventilator--the most hated and loved of life-saving devices. Drip, drop goes the intravenous fluids. Dad lays there, drifting in and out of sleep. His eyes open for a moment and he waves to us as we stand gathered at his bedside.

Each one of us takes our turn to whisper words of encouragement. His grandson, my son Matt, who tells his beloved "Lamp" as he calls him, that his YouTube fans are sending out prayers and good wishes. This makes him smile. I know it's a smile, for I see those eyes twinkle still yet as Dad hears this. So proud of being in one of Matt's YouTube videos, playing the silly claw machine and winning a Betty Boop doll that the fans went crazy over. Several of the kids liked Dad so much, they even asked for his autograph.

My mother lays her head against his arm. Their fingers are entwined together. Sixty years. A good marriage. I show the kind nurses pictures on my cell phone of Mom and Dad when they first wed; those two gorgeous people in their early lives, so much hope before them.

I pray out loud, offering words of comfort and strength. Dad closes his eyes. He knows the Lord.

The silly names he has called us all through the years float through my mind and the nonsense language he invented. If we were shopping and he needed kleenex, I knew what the word lagogos meant. My son Matt has been Raymond to him, my brother, Matty or Boy. And my own magical names: toots, Tenya, Nice-a Toy. Oh I want to hear those words from his lips right now.

He wanted to talk yesterday, of that I'm certain. Knowing Dad as well as I do, I filled in the blanks for him as I watched his eyes and hands. I tried my best to envision what he might like to tell us all.

The silly hats Dad used to put on when we would be shopping together. Once he donned a type of fedora and pretended to be Hannibal Lector from Silence of the Lambs. A big, tin popcorn can went on his head one Christmas, and he breathed like Darth Vader stating: "Luke, I am your father." He unzipped his postal sweater one evening, singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood" as good as Fred Rodgers.

He loves Peter Sellers Inspector Clouseau movies. War pictures. Funny Farm with Chevy Chase. Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman. I think of the hours we've watched and re-watched these films, able to quote whole scenes from them.

A good life. A good man. Even the nurses tell us this. When asked how he is feeling, they always get a "thumbs up" from Dad. From the little they know of our family story, and the times they were able to actually speak with him, every single person who has met Dad in the hospital says the same thing. What a good guy. Gracious. Kind. So sweet. Yeah, they have a small glimpse of who he is.

Keep fighting, strong man. Know how much you are loved, not only by your family, but by every life you have touched and blessed.

The Memory Box

It sits in the back of my clothes cupboard. Years worth of cards, letters, pictures and memorabilia all are stuffed inside. I'd wanted to do a little organizing, so I pulled out the old memory box. I must have tried rearranging it once before, for I found birthday cards bundled together, each from a specific person: my husband, son, brother and parents. Other assorted items lay in the bottom: a broken piece of a hockey stick signed by a favorite player from when I was younger. A plastic heart necklace from some kids I taught Sunday school to back in the early eighties. Items from my Nonna who had passed away long ago. It had been a long time since I'd viewed the contents of this box. What other treasures would I find?

I began opening the cards. There were humorous ones from my brother. We'd always had the type of relationship where we ribbed one another mercilessly. He would comment on birthday cards of how old I was getting--since I'm fourteen years his senior--and would include little drawings and sayings that had meant something to us through the years.

I opened cards from old friends, people I hadn't seen in a while. I found thank you's and good wishes from people when I left a job I'd worked at for twenty-seven years. Some of the patients wishing me well in my new life, and a letter of recommendation from my old boss that warmed my heart.

When I found my son's cards, I paused and read each of them carefully. A mother treasures such things especially when you aren't always vocal about your feelings. The writing inside the cards spoke volumes to me about the way he felt. So much appreciation for me as a mom. And love that he isn't able to express so easily.

The last batch of cards were from my parents. There were ones all the way back to the late seventies. There were humorous drawings from them, silly stick figures and animals that had made me laugh through the years. There were sayings from our favorite movies, and even some poetic prose from my mother. When I found a few letters my mother had written and carefully tucked into the birthday cards, I took the time to read them word for word. With her worsening dementia, it has become more important than ever to remember who she once was, and how caring and intelligent she'd been.

