Category Archives: Family

Community, Family, Holiday, Nature

Halloween ’24 and its Prequels

Slim revels in the various lead-up events to the big day. His enthusiastic presence heightens the fun at our church’s annual Trunk or Treat. It’s a pleasure having him by my side, revving up the crowd from his usual perch at the back of my car.

It was Slim’s idea that the refurbished nativity animals accompany us to the event.  By this time, he and the pups had gotten chummy with the foursome of ox, donkey, lamb and ram.  He decided that their debut at Trunk or Treat should function as a preview in preparation for Advent.  But they needed some Halloween flair, he insisted.  He dug through boxes of fall decorations to find suitable ribbon for bows, which he carefully tied around each faux-furry neck. 

We were all happy to see our daughter and her fiancé, who dropped by last weekend between Halloween parties. Slim heartily approved of their regal vampire costumes.

Slim loves a festive centerpiece, and he has an eye for detail. In our dining room, he toyed with the painted gourds, arranging them just so in the punch bowl.

The week before Halloween was warm and sunny here in Northern Virginia. Between decorating projects, Slim could often be found soaking up the October rays and basking in the balmy breezes. While sad to see that the impatiens had succumbed to a recent frost, he appreciated the persistence of our petunias.

He was surprised to discover some out-of-season blooms on our lilacs.

A birder from way back, Slim had for years been encouraging me to join the Feeder Watch program of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Now that I have, I understand. I’ve always appreciated the peace that comes from being immersed in nature, especially at times when the human world is a muddle of confounding conflict. And I’ve found that when I’m counting birds for Feeder Watch, I pay closer attention to each little creature that appears. I’m looking with greater concentration and intentionality, and the experience is more satisfying. Slim spent hours sitting motionless in a chair close to the feeders, gazing at the variety of birds that swooped around him, not troubled at all by his presence. I found some precious moments to settle myself in a chair just beyond, and savor the pleasant ambiance.

Before long, it was time for the annual pre-Halloween joyride. The dogs piled in, and Slim took the wheel. On an afternoon that epitomized convertible weather, they merrily cruised the neighborhood, looking for old friends and admiring the numerous ambitious Halloween displays.

Slim has claimed that he and his wide circle of influencers are largely responsible for the exponential growth of Halloween, from a quick one- day celebration, to a weekend, to its own extensive season. He’s been known to get a bit cocky, so I take his words with a grain of salt.  Is it really a good thing, I wondered, for gargantuan blow-up spiders, demons and Disney villains to join us as early as August?   I asked him why he and his colleagues, if they wielded such power, couldn’t turn their attention toward easing some of society’s ills. They were trying to do just that, he replied. The thinking was this: If we can unite for weeks over a love of candy, playing dress-up and poking fun at our fears, maybe we can realize that our points of commonality outnumber our differences. 

Maybe there’s something to this.  Even one day of Halloween is an amazing occasion.  People across our country open their doors to hand out generous amounts of candy to children.  Most of these are kids we hardly know, or have never met.  We greet and give to strangers, simply because they show up, wear a costume, and say “Trick or Treat.”  It seems that over the years on October 31, we’ve moved toward a greater emphasis on the treating than the tricking.  That’s something to keep in mind and strive for, every day, whether it’s Halloween season, or not.   

Slim and my husband worked together to light up our house in a Halloweeny palette of orange and green.
Crafts, Family, Holiday

Skeleton Crew ’24

It’s that time again–time for our beloved family friend Slim and his pack of devoted pups to jump back wholeheartedly into the life of our household. For the past eleven months they’ve been keeping a low profile up in their attic hideaway. In years past, my mother’s basement has served as their quiet refuge during the non-October months. This changed last year when Slim made his acquaintance with the recently finished upper room at our house. He loved it so much he found no reason to leave, as long as I promised not to be overly intrusive. He has a good four weeks of chatty, jovial cordiality in him per year, but no more. I understand. I need my alone time, too.

Slim and the gang enjoyed tucking themselves into the attic’s odd and cozy spaces. When they were huddled silently behind the screen, as in the top photo, I sometimes forgot they were in the house. Other times they nestled into the dormers, where they could lounge with a pile of books and keep occasional watch on the neighborhood below.

