Just Around the River Bend

My mom used to close her eyes and whisper to herself, “choose your battles, Lynette.”  This was typically in reference to something my sister, Bailee, wanted to wear.  Bailee had an… eclectic… fashion sense and liked making serious statements with her clothes.  One time my mom came home from work to find Bailee dancing on the front porch in a ruffled bikini and yellow rubber rain boots.  Bailee also went through a phase where she literally refused to wear anything that wasn’t yellow.  Mom didn’t choose that battle.  She let Bailee wear yellow every single day for two years.

“Choose your battles…” when we wanted to “help” with a school project that was way over our heads.  “Choose your battles…” when someone would cause a scene in the grocery store because they were told, “no” after asking for junk food.  “Choose your battles…” when we wanted to watch cartoons in the living room instead of a grown up channel (even though we had our own television). 

   

There were a few battles mom did choose though…  no light up shoes, no shoes that Velcro and don’t tie, must wear matching outfits for Easter and Christmas, must have coordinating- homemade- Halloween costumes, no using the words “hate,” or “shut up” under any circumstance, and absolutely do not use God’s name in vain.  But one of the most constant battles she fought was clothing and other paraphernalia with cartoon characters on it.

I specifically remember having a drawer of “play clothes” that I could wear when I wanted to finger paint, or dig for worms in the back yard.  That entire drawer was made up of t shirts (mostly gifts from people unaware of my mother’s dislike) donning familiar faces from Rugrats, The Wild Thornberrys, and countless Disney movies.  Naturally, I looked for reasons to sport the clothes in that drawer every chance I got.  What kid doesn’t love a good tacky cartoon shirt!?  I had my favorite t shirts and cheap pajama sets that were only allowed on what I considered special occasions, but my all-time favorite cartoon piece was not an article of clothing, it was a plate.

We had a set of plastic plates, bowls, and cups, each featuring different Disney characters.  We also had a set of dishes that were an exact plastic replica of my mom’s expensive nautical china- so cute, right?  But given the choice, we always wanted those hideous, worn, over used, Disney plates.  My personal preference?  Pocahontas. 

Pocahontas wasn’t my favorite Disney princess by any means (Cinderella all the way), but the Pocahontas plate was the prettiest.  The plate featured Pocahontas looking off into the distance (probably gazing at a cool tree or something), with bright turquoise, pink and yellow leaves entangled in her perfectly wind-blown hair.  She looked brave, and strong.

My mom and Pocahontas have something in common.

One of the recurring conflicts Pocahontas faces is choosing the smooth, easier path (making a few personal sacrifices along the way), or taking the road less traveled (likely resulting in consequences or challenges).  Grandmother Willow insists, "listen to your heart," which is usually screaming, “don’t do that easy thing, do the other harder thing because it’s probably better anyway!”  Thanks, Grandmother Willow, but that’s inconvenient.

Recently, my mom found herself sitting at a fork in the river asking, “should I take the smoothest course?”  Her boat was pulling her towards the still, calm waters, but ultimately she paddled towards the rocks and rapids ahead.

Mom chose a great battle: her parents are moving in with her.

My grandparent’s health is declining.  My grandpa suffers from dementia, he forgets more every day, and he’s just weeks away from having his second knee replacement.  My grandma hasn’t been the same since her heart attack and stroke five years ago- her balance is all kinds of crazy, and she has very little use of her left arm/hand.  They’ve reached a point where they can no longer take care of each other, and it’s heartbreaking.

 

It was just over a year ago that Mammy and Papaw made the decision to down-size from their split level home that sat on a double lot with an in-ground pool and big, beautiful back yard to a small, charming condo.  The last 14 months were spent redecorating their cute new space and trying to get Papaw acclimated to his new, unfamiliar home.

Also just over a year ago, my mom got remarried (to Rob- a rock star of a man, I might add), moved from London to Canal Winchester and has spent the last year putting her personal touches on their home and learning to navigate a new city.

Now it’s time to leave behind all things familiar and settle in to a whole new “normal.”

A beautiful house in Grove City will be home to my grandparents, parents, sister and step brother (when they’re not away at college), my step sister (when she’s not away in Cambodia on missions trips), and Layla- the cat.