There were words from Mom that told of her happiness of our closeness. That we were more than mother and daughter, but best friends too. There were words that told of her feelings of love and how proud she'd been of me, though I'd always felt I messed up so terribly in my life. She called me her shining star, and said that if it wasn't for me, she didn't think she would have made it through some of the difficult times. I felt overwrought with emotion, and the words blurred on the pages of the letters as tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. My husband asked why I was crying, and I couldn't bring to words what it meant to me finding these precious gifts tucked away in an old box.

I still need to weed through and do a bit more organizing. But today I'll do it with a lighter heart. For now I know just how much I've been loved and appreciated.

Refreshing and Regrouping

Nerves, frazzled. Lower back pain, incredible. Sleep, disrupted. Yes, this is how I felt several times this weekend. Caught up in the frenzy of food preparation, I obsessed while at work, and even in my dreams. You see, I'm an Italian, and this is how we roll. It's never enough. No matter how many gnocchi I made, as I looked at them on the wooden cutting board in my kitchen, I felt there should be more.

The Honeybaked Ham I'd purchased all of a sudden seemed so tiny, never enough to feed a hungry crowd. And what of side dishes? Were there plenty to go around?

My work week had also been daunting. With my new position as office manager, I've had to put out several fires, you see. When a phone call comes in from a patient who just doesn't understand why there was a specific charge on their bill, I must now deal with this, taking the time to pull apart their account until I find the issue. Or an irate patient who has a complaint. I've had to put on a good face, take the brunt of their anger, diffusing the ticking time bomb.

My mother's memory was rough this weekend too. Her dementia seemed to be worsening. I found myself snapping at her, caught up in how hard I've been working. Usually when she asks the same questions twelve or fourteen times, I'm able to answer them with poise and grace. Sometimes changing my answer ever so slightly, or chuckling a bit with her about it. But when your last nerve is frayed beyond repair, it isn't easy to continue to be kind.

My husband has added to the list as well. I love him, but let's just say, when he's around a little more than usual,( and trust me, he deserves the days off), I have no time to write, no time to myself. Since he puts in so many hours, he misses me, and feels we should spend every waking moment together.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run far, far away and not stop until I was someplace where nobody would find me. Well, at least for a few hours or a day.

Today is that day.

When my kids were little, we had friends that gave their children "Mental Health Days." They knew when their child was stressed beyond measure, and would offer them a respite from school, keeping them home for just one day. It would work, because little junior would bounce to school the next day, all refreshed and regrouped, ready to face whatever challenges the day brought.

This morning I decided on such a time. No phone calls. No television, well, except for the blissful hour that I watch an episode of a favorite show. No changing out of my bummy sleep clothes: the too big t-shirt, well- worn from years of washings, and the sweat pants that are miles too long. Hair disheveled, face, unwashed. I am on strike, picketing in the quiet confines of my own home. I will take time to write at least a thousand words in the book I'm currently working on. I will eat something totally bad, perhaps a bowl of ice cream, and I will forgive myself for it. I will not have any deadlines today, think about anything that needs to be done. And work, what's that? For there is not one thing I will clean today.

We all need such a day from time to time. A mental regrouping of sorts. Young mothers are stressed beyond measure; single moms especially who have no respite or a moment to themselves. Others who are continuous caregivers for a sick loved one. They, too, are human, and in need of a break. Perhaps we can be the one to give them a few hours rest.

I don't think it's a reason for guilt or shame. I think it's a necessary gift we must give ourselves from time to time. And if like me, today is that day for you, I hope you enjoy the solitude, the refreshment that a time like this can bring.

Oh, the phone just rang. And it was hubby asking if I could look something up about his new phone. My answer: Sorry honey, but not today. Ahhh, the bliss.

Bonding over food

Is there any greater enjoyment than a good meal, especially one that reminds you of your youth, and simpler times? They call such things "comfort foods" and for very good reason. Today, my elderly Mom and I decided to make such foods.

With Mom's dementia and learning so much more about it, I've seen that the very strengths she once had, such as cooking and baking are traits that can withstand the test of time and memory especially if a loved one shares that passion as well.