As planned, Slim caught up on his reading, delving deep into some of his favorite periods in art history.

Inspired by our intention that the attic serve as a studio for my painting and craft projects, Slim had rekindled his interest in a variety of artistic pursuits.  His building of a miniature medieval manor house turned out to be no more than a passing fancy, rather as I had expected.  He offered advice as I fiddled with the restoration of an old family mantel clock.  When I encouraged him to take on the task of gold-leafing the column bases and capitals, he claimed to be overtired.  What can I say, he was off duty.  

As fall approached, Slim’s energy increased.  He  painted a couple of dried gourds, delighting in their arresting shapes and textures. 

And in early October, he offered encouragement, if not actual assistance, when I began repainting our church’s battered old nativity figures, those that spend Advent and Christmas in the outdoor manger.

There was considerable room for improvement, as these “before” photos of the lamb and donkey show. Slim was by my side as I worked on the animals. The human figures–the holy family, shepherd, angel and three kings–will be more challenging. I wish I could entrust their makeovers to Slim. But Halloween is upon us, and I know he will certainly be “overtired” in the days ahead.

I can hear Slim now, starting to make ready for the big day.  He’s dragging out the orange and green lights.  Onward, to Halloween!

Family, Nature

Back Home (With the Local Foxes)

Freddie, the senior male

My childhood neighborhood in urban Atlanta was full of large, mature trees and pockets of densely wooded areas. I grew up amidst plenty of small wildlife. Squirrels, chipmunks and birds were, and are, plentiful. For some reason, we often saw an opossum sitting placidly on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s home, easily visible from our kitchen window. Friends tell me that foxes, coyotes and deer all make the occasional appearance these days, but I never spotted any in all my years there. So I wasn’t prepared to be surrounded by the larger wild creatures we see every day here in Northern Virginia.

We had been in our present home just a few months when my husband and I awakened to a horrific screeching sound.  My first thought was that our daughter, then about eighteen months old, was crying out, in a most terrible way.

“She’s OK! She’s OK! It’s not her!,” my husband assured me. “It’s coming from outside.” It was spring, and the windows were open.

The screeching continued. It still sounded like a child suffering a brutal attack.

It wasn’t until the next day that we determined the source of the noise: a fox.  Just a little red fox.

Freddie at left, and Frankie, the senior female, at right

Over the last twenty years we’ve come to be aware of the many foxes around us.  Now that we know where to look, we see them as they go about their typically quiet everyday lives.  We consider it a privilege to share our space with them.  Their middle-of-the-night screeches no longer frighten us.  Sometimes I’ve looked out and watched with interest as a fox stands in the center of our yard and yells out, repeatedly.   During daylight hours, our local foxes regularly follow certain routes, from one patch of wooded county land to another, crossing yards, or following  paved paths like driveways and walkways.  Occasionally we’ll spot them curled up and snoozing in a patch of sun.

Kiko in September 2009

When our dog Kiko was alive, his favorite look-out spot was by the fence in our side yard, where he could watch the foxes on their rounds.  They frequently passed within a few yards of the boundary. But neither Kiko nor the foxes made a sound. They eyed one another with intense scrutiny, as if wondering if they might be related.  The Shiba Inu is sometimes called the “little fox dog,” and the two are similar in size and appearance, with their thick red fur and pointed ears.  The fox’s long bushy tail, though, contrasts with Kiko’s shorter, curly one.  In a post from last winter, I remarked that a glimpse of a fox in the front yard sometimes prompts a moment of panic when I think it’s Kiko, still with us, but alarmingly beyond the safety of the fence.  The foxes have become a sort of stand-in for our beloved dog, and I find their presence comforting.  In their mannerisms, they also remind me of Kiko. They look at humans with a calm, steady gaze in their golden-amber eyes, then glance away coolly, as if to say, “I’m fine without you.”  Their black-tipped ears twitch at the slightest sound.  And like my dog in his agile prime, they can jump up, turn on a dime, and dash away speedily.