Growing up, my mom was a constant demonstration of selflessness.  She gave us the last bite, the bigger piece of cake, the better seat at the movie theater.  She took off work to make it to everything we did, she loved hosting all of our friends for school dances, she got up extra early to draw spirited doodles on our lunch bags for game days.  But in the last couple of years, I’ve seen her soften, relax, and handle her stress with care.   She’s enjoying her time away from school, sports, and theater committees.  She gets to enjoy my step dad’s company and she doesn’t have to take care of people.

But she’s chosen this new battle- and she’s going to be great.

Easy would have been finding an assisted living facility.  Easy would have been hiring someone to come to the condo once a day.  Easy would have been letting them try to live on their own for a bit longer.  Mom and Rob’s hearts are too big, so God’s called them to share their grace with two people who couldn’t deserve it more.

By the second week of September, everyone will be settled in Grove City- embracing sacrifice, establishing a new meaning of “home,” and wrapping each other in love.

Now we pray for each other.  We pray for softer hearts and open minds, patience and understanding, and for peace and harmony.  Because we’re about to find out just what’s around the river bend.

She is Patient. She is Kind.

I’ve inherited a lot of traits from my grandmother (thank you, Jesus).  She’s a rock star speller- thanks to her devotion to crossword puzzles, and I got first runner-up at the spelling bee in seventh grade.  She loves to shop, and well… it’s no secret that I’m in my element at the mall.  Her style is simple and classic and she carries it with her everywhere- even the golf course.  I’ve adopted the simplicity of her favorite looks- I’d choose a strand of pearls over extravagant diamonds any day.  We’re both perfectionists and we love to dream up a project and see it completed exactly the way we pictured it would be.

I’d love to be just like Mammy when I grow up (if I ever do), and although we have a lot in common, there are some aspects to her personality I have yet to master.  Mammy has a serious back bone.  I’m serious, don’t mess with her.  If Mammy thinks someone is ripping her off or treating her differently because of her age or because she’s a woman- buckle your seatbelt.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s not mean, she just demands respect- because she deserves it.  I’ll get there…

If I could be one thing that Mammy is, it’d be patient.  I pray for patience a lot, but you know how God teaches us patience?  He puts us in situations where we need to be patient when patience is the hardest thing.  Married to a man with dementia, Mammy is faced with those exact situations every single day.  And she chooses patience.

My husband and I were visiting my grandparents- we were all sitting in the living room snacking on literally anything Mammy could find in the kitchen to feed us- when my grandpa started laughing to himself.  Mammy asked him what was so funny.  He was cracking up- tears rolling down his cheeks!  Finally he said, “Remember we had that pet rabbit before the parrot?”  We all just looked at each other… there was once a parrot- a red and green Macaw named Jolly Bird- but I had never heard of pet rabbit.  

“We never had a rabbit, George,” my grandma said.  “Oh yes we did!” he retaliated.  Mammy rolled her eyes, “honey, no we didn’t.”  He was frustrated.  “Mary, yes we did.  It was a little white one and it’d hop around the living room, you must not remember.”

Oh, the irony.

And like a trained actress, Mammy said, “Oh yes, George!  You’re right!  We had a pet rabbit, I remember.”  She was so convincing that I believed her until she winked at me and mouthed the words, “we never had a rabbit.”

“Bingo!  Two points for George Burke!”  Papaw said.

He basked in the joy of being right and proving her wrong for several moments as he recalled very specific details about this rabbit.

In 2011, Mammy was raking leaves in her back yard when she felt some discomfort in her chest.  She thought nothing of it and finished the job.  When she came inside the pain had intensified and Papaw insisted she go to the hospital.  Within minutes of arriving to the hospital, she flat lined, was shocked back to life, and boarded a helicopter to be transported to Columbus.  At Mount Carmel, Mammy underwent quadruple bypass surgery, and just days later a blood clot caused a stroke. 

Mammy went from raking leaves, golfing everyday, shopping on her lunch break, and sewing her own pillows and curtains to not being able to use her left hand, having to learn to walk and talk again, and needing assistance for even the simplest tasks.  Her heart attacks, surgery, and stroke were the ultimate tests of patience… or so she thought.