I entered the warmth of my mother's kitchen today, (well, a little warmer than usual because with her condition, Mom is always very very cold. The heat was a blaring 74 degrees at the time.) to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, a well-worn recipe card in front of her, studying it as if the meaning of life was written upon it.

"What's that?" I asked Mom.

"My old recipe for Strufali," came the reply.

Strufali, for those of you who aren't Italian, are little fried dough balls, maybe an inch or so in diameter. Made almost like a pie dough, dropped into boiling oil, then after they are drained on paper towels, put into a pot of heated honey and turned over again and again. These little delectables had usually been made for New Years in my family in the past. My Nonna had made them, and Mom too, bringing to mind my youth and the above mentioned simpler times.

I made up my mind that I was going to be Mom's kitchen slave for the day. Rolling up my sleeves, I began measuring out the ingredients, after putting on a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, stir-frying another cut up chicken breast, throwing together a meatloaf and oven roasted potatoes too. Did I mention I was a kitchen slave earlier? Indeed. But it was one of the most bonding, fun times with Mom in recent memory. I'd taken one of her favorite things, cooking and baking, and turned it into an afternoon of bonding together. Each time Mom would say, "Please, I want to help," I'd politely turn her down and say, "No, you're the master chef, and I'm your pupil." Now you have to understand, I think I'm a fairly good cook and baker myself, but to let my mother think she was teaching me precious gems of kitchen duties was priceless. Though she did help a little, and later would tell my brother she made the whole meal, it didn't bother me a bit.

What is it with us sometime when we feel we must take credit for everything, or we are completely slighted? It took nothing from me to let Mom think she made the whole delicious meal and the Italian dough balls as well. Her hand had certainly been in it, so in many ways, it was her cooking and baking. I've taken her ideas from many years, and have incorporated them into my own kitchen. Many of the things I make come lovingly from little old scraps of paper, splotches of food encrusted into them as I study Mom's handwriting from years ago. I don't deviate from much of it, though my mother was one of those "pinch of this, dash of that" types too.

When the Strufali were finished yesterday, and we dug into the tasty, honey-coated treats, the look on my mother's face was priceless. A smile, eyes closed, a moan of ecstasy when she bit into one. And when Dad walked into the kitchen and tried his own, the compliment of "these are the best ones ever," was like music to my ears.

What a good day, a bonding day, a day of love and understanding. A day to treasure as her memory may fade, her moods worsen, or God forbid, she forgets any of us some day.

I hope to have more days like this. Days where a mother and daughter can giggle like schoolgirls, talk about old times, work side by side, and share the love and stories that all have come out of an Italian kitchen and bonding over comfort food.

Recipe for Strufali from Grace Massa Langlois, in an article on La Mia Vita Dolce from 2010.

Cicerchiata-Struffoli, Italian Honey Balls

• 6 large eggs
• 375 g (3 cups) plain (all purpose) flour
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• Canola or vegetable oil for deep frying
• 710 ml (3 cups) honey
• 75 g (½ cup) candied fruit, optional
• 50 g (1/3 cup) slivered almonds, optional
• Candy sprinkles, optional
• Vegetable cooking spray (if shaping cicerchiata into a wreath)