Snowball, inside the fenced area

After our return from Cape Cod, I was glad that the fox I’ve come to see most often hadn’t moved on to new territory.  I call him Freddie, and he’s evidently the senior male, the group patriarch, father to three cubs.  Early on sunny mornings, he’s often curled up in front of his favorite tree in my mother’s yard.  In the winter, he was frequently accompanied by his mate, a nursing female.  I dubbed her Frankie, short for Francesca.  She was dainty and skittish, slightly smaller than Freddie, and lighter in color, with a narrower face.  I haven’t seen her for a couple of months.   But their youngsters are everywhere:  long, lanky adolescents,  lean and big-eared.  The sibling in charge is a spirited, fearless female.  I dubbed her Snowball for the prominent bob of white at the end of her tail. She’s a skilled and patient hunter, often lying flat in the mulch, blending in, motionless, waiting to pounce.  And sometimes she and the other young ones venture inside our fenced area.  They’re small enough to pop easily in and out through the wrought-iron bars.  Now that Kiko’s nearly fifteen-year tenure as guard is over, the area has become even more of a safe sanctuary for birds, squirrels and chipmunks.  But with his absence, his foxy look-a-likes have become bolder.  When I’m at my desk and spot Snowball inside the fence, I raise the window, and she flees immediately.  Foxes are intelligent, and they seem to learn quickly the limits of human hospitality.  But they’re also persistent and sneaky.

 

Freddie, on alert

Just the other day I happened to witness Snowball flying across the front yard with a bushy-tailed squirrel in her jaws.  It’s a wild kingdom out there.  I’d prefer that all our neighborhood critters were vegetarians, but it’s not up to me. 

Frankie

I wonder about little Frankie.  I’d like to think she’s moved on, by choice.   It’ unlikely, I know, but I hope she’s living her best life in another welcoming enclave, relishing the absence of familial responsibilities.   After all, she knows her teenagers can take care of themselves.

Family, Friendship, Nature

Biggie Beetle (Eastern Hercules)

While spreading seed for the birds and squirrels during Saturday’s soothing morning rain, I spotted an unidentified object in the wet grass. It appeared to be made of black patent leather. What is that? I wondered. I bent down to look. I gasped. Wow! It was the biggest beetle I’ve ever seen.

It was easily the size of a small mouse. After observing the beetle for a while, and judging it to be deceased, I gingerly picked it up. When I showed the find to my husband, he suspected that I was trying to fool him. He recalled a similar episode from our past.

We hadn’t been seeing each other very long when my housemate at the time played an unforgettable prank on me. Inside the oatmeal carton that I opened every morning, she had placed a gargantuan black rubber cockroach. Upon discovering it, I was horrified. It sure looked like the real thing. If my memory surrounding the event is correct (and it may well not be), I ran into H soon afterward on the Princeton campus. The route to my carrel at Marquand Library intersected with his path to the Engineering Quad. I told him about the traumatic oatmeal event, and he came back with me to see for himself. “Is it real?” he asked. I replied that I thought so. I’d left the beast on the kitchen counter where it fell. I can still see its dark, looming form against the slightly glittery surface of turquoise Formica. It looked frightening, still. But maybe not quite as authentic as I’d previously thought. I took a knife from the drawer and pushed the side of the blade gently down on the back of the insect. It didn’t crunch, but smooshed down quietly, as if it were made of rubber. “Lauren!,” I exclaimed. My roommate had pulled a good one on me.

I appreciated her prank, as she expected I would. I kept the huge rubber roach. Occasionally, I’d wear it, for shock value, like a brooch on a fancy dress, or set like a barrette in my hair. I even wore it, briefly, during my wedding reception, as in the photo above. I still have the creature somewhere. When I find it again, I’ll probably scream, just as I did upon our first encounter.

The beetle is about 2.5 inches long. The AA battery is there for scale.