 She is stubborn.  She should probably use a walker, but only uses a cane.  She insists on driving when it’s probably not safe for literally anyone.  I’ve walked in her house to find her standing on a ladder trying to hang a picture because she doesn’t want to have to ask for help.  Her persistence is admirable, of course, but it’s made taking care of her that much more of a challenge.  Enter Papaw.

When Mammy came home after months in a rehab facility, Papaw was so elated he cried.  He went out and bought all the best equipment to make getting around the house as easy as possible for Mammy, he told the family how ready he was to take care of her, he even stocked up on Diet Coke- her favorite. 

And take care of her, he did.  For a little while… until suddenly when Mammy needed particular things at the grocery store, he’d forget them, or she’d ask him to throw a load of laundry in only to find he’d put the clothes in the washer and never started it.  She was the one reminding him about doctor appointments and bills that were due… and before long, the tables were turned.

Not only did this woman have to come to terms with the fact that she would never physically be the same again, she had to take on the role of caretaker for a man literally losing his mind. 

But she is patient and she is kind.

I’ve seen Mammy cry and angrily ask why all of this has happened to her.  I’ve seen her get so frustrated she throws her arms in the air in defeat.  But I’ve also seen her hold my grandpa when he’s brought to tears because he can’t remember something.  I’ve watched her let young grandkids put their fingerprints on her windows even though it absolutely kills her inside.  I’ve seen her set mouse traps because my grandpa swears they have mice (seeing dark spots on the ground is a symptom of dementia).

The familiar text on love from Corinthians reads:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

Mammy is love.  Mammy is love every single day, even when it’s the hardest choice to make.  She is so much more than patient.  She is love.

My Favorite Things

We bought my grandparent’s house back in May and the renovation process has been… lengthy.  There’s wallpaper to come down, carpet to be torn up, sanding, painting and cleaning to do. 

We haven’t had a living room set up since we moved in. If we want to watch TV we do it in the basement on an old blue and cream plaid couch.  We crowd into the rec room and awkwardly position ourselves to see the screen.  Our bed is a mattress and box spring on the floor of the spare bedroom- where I’ve made a night stand out of stacked pillows.  Our dressers and other furniture pieces are tightly packed in the garage- it looks like a well-played game of Tetris. 

I complain to my husband, Nick, at least on a weekly basis about the house situation.  “Why is it taking so long?  Am I even going to be able to decorate for Christmas?  We need some sense of urgency here!”  God love him. 

After months of ripping up carpet, pulling hundreds of staples, and removing tack strips, Nick and I finally made the call to have our hardwood floors refinished. 

After settling from some serious sticker shock (oh, the joys of home ownership), we moved quickly to set up camp in our basement.  There’s a small room at the end of the hall where my grandma used to get ready every morning.  We called it “the gray room.”  Yes,  it’s gray.  The walls, the carpet, the vanity counter top, the shower… all of it.  There was  just enough space for our queen-sized mattress to sit in the middle of the floor. 

One night during “basement camp out adventure 2016” we came home after being out for dinner and decided we weren’t quite tired enough for bed, but didn’t have the energy to invest in a movie or television either.  In the gray room there is a closet full of games- some are nearly 50 years old- but we decided on Tri-Bond.  We slipped into our pajamas, cuddled up in bed, and took turns guessing the commonality between the three given objects.  We drank wine, and laughed, and fell asleep mid- sentence.

That night, the last thing on my mind was the state of our house.  I wasn’t worried about how much wall paper was left in the living room, or how there was a layer of dust on every surface from the hardwood floors being sanded, or what color we’d paint the fireplace.  I was more than content sitting next to my husband playing a silly game.

We’re often told that memories are more important than tangible objects.  This year, that message has resonated with me more than ever.

I have a lot of things-  closets full of clothes, totes full of shoes, an incredibly nice house, a Kate Spade purse, and a timeless string of pearls from Macy’s that will always remind me of my first Christmas with Nick.  But none of these “things” matter more than a shared experience with the people I love.  As I watch my grandfather live with the effects of dementia, “memories” are given a whole new meaning.  His memories are being slowly stripped from him, but he’s still so happy to make new ones.