1. Crack eggs into a small bowl, cover and allow eggs to come to room temperature, 30 minutes.
2. Add salt to eggs; lightly beat together with a fork.
3. Place flour on a clean work surface or in a large bowl.  Make a well in the centre.
4. Pour egg mixture into centre of well.  With the tips of your fingers or with a fork gradually draw the flour into the egg mixture.  Continue until all or most of the flour is incorporated.
5. Use your hands to gather the dough together.  Knead the dough until smooth and no longer sticky, 5 to 7 minutes.
6. Shape dough into a ball, cover with an overturned bowl, kitchen towel or wrap in plastic.  Let dough rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
7. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed sauté pan with 5-cm (2 inches) of oil.  Attach a thermometer and heat oil over medium heat to between 185° C and 190° C (365° Fand 370° F). (If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a 2.5-cm (1-inch) cube of bread into hot oil.  If it takes about 1 minute to brown all sides of the cube and the cube floats to the top the oil has reached the appropriate temperature for deep-frying.)
8. Prepare 2 baking sheets line one baking sheet with non-stick baking paper (for cut pieces of dough) and line the other baking sheet with 3 to 4 layers of paper towels (to absorb excess oil).
9. Knead rested dough for a few minutes.
10. Cut dough into 12 equal pieces.  Work with one piece of dough at a time, keeping remaining dough covered.  Using the palms of your hands roll each piece into a rope 1¼-cm (½-inch) thick.  Cut the rope into 6 1/3-mm or 12¾ mm (¼-inch or ½-inch) pieces. Transfer pieces to prepared baking sheet (lined with non-stick baking paper); cover dough pieces with a kitchen towel.  (Cicerchiata puff out quite a bit when frying.  If I am preparing a wreath I prefer to cut the dough into smaller pieces.  You may want to fry a small batch before cutting all the dough to see which size you prefer.)
11. Cook dough pieces in small batches (do not overcrowd pan), stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until lightly golden on all sides, 1½ to 3 minutes (depending on size).
12. Transfer cicerchiata to baking sheet (lined with paper towels) with a slotted spoon.
13. When all dough is fried allow cicerchiata to come to room temperature.  Transfer cicerchiata to a large bowl.
14. Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan bring honey to a simmer over low heat. Simmer at low heat, stirring occasionally, until honey is melted.
15. Gradually pour honey (reserving 59 ml or ¼-cup if shaping into a wreath) over cicerchiata stirring with a wooden spoon until well incorporated.
16. If using candied fruit, nuts or sprinkles (or all three), sprinkle over top of cicerchiata and stir to well combine.  (If shaping into a wreath, reserve a portion of the candied fruit, nuts and sprinkles to decorate wreath.)
17. To serve, spoon into a bowl, pile onto a serving dish or shape into a wreath.

The Best Worst Year Ever

I got the title from a good friend of mine. There was a time in her life that she was going through one of the most difficult events ever, the death of her father. But, she said, there had been so many blessings that year, that she didn't want to look back at it as the worst year of her life. The good events were so abundant, so truly from God, that she told me "It was the best worst year ever."

That got me thinking. I, too, am in one of those best/worst times right now in my life. In early December, my stress level was at an all time high. My husband and I were fighting over pretty much everything. We had four days off together for Christmas shopping and frivolity, but we were both at a power struggle for first place with ideas and "how to do everything correctly." I was at the point that I wanted to go back to work to escape the most wonderful time of the year and the man in my life. My husband's stress level had also been through the roof as well, with extra long work hours and other issues he struggled with. I couldn't find a happy thought toward him, or one iota of compassion. My aging parents lay heavily on my mind at all times, and I felt the joy being sucked right out of me.

But. . . there were several blessings that crept up sneakily. I opened an email one morning from a Pittsburgh publishing company that wanted to feature my new book on their online television show. Now, I must admit, I was more than a little suspicious that this was a fraud. I chuckled about it, secretly wishing it was true. I did a little homework, a bit of research and found out it indeed was a real event! Eight other local authors and myself included, spoke about our books for the television cameras. I'm not quite sure what may come of this, but as I always say: Any publicity is good publicity. This unknown girl who struggles to make a name for herself as an author was given this incredible opportunity. It was a dream come true. But. . .

My husband took a terrible fall during a holiday family get together. It was so bad, he ended up in the hospital. Now, I must admit, the "Christmas Cheer" was flowing pretty freely during the party. So his faculties weren't quite up to par to begin with. But when he broke facial bones and scared me and his children to death, I couldn't help but become angry with liquor and the fact that he'd come from a family that liked to indulge. I was not brought up that way. It's odd for me to see people needing a drink to have a good time. So I haven't been thrilled with this type of behavior throughout our marriage. However, a few great things did come from this. No major problems for my husband. No neck or back fractures even though it was a tumble down outdoor cement steps. And the best part: A complete change of heart. My husband has not touched a drop of alcohol since it happened. This was something I'd been praying for many years.