It took a while for H to be convinced that the beetle wasn’t a clever prop I’d surreptitiously obtained. When we first began trying to identify it, we kept coming up short. In size and color, it looked like a rhinoceros beetle, found in Australia and elsewhere, but not native to the U.S. Before long, we noticed that as the beetle’s shell dried in the sun, it was fading to pale gray-green, with a splattering of dark spots. This coloring identified it as an Eastern Hercules beetle, a type of rhinoceros beetle that’s native to our country. They’re fairly uncommon, which explains why I’ve lived my life to this point without ever meeting one. The two long, curved horns identify our critter as a male, and earn that rhino name. The horns are not used to injure humans or predators, but only in battle with other male competitors to win a mate. The spotted shell over the abdomen is actually a pair of hardened wings, known as the elytra. They protect another pair of wings beneath. These beetles do, indeed, fly occasionally, despite their large size. Yikes!

I’m reminded of the time I first saw one of our Southern “palmetto bugs” take flight, and I shudder. As I remember the incident (and again, some details may be incorrect) my mother, my high school boyfriend and I were watching the opening sketch of Saturday Night Live in our Atlanta family room when we noticed an enormous roach inching its way high up along the wall. My boyfriend sprang into action. He grabbed a yardstick and stood on a chair, poised to swat the giant insect. Mama commented, “I’ve heard that some of these can fly.” “I don’t believe that,” he replied. As he prepared to strike, the huge bug flew directly at his head. And with great speed, the three of us fled the room.

The beetle has two smaller horn-like protrusions on each side of the central horns.

But back to our Eastern Hercules beetle. His appearance is fierce, but he was not a threat to most living creatures. In his larval stage, he lived underground as a greenish white grub, chewing away on rotting wood, turning decaying tree material into soil. As an adult, he was active primarily at night, where he kept close to the ground, foraging among the leaves for fallen fruits and berries. Given the opportunity, he may have dined on ash tree sap, but he was not a pest. Despite his commanding presence, bulky armor and body ammo, he was a quiet, solitary vegetarian, doing admirable environmental work. He rarely used his well-protected wings to fly. His adult life may have lasted two to three years. I’m glad his final steps led him to a spot in our yard where I could discover him.

The beetle’s large compound eyes are visible in this photo.

Thank you, Big Beetle. You’re a remarkable character. You’ve broadened my perspective, and reminded me of the richness and diversity of creation that surrounds us, often unnoticed and unseen, every day. You will be remembered!

Family, Holiday, Memorials, Parenthood, Travel

Father’s Day 2024

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Daddy and I, July 1965, in Lebanon, KY.

A particular image of my father has taken up residence in my mind recently. I see him sitting at our kitchen table in our house in Atlanta. He has a map open–a fold-up highway map, the kind we used to buy at gas stations and welcome centers–those old ones that today’s young adults have rarely seen. He has a pen in hand, and he’s cheerfully planning the route for an upcoming trip. The destination is likely to be one with which he’s very familiar. Probably it’s a town in central or eastern Kentucky, to visit family. Even near home, Daddy didn’t like to follow the same path twice. Mama said that was one reason she never learned her way around Atlanta. Daddy enjoyed driving, and he was good at it. He’d had considerable practice, as he’d been driving since he was twelve or so. He was born in 1929, and he learned on a Model T. I always knew that if I needed a ride somewhere–anywhere accessible by car–Daddy could, and would, gladly oblige.

Mama remembers how Daddy poured over such a map while my husband and I were on our way to New Jersey after our marriage in the fall of 1995. I was moving away, and this time, it seemed likely to be for good. Before, I’d always returned after a few years. H and I were in a packed U-Haul, with my little Rabbit convertible behind on a trailer. Because we left later in the day, we spent a night on the road in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When I called home to report our safe arrival, Daddy quickly picked up the phone. He’d been worried about us. (He didn’t yet know that I’d perhaps married as capable and confident a driver as he.)

My husband and I with the moving van in Atlanta, November 1995.

“I’m so relieved to hear your voice!,” he exclaimed. “I think I drove every mile with you!”

Daddy was not a man who cried easily or often. But Mama said she remembers him shedding some tears that evening, as he worried over the map.

H with the van in Carlisle. The trailer for my small car was huge, and could easily have held a Cadillac. As H said, “We were long.”