*Shameless plug* This Sunday I’ll be performing in the Madison County Arts Council’s “Sounds of the Season” (7pm at First United Methodist Church in London).  I’m singing “Favorite Things”- the first song my grandmother ever taught me to sing.  The number was chosen to open the show to remind people of the wonderful things the Christmas season has to offer- bright copper kettles, and warm woolen mittens (you know the tune).   

This Sunday I’ll sing the lyrics as written, of course, but I’ll be thinking about my most recent favorite “things:” Tri bond with Nick, tearing down wall paper while listening to tunes from White Christmas, seeing the look on my grandma’s face when she saw our wedding photos, countless bottles of wine shared with friends, and the way Papaw’s mustache tickles me when he kisses my cheek.

I'll conclude with these fitting words from Bing Crosby- “When you’re worried and cannot sleep, count your blessings instead of sheep.”  

Tune my Heart to Sing Thy Grace

“Get your feet off the table, young lady.”

It was the first time I’d ever been in trouble with my grandpa.  I was four years old, and independent.  After being asked more than once by my mother to take my feet off the dining room table (during dinner), Papaw was fed up with my lack of listening skills.  He raised his voice at me and I looked wide-eyed at him in shock.  As the tears started welling up in my eyes, I looked around the table to see everyone else’s faces displaying the same shock as mine.  Papaw does not yell. 

I heard his voice loud and clear.  You better believe I never put my feet anywhere near that table again.

Since that day, I’ve listened carefully to Papaw’s voice. 

His morning voice- between slurps of coffee, he’d count money from the family restaurant in a whisper as the coins slid effortlessly into his hands from the tile counter. 

His story voice- as he shakes some salt into his freshly poured beer: “At International Harvester they tried to promote me.  They said, ‘Yeah, you can be the guy who’s in charge of these other guys.’  They paid for me to take this trip and I drank beer on an air plane.  I’m telling you they opened a case and just started rolling the cans down the aisle!  But after the trip I didn’t want to be promoted… didn’t want to be in charge of the other guys.”

His advice voice- to his seven grandchildren: “I read this article in Playboy…”

His thankful voice- he’d brush the crumbs from his snow white mustache and stand up from the dinner table encouraging everyone to join him in a round of applause for the cook (his wife).  “That meal was what I like to call a D-N-S.”  Does.  Not.  Suck.

His humble voice- after Mammy’s heart attack, stroke, and a month-long stay in a rehab facility, it took three people to carry Mammy in her wheel chair up the stairs in their house.  We looked around knowing that the “long journey” the doctors kept referring to was just beginning.   With a tear rolling down his tired cheek, Papaw said, “this is the third best day of my life.  The first best day is the day I got married.   The second best two days were when my children were born.  And this right now is the third.  I brought my wife home, and she’s here with me where she belongs.”

My favorite Papaw voice is the one he uses in church.

I come from a family of talent across the board.  My brother is an artist on all sorts of levels- he holds a degree in cinematography from Columbus College of Art and design.  My sister can sing… like opera… and she’s good (I can sort of carry a tune, but I’m jealous of her).  My youngest brother can pick up any instrument and be proficient in just days (but seriously, you should see that dude on the drums).  My uncle is an all-around entertainer- he’s in a band and leads worship at my church (guitar and vocals).  My grandma is petrified of the stage, but she’s well versed in shower and car singing.  She won’t admit it, but she has a beautiful voice.  My mom and grandpa… well…. They have really kind hearts but they have zero rhythm or sense of musicality.  They’re tone deaf.

But on Sunday mornings, Papaw lifts his very off pitch singing voice to the Lord.  The band will start to play a song he recognizes and he’ll turn to all of us encouraging us to get into the music like he is… most of the time he offers a gesture suggesting he’s starting a motorcycle?  We have no idea… bless him.

He knows the words and he lifts his hands and he cries out to God.  He bounces up and down (not) to the beat of the music.  Sometimes he’s so overwhelmed he cries.  He sings so loudly that it’s hard to sing the correct melody when you stand next to him.

Papaw lives in a world of uncertainty.  He has dementia.  Sometimes he can’t remember who his wife is.  He has nightmares and doesn’t sleep well.  He’s confused by the slightest change in a daily schedule.  Last week he forgot how to take communion at church.  He can tell you a 20 minute long story about drag racing in his red hot rod when he was young- every single detail- but other days he tells you he’s saving space in the garage because he’s buying an old hot rod to work on. 