Another sneaky blessing came in the form of another email one day. A popular cat anthology that I'd submitted a few paragraphs to, had accepted my story! Never before in my writing career have I been "chosen" for anything. I felt as giddy as a child while I danced around my house the day I found this news out.

My brother phoned me two nights ago. He said that our mother, who has dementia, had a terrible bout of diarrhea and was bleeding. He called an ambulance to take her to the emergency room. My husband and I were in the middle of watching the movie "War Room" at the time. I had been completely immersed in the story line and hoped it was only a fluke with Mom, I must confess. She'd mentioned eating a whole box of chocolate covered cherries, and we all wondered perhaps, if it was the "red" of the cherries they were seeing. I got a call later that they were admitting Mom to the hospital to run more tests. It was indeed blood that was found.

Now anyone with a parent or loved one with dementia must realize that a hospital visit can be devastating. Mom had been in the hospital last year, and it had wreaked such havoc with her mind, she truly didn't know where she was and why my father wasn't there with her every moment and sleeping with her at night. She came home depressed from that episode and way more confused than she had been. So I fretted: would this time be like that too? I went on to Facebook and typed a quick status about Mom going into the hospital. And about sixty-five people later, prayers were being offered in a major way.

Talk about the blessing this time. Not only did my family have the stamina needed to be there for Mom, but every hospital attendant, nurse and doctor treated her extremely kind. Everyone took the extra special time to explain things patiently to her again and again, and to comfort each one of us as we awaited tests. The biggest blessing came in the form of the male nurse I'd left Mom with last evening. I stayed as long as I possibly could. The male nurse whose name was Matt, had promised me she was in good hands. But Mom wasn't having a good night. Especially since she'd needed to drink prep for stomach tests in the morning. I had a very rough night, unable to sleep much, tossing and turning from worry. Would the test have to be cancelled if my mother didn't drink enough prep? Was she giving that nice male nurse a rough time?

When my father and I arrived at the hospital this morning, I walked over to Matt the nurse. He admitted that Mom had a fairly rough go of it through the night, but he'd been with her as much as possible, actually spending several hours with her. His demeanor and way that he spoke, assured me that he had been the right nurse for the job. He'd comforted her and reassured her. And when I talked with Mom a few minutes later, she couldn't stop talking about the wonderful young man who'd been with her through most of her scary night.

Mom's tests turned out wonderfully, she went through with flying colors and even had a clean bill of health. A very small issue had caused her problems, and she would be discharged in a few hours.

I sit here tonight thinking back over a full month. From early December when I thought I couldn't take another minute from the holiday stress, to today when I thought I couldn't take another minute from how tired I was. I believe with my whole heart and everything in me that it was prayer that sustained us all through these times. My husband and I have prayed out loud together for at least five years before we go to work every morning. Is our marriage perfect, nope. But have I seen some amazing changes in both our lives, some blessings that only can truly be accounted to our Heavenly Father? You bet. And the prayers of the Facebook friends during these last few days for Mom. They weren't only for her to be "okay." Those prayers sustained every member of my family, gave us the strength, humor and tenacity needed for all that we had to do. Those prayers helped put the right people in our paths, great nurses, good doctors and a positive experience for my mother. She talked with me earlier tonight about how nice everything was. She thanked me for being there and spoke highly of her care and treatment. For someone with dementia, she was acting pretty normal.

Yes, life is hard. I've made some of my own problems, and there are others that come from the natural rhythm of things. But in the midst of some of the worst times ever have come the best ones as well. For God has promised us that He will never leave us or forsake us. He upholds us with His hand. He loves us unconditionally and He is a blesser, my friends. The things I spoke about in this blog may not look to some people like miracles or really great things. But to me and my family, they are answered prayers. And the little extras, the little sneaky bonuses I've been given on top of it all, have really made this time of my life the best ever.

Different but better

As Thanksgiving approached this year, I found myself angry and upset. Because of Mom's dementia and confusion about so many things, I'd wanted to take the full responsibilities of the dinner upon myself. I wanted her to relax, sit back and let someone else do all the cooking, all the preparation, all of it. No such thing happened.