On this Father’s Day, and every day, I’m grateful to be my father’s daughter. I know that wherever life takes me, no matter how treacherous the road, Daddy is there beside me, every mile.

My husband and my father in Atlanta, December 1996.

Somehow now the years have spun by like the numbers on the oven timer, and H and I are a married couple past middle age, with a daughter of our own. She’s twenty-five, a young career woman, living in another state. But it’s Maryland, and she’s still nearby. So far, we’re lucky that way. I know that she, too, counts herself fortunate to be her father’s daughter. She can be sure that her Dada, like her dear Papa, will be forever at her side, driving with her every mile.

For another post on my sweet Daddy, see here.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Travel

Low Bridge! (On the Eerie Canal)

Just about every time we cross the New York state line on our way to my husband’s boyhood home in Rochester, he starts singing some mishmash of the chorus of the old Eerie Canal song.

Loooooowwww bridge, everybody down. . .Low bridge. . .15 miles on the Eerie Canal!

I guess every fourth grader in New York learns about the Eerie Canal as they study state history. As well they should. It was a truly big deal. I was introduced to its significance on my first trip to the Albany area. I went home with my friend Mike to Clifton Park during winter break in grad school. It was mid-January in 1987, and the northeast was still a bit stunned after a blizzard that had dumped three feet of snow. The two things I remember most vividly about that long-ago excursion were these: the snow (so much snow), and the Eerie Canal.

Mike had been a fan of the canal since his elementary school days, and he wanted to make sure I grasped its importance. It was a marvel of engineering, he stressed, created under extremely demanding circumstances. Irish immigrants provided the bulk of the back-breakingly difficult, poorly paid labor. They toiled with little more than pick axes, shovels, plows and wheelbarrows, using the occasional ox or mule. A stump puller was designed to assist in tree clearing. The original Canal, forty feet wide and four feet deep, took eight years to build. It was completed in 1825, two years before the country’s first railroad was begun. The Canal links Lake Eerie with the Hudson River, and from there, in New York Harbor, meets the Atlantic Ocean. Flat-bottomed packet boats heavily laden with products like wheat, flour or lumber were pulled by mules along the towpath that bordered the waterway. (Their descendants are today’s gargantuan ocean-going container ships, like the one that recently destroyed the Key Bridge in Baltimore.) The Eerie Canal spurred the development of the Great Lakes region, as well as further westward expansion. It was an early driving force that turned New York into an economic superpower and helped earn it the nickname “Empire State.” It brought wealth to the towns it bordered, from Albany to Buffalo.

Railroads and highways gradually replaced the Canal as a trade route. These days it’s a busy recreational waterway. The mules are gone, but brightly painted packet boats, similar to the old canal boats, are often moored along the banks. These wide, low boats, which may be rented, are popular for touring. And on the Eerie Canalway Trail that runs along the water, it’s possible to cycle the entire three hundred sixty mile-length of the Canal.

The Canal still serves as a central focus of many villages in upstate New York. The colorful Union Street bridge in Spencerport, above, is just steps away from the center of town. A horn sounds when the bridge is about to be raised to allow a taller boat to pass under it. The Spencerport Depot and Canal Museum hosts displays about the Canal and its history, and serves as a welcome facility for boaters. Our nephews are often among those fishing from the banks of the Canal. It’s common to see kids bicycling along, carrying their lunches and fishing poles, as if they were emerging from a Norman Rockwell painting. Another unexpected sight to my citified eyes is that of vending machines selling live bait.

Old and new come together seamlessly and captivatingly in Eerie Canal towns.

The Canal and its towns are well worth a visit!

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Nature, Travel

Spencerport, the Picturesque

Over the Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove up to New York state to visit his family in the Rochester area.

We watched our young nephews play hockey, of course, in a very cold, very old-school ice arena.

But there was time for me to indulge in a favorite activity, walking interesting historic neighborhoods. H’s sister and her family live in Spencerport, that picturesque Eerie Canal village bedecked with Hometown Heroes banners. A charming, pedestrian-friendly town, it’s filled with comfortable old homes and well-tended gardens. Spring had truly sprung, at last, in the Rochester area. Lawns were lush, trees were leafy, and flowers were flourishing in the bright sunshine. After a brisk morning walk with my sister-in-law, I retraced our footsteps so I could linger and take many photos.