In Papaw’s mind, one thing is for certain - music on Sunday mornings at St. John’s Lutheran church.  Music is a constant.  God is constant.  His faith is constant.  Even if he can’t find the silverware drawer, he can find his familiar singing position, and he can find Christ.  Over and over again. 

Papaw sings to the Lord.  And the Lord sings back to him.  Constantly.

To Grandmother's House We Go

All day on Thursday the clock moved significantly slower than usual, denying me the quick work day I was hoping for.  Friday was Veteran’s Day which meant 4:00PM on Thursday began my much needed three day weekend.

Around lunch time, my husband reminded me that we committed to helping my grandparents decorate for Christmas on Friday morning.  Humph.  I didn’t want to decorate for Christmas in the morning… I wanted to sleep until 9:00 and get up and make coffee and get back in bed with a warm mug.  I wanted to wear my pajamas until noon and watch movies I didn’t have time for. 

But to grandmother’s house we go.

Mammy and Papaw moved into their new- down sized- condo in May and Papaw is finally starting to remember where things are in the kitchen drawers.  The dementia is getting worse, but he still laughs and sings.  Even when he’s asked to take the garbage out to the garage and comes back ten minutes later- garbage bag in tow, and asks what he was doing with it- Mammy tries to stay patient. 

The whole town knows about Mammy’s Christmas decorations.  They probably don’t know that there was entire bedroom-sized closet that housed them all during the off season.  There used to be a Christmas tree in every room- even the bathrooms and kitchen.  Decorating for the holidays is a big deal- a lengthy, time consuming deal.

After her heart attack and stroke five years ago, her left side doesn’t work like the well-oiled machine she once was.  Her constantly shaking left hand makes simple tasks frustrating and deflating- including decorating for Christmas.  Knowing it would take her twice as long as usual, she decided to start extra early this year- que helpers.

What was once a tall, plump, beautiful tree is now a small, simpler, fiber-optic… sapling?  With Papaw still sleeping, Mammy sent Nick (my husband) outside with specific instructions to evenly disperse both blue and white lights in the bushes and up the vine growing on the porch.  That left the two of us to decorate the baby tree.  We unwrapped ornaments- colored bulbs, glittery snowflakes, glass balls, and shiny trimmings filled every flat surface in the living room as we pondered how we’d get it all to fit on the tree.

As we brought the little tree to life with color and light we laughed about how old some of the ornaments were.  My personal favorite- the set of 8 clear glass balls painted with a glittery white lacy pattern.  “We got those the year we were married.  They’ve always been my favorite.” 

We finished the tree just as Papaw woke up.  He greeted me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, his white mustache tickling my skin.  He offered Nick coffee… three times… and Nick responded each time as if it were the first, grateful for the offer.  Papaw didn’t even realize it was lunch time. 

Mammy was heating a pot of vegetable beef soup on the stove, and after smelling it all morning, I couldn’t wait to fill one of Mammy’s big blue bowls with steaming soup and slice myself a piece of hot bread.  As always, Papaw complimented her cooking.  Mammy reminded him that he was the one who chopped up all of the vegetables the day before and he didn’t have a good time doing it.  “Well what else was I gonna do with my time?”  he said, “count quarters?”  Whatever that means…

Papaw called me Lynette (my mom’s name) a few times- but corrected himself each time.  He calls Nick by a few different names… boss, big guy, partner, and my personal favorite- Ivan.  He claims he knows Nick’s name and he just likes the others for fun.  I suppose we’ll never know.

But today, I’m thankful he still knows my name.  I’m thankful he laughs at himself when he can’t remember where to take out the trash.  I’m thankful Mammy is patient.  I’m thankful for the glass Christmas ornaments with the lacy pattern.  I’m thankful for an old vegetable soup recipe, and to be able to enjoy it in good company.  I’m thankful for the way Papaw slurps his coffee.  I’m thankful for my husband’s caring heart. 

Most of all, I’m thankful to have grandparents who need their home decorated for Christmas.  What a perfect way to spend my day off.