About a month ago, Mom announced that she wanted to buy the turkey. I begged and pleaded, telling her it was way too early, first of all. I told her that they've come to my house for the last five years, and wouldn't she like to do that again? Wouldn't she like to just enjoy the meal and get out of her house for a change? Nope. Mom would get upset every time the turkey battle would ensue. She'd huff and puff on the phone when we spoke, acting what I thought was rather childish. Little temper tantrums about how she wanted to do this, and a day or so without speaking to me after she got upset over mashed potatoes.

I cried myself to sleep a few nights about this change of power. I felt wronged and I grieved over the injustice done to me. Then it hit me. This is not about me. This is about her illness. An illness of the mind. She doesn't have control over much these days, not her thoughts or actions at times. Perhaps this Thanksgiving meal is the last hurrah of sorts. Her one way to gain control over a situation that is important to her. For cooking and baking have always been Mom's strengths. We had meals through the years, and not only the Italian ones, meals that were homey and good. Baked goods and homemade pizza that rivaled most of the best pizza parlors in town. This is where Mom felt safe. Her kitchen. A place where she always had control. And here I was trying the power struggle to take it away from her.

When I let my pride go and got into the spirit of things, I immediately felt a release of all the pent up emotions of the last few weeks. If it was this important to her, then I'd make it my priority for it to be important to me. Mom started days before Thanksgiving with a chocolate cake. Then another dessert she always makes called refrigerator cake. (Recipe to follow.) She threw together a batch of unbaked cookies. She made potato salad even though I told her we wanted mashed potatoes. There was no stopping the whirlwind frenzy that was my mother in the days leading up to the Thanksgiving.

I fretted over the bird most of all. I wondered if she remembered how to make one. Was her stuffing going to turn out? Would that turkey be fully cooked? Were we all headed to the emergency room afterward?

My brother and father helped Mom best they could until I arrived early Thanksgiving morning. And I was surprised that the turkey sat in the oven, already stuffed, already baking. As the hours ticked by, and each additional preparation began, the heavenly aroma lay about the house as the bird continued to roast.

I found a meat thermometer which pleased me to no end a little later. And when I inserted it into the breast, I saw it jump to the proper reading. It was finished! Wow, and it looked great! The picture above is indeed of the main event. On the old stove sat the pride of my mother. She'd remembered and done well I might add. Yes, she talked about the same things over and over yesterday. She checked and double checked things many times. But each of us handled it with good grace and a sense of humor. We enjoyed the day, so thankful for the blessing of our family. So grateful to still have Mom and Dad with us and the closeness of the loud Italian family I speak of so often.

No, it wasn't like Thanksgiving's of the past. It was different, yet somehow better. Years and memories have come and gone. Good times and bad, happiness and sadness. One thing remains: the love.

Refrigerator cake:
Package of graham crackers
Large box of Vanilla pudding, the type you have to cook
Large box of Chocolate pudding,the type you have to cook
Milk
Bananas optional

Layer graham crackers in a 13x9 pan across the bottom, breaking them to fit. Do not crush them, lay them flat.

Cook vanilla and chocolate puddings according to package directions.

Begin with a thin layer of chocolate pudding across the graham crackers, spreading it evenly. Then layer graham crackers across the top. (Remember do not crush them, lay them whole.) Alternate with vanilla pudding, etc until you end up with pudding on the top. Now you can slice bananas onto the dessert if you wish, then refrigerate. No baking involved.

Lost in the scent of youth

Photo: daughter-in-law, Colleen and baby McKenna


This weekend my husband and I traveled to North Carolina to meet our grandbaby, McKenna. Upon walking through the door and holding her for the first time, I broke into tears of happiness. She's already three months old, so we missed the precious newborn moments, but immediately I fell in love with the little character she's already becoming.

The faces a baby makes are cause for some of the best laughter. Even when they don't mean to be funny, how can you not smile back at a giggling baby or child? Their whole face lights up, the face of a cherub, and you find time, years, and cares erased from yourself as you mirror that beautiful smile.

Their coos, gurgles and baby sounds are like music to the ears as you wonder what on earth they are thinking, and what are they trying to tell you.