Spencerport may win the prize for the greatest number of Little Free Libraries per square mile. Their repeated presence is one expression of the town’s gracious, welcoming attitude.

Another is the multitude of cute rock critters peeking out from their dwelling places, to be discovered if one pays attention.

We missed the lilacs, for which the area is famous, but rhododendron, irises and peonies were near their peak.

It’s a town of lovely old churches. Above, from top to bottom, are the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church.

Above, just a few of the village’s cheery old homes.

The stately edifice above, on South Union Street in the heart of town, next to the old Masonic Temple, now houses professional offices. Because of its Neo-Classical appearance, typical of bank buildings on the main streets of American small towns, I had assumed it was built as a bank. But its facade originally belonged to a grand home at 25 State Street, in what is now downtown Rochester. The house was demolished in 1923, and the bank, fronted by the saved facade, was erected two years later. Spencerport’s central district retains a variety of businesses that serve practical needs. In addition to a grocery store (with a handy parking lot), it has quite a few thriving restaurants, as well as a dog-friendly brewery which we’ve enjoyed, in the past, with our family and Kiko.

The town is dotted with verdant pockets of greenery, and two swift-running creeks wind through yards and between homes.

And then, further enhancing the town’s quaint aspect and running through its midst, there’s the Eerie Canal itself, to be discussed in an upcoming post.

For an earlier post on Spencerport, see here.

Family, Nature

May, the Magnificent

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Of all the warm-weather months, May is to me the most beautiful here in our little pocket of Northern Virginia. For our family, it’s the month of roses. All around our back courtyard, they burst into glorious bloom.

The profusion of flowers and foliage appears all the more fabulous to us, because we remember too well the area when it looked strikingly different.

Our “back yard,” before, c. 2005.

Twenty-four years ago, when we bought our house, there was no real back yard, only an expanse of concrete leading to an ugly garage. In the spring of 2009, after years of idle talk and months of actual planning, we embarked on a major renovation, which included landscaping, a flagstone patio, a wrought iron fence, and a screened porch. (See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2021.) With every year that passes, we enjoy our back yard refuge even more.

May is the most fragrant month here, as well. Throughout our neighborhood, there are patches of undeveloped land, property of Fairfax County, which remain pleasantly unkempt. In May, these spots teem with wild roses and honeysuckle. All year long, they offer sanctuary and shelter to wildlife. I’m grateful to live in a place where every last bit of acreage is not overly manicured.

Peonies add their perfume to the rose-scented atmosphere of May.

A new addition to my mother’s back yard is a Teddy Bear Southern Magnolia, which we planted in November. As its cuddly name suggests, it’s a smaller variety. Its creamy white blossoms should be sending forth their luxuriant fragrance well into June.

This May has been marked by dramatic, sudden shifts from clear blue skies to fierce storms, and right back again, just as quickly. On Mother’s Day, after a heavy downpour, we were gifted with a lovely double rainbow.

As spring turns to summer, as May cedes the ground to June, may you push through all your cloudbursts to find the rainbows!

Family, Parenthood

With Mama, After the Fall

One of my favorite photos of Mama and me, in St. Augustine, Florida, 1968.

My first post of 2024 was about how I started the year off on a walk wearing mismatched shoes, or one wrong shoe. Just two days later, my mother started the year off with one wrong step. A seriously wrong step. As she was preparing to head upstairs for the night on January 5th, she fell. In recent years, she’s been quite the frequent faller, and her attitude toward falling is best described as cavalier. She rarely complains about the bruises and occasional cuts she acquires with each tumble. But this fall was different. She was unable to get up, or to contact us, and the pain in her leg was intense. Her little red Jitterbug phone lay just out of reach. Her emergency call pendant was by her bed. She spent twelve hours on her family room floor. I had checked on her around 6 PM, as I usually do, and she’d been fine. My husband or I should have noticed that her bedroom light never switched on. But we didn’t. We didn’t find her until the next morning.