But did you ever notice that nothing, and I mean nothing has the fragrance of a little baby. Well, barring the moment McKenna did her number two duty on my lap, but I'm talking about the fresh scent of youth and a lifetime of fairytale wishes, hopes and dreams before them. For that's the scent of a child. Innocent, pure, lovely and beautiful as God formed them to be. I breathe it in, and realize that at that moment, I don't have a care in the world. Nothing but that precious child matters, a life literally in the palms of my hands.

I have two full days to spend with her. Not nearly enough time when your children live out of state, having to go where their jobs and lives take them. But you can be sure that I will spend many wonderful moments lost not only in the scent and antics of this little girl, but being captivated by the spell she's put upon my heart because I know what unconditional love feels like.

Mother's Day

She was once a little girl. A daughter, a child. She had hopes and dreams. She knew laughter and fun. She also had hard times, worries, fears and tears. She was born in an old-fashioned era and knew hardship and lack. Yet she pressed on and fought the good fight in her life. She's my mother, Eileen, and I'd like to tell you a little about her.

 Mom had been such a stable even though she had her own adversities. A child of an alcoholic father, Mom grew up with fear as a constant companion. A father who would gamble away the last of the grocery money, a father who was unkind to his wife. And that wife, who took out on her children what she could not on the man she married. Little Eileen wanted so much more. She wanted to play piano, sing, soar. But tough times didn't permit her dreams to come true.

She married young, at nineteen years of age to my father, Richard, a man six years her senior. A good man, a loving man, someone who stood by her through good times and bad. Though nervous issues plagued my mother for many years, she found stability and tenderness. She fought her way through these times, these confusing times when the mind would play tricks on her, threatening to tear her apart. And she would come out on the other side stronger and better for it, with a heart so filled with compassion for others, that many lives would be touched by her.

A pregnancy came in later years after Mom lost two other babies. A doctor warned her to terminate the baby due to health concerns. But this strong woman, my mother, said words that have stuck with me all my life: "I'll have this baby, or die trying." And nine months later, my brother was born, a true blessing in our lives.

Mom ran several antique businesses through the years, enjoying the challenges they brought. But her biggest accomplishment to many of us was owning a small mom and pop store in our little town of Ambridge, Pa. The Eighth Street Dairy was a quick stop for kids after their long school days. A place to play a video game in the early 80's, and purchase bags full of penny candy, Swedish fish, gummy bears, gum balls. Nothing was more important to her, however, than her daily talks with the people and kids that walked through her door.

Some folks came daily for a newspaper and cup of coffee. They'd share stories with Mom of their lives and problems. Like a therapist, my mother would listen and occasionally give advice. And as for the children who came through the door after school hours, Mom would have a listening ear and

show by example, kindness and patience to all, qualities they may not have seen in their own homes.

Years later, many of the young people, now grown, would approach Mom if they'd see her somewhere. They'd tell her just how much she meant to them in those earlier years, the time she spent talking with them. A few have told how their lives have changed from knowing her. One man said, "If it wasn't for you, I don't know where I'd be. Every time I thought about getting into trouble, I'd think of you, and just stop what I was doing."

As for me, I think back to a lady who stood by me in one of the darkest times of my life: my spinal surgery for scoliosis as a teen. I don't know how Mom was able to keep her strength as she watched me go through such a difficult time in Children's Hospital. How she kept my spirits up and told me it would pass.

I've gotten my heart from my mother. My sense of humor. I've gotten a love of movies, books, and imagination from her, a spirit of creativity. I've gotten compassion, a love of animals and underdogs of the world. I've learned about faith and God from Mom.

I think my mother didn't realize just how many lives she impacted. And when her golden years came upon her, I reminded her: The world is a better place because of you, Mom. So many of us wouldn't be who we are without having known you.

Here's to Mother's Day, and the blessing, the great blessing my mother was to me. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you with my whole heart.

The gift of old age

My heart cracked in half tonight. While talking to Mom on the phone, I realized just how bad her memory is getting. She recalled a time in our lives when I was already grown and married and asked me who was babysitting me. I gulped and felt a huge lump forming in my throat.

Where are you going, Mom? I want to find you. I want to find the woman you once were, so quick-witted and sassy. Nobody, but nobody could pull the wool over your eyes. Now, I think the wool has gathered and taken away so much.

She talked about a beloved doll someone had brought her one Christmas. The memories of childhood all too close now. Memories from a few minutes ago, gone and forgotten, but the past is here to stay. She could vividly describe the beautiful doll, the satin snowsuit, the fur muff. I could all but see it as she went on about how much that toy had meant to her. My heart cracked just a little further. . .

What is this, the gift of older age? For perhaps it is just that. Mom had sadness in her life as well. And maybe just maybe it's not such a bad thing to forget some of the pain she went through at the hands of an abusive mother or alcoholic father. Her innocent, childlike ways may just be a blessing in disguise as she recalls silly songs, movies and books she read.

I count myself lucky that she knows who we all are, our close family who has been through so much together through the years. She still cooks and bakes, and all these things are good. Though I yearn for my mother's listening ear, and I miss the times I could call her and tell her about some infraction that had gone on, or share an exciting story from my day knowing she would have just the right words to say, I now must embrace the fact that our conversations have changed. For now she repeats and we've all heard the stories before. The attention span is gone, replaced by what almost feels to be a self-centered way of speaking. But we understand, my family and I. And we keep our sense of humor intact. We love, we laugh, we cry. We embrace the gift, grateful for every day we still have with Mom.

Oh, and the reason for the picture I took of a butterfly in a flower? My Mom loves butterflies. I think to her they represent freedom, imagination and God. She's often told a story of standing at the kitchen window when she was younger, completely distraught over something that had happened. She cried out to God for a sign, "Please, God, if you're there, please show me a butterfly. You know I always think of You when I see one." Not a few seconds later, but the most beautiful Monarch butterfly flew outside the window and stayed for the longest time as if dancing for her. That, my friends is a true gift.

Believe

When I was about fifteen years old I had a dream. An avid reader since I was very young, I had always envisioned myself as an author. My love of books took me to far away places, kingdoms, other worlds. How I longed to create something like this myself.

I was a shy child, and a little backward. My mom had been in and out of the hospital since I was about eight years old for "nervous issues." Though I had the love of my father and grandmother surrounding me, it was an extremely frightening time; the knowledge of what could happen, or what might happen always looming ever so close. Books and reading became sustenance to me. I devoured fantasy tails, losing myself for hours in places where there were no real fears, no real worries.

By my early teenage years, Mom had become well, and we were once again a family unit, whole and healthy. It was during this time, another issue would plague me.

I began noticing that my body didn't look right as I viewed myself in the mirror. Where curves should be, twisted bones stared back. Scoliosis, curvature of the spine, had found me. A year-long ordeal, a hospital stay and full body cast became the norm for me at that time. It was once again the solace I found in books as they comforted me and took me away.

It was about this time, the dream to become a writer hit me. I'd certainly read enough books. Why couldn't I put pen to paper and come up with a tale that would transport others to far and away?

My first attempt was a miserable failure. I'd written a story which was meant to be tragic and sad. I handed it to my mother, watching her, and waiting for the tears I just knew would begin to flow. Nothing of the sort happened. Mom proceeded to burst into gales of laughter. I took the offensive story from her hands, ripping it to shreds, and slunk away with my tail between my legs.

Other stories would come and go over the years. Ones I would start, never to finish them. It wasn't until my later years when I met one encouraging man that I would finally realize my dream.

The point of all this is: Believe. Believe in yourself, believe in something bigger than you. Believe that a dream can become a reality. I've not arrived "there" yet, wherever that may be. I long for a time when my name would be a household word, a "best-loved" author. But I've taken the steps to learn the craft, I've made time for classes and critique groups and spent countless hours honing and refining new stories. Whatever your dream and goals are, take the first step and believe.

This story is the result of such a belief. My labor of love, a children's/ cat lover book which I've poured much time into and tons of heart and soul. Though I've written a few other books, this particular book has been my salvation, my shining star of hope. It is my belief that many will read and enjoy it, and come away with the feelings I once felt as I was transported into make believe places and times.

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