Every time we hear the urgent wails of approaching ambulances and firetrucks (and we hear them often) we know that at some point, they’ll be coming for someone in our family. January 6th was one of those days. That morning, my mother was carried out on a stretcher, and I sat in the front seat of the ambulance. The paramedics couldn’t have been kinder or more thoughtful. We’re grateful to live within easy reach of excellent medical care.

Mama and me, 1970, in Atlanta. We’re wearing our of-the-moment midi and maxi fashions, sewn by Mama, of course.

Surgery to repair a badly broken femur was followed by four days in the hospital. On Day 3, Mama remarked that she was rather enjoying the stay; it felt like a rest in a nice hotel. Anesthesia and pain meds were masking the discomfort, no one was bugging her to try to stand up, and I was a constant presence in her pleasant private room. The staff was attentive and capable. Over the years, she has spent time in three Northern Virginia hospitals, and she found this stint to be by far the least miserable.

It was a different story altogether when she was moved to a nearby rehab facility. I could no longer be with her every minute, day and night. She had a roommate, whose demeanor vacillated precipitously between angelic and menacing. There was an ongoing, simmering dispute over the ideal room temperature. Mama could neither see nor hear the TV on her side of the room, yet her roomie’s TV was always on, too loudly, tuned to a station Mama would certainly not have chosen. There was considerable difficulty in ensuring that she received her prescribed medications, especially those for her asthma, and wasn’t dosed arbitrarily with unnecessary ones. As in any such facility, the staff are too few, and they’re doing difficult, often disagreeable work for low pay. It’s a place where no one wants to be. Mama described it simply as a house of horrors.

Atlanta, 1975

Not quite three weeks later, insurance abruptly decreed that her time in rehab was up. Thanks to a wheelchair-accessible transport van, Mama was summarily deposited back in her own home. For her, it was not a moment too soon, although my husband and I were not sure how we’d care for her effectively when her mobility remained so limited. There’s a good reason that babies are smaller than their parents.

We’ve all managed, somehow. Mama has learned to walk again. She’s progressed through a series of walkers, from wheel-less, to partially wheeled, to a rollator (a word I’d never heard until recently), the kind with four wheels and a little seat that can be used for carrying things. Several times a week, we do the exercises together that I watched her learn in physical therapy at rehab. She is getting somewhat stronger. She can do a few things for herself, including preparing simple meals.

Her falls, though, continue. Since her return from rehab, she’s fallen about twice a month, typically while making a transition from sitting to standing. Her legs simply “give out,” she says. With each episode, we make some changes and many suggestions. I remind her that I sleep in her guest room and can hear her summons on the baby monitor if she needs me in the night. She never expects to fall. So far, she’s suffered no further major damage. But we know that may not always be the case. The next broken leg, or arm, or worse–awaits.

Wales, 1988

Throughout her life, Mama was exceptionally active, involved in multiple projects–sewing clothes for everyone in the family, upholstering and refinishing furniture, decorating, gold-leafing, crafting–all while working part time at various jobs, reading voraciously, teaching Sunday School or Bible study, doing the housework, cooking, and being a devoted, compassionate wife, mother and daughter. (She and Daddy gave up their bedroom to move my grandmother into their home and care for her at the end of her life. ) Mama was generally too busy to consider physical exercise for its own sake.

Or for her own sake. And mine. If I could turn back the clock and change anything, it would be to encourage Mama to start weight training around the time I discovered it, in college. Why didn’t I try harder to get her to join me in regular work-outs, at home or at the Colony Square Athletic Club when I worked at the High Museum? Because she had too much else to do, of course. She would remind me that there was a time, when I was in grad school, that she and my father walked for exercise in the early mornings. At least they did that. Every little bit helps.

The frightening truth is that we’re all one small misstep away from catastrophe. That’s life. Our circumstances can change, for better or worse, in an instant.

So we keep on, doing what we can. I’ll continue the PT sessions with Mama. I’ll keep to my weight routine in our basement gym. My husband will, too. I’ll walk the neighborhood with my dog-mom friends, and he’ll use our treadmill. We’ll do our best to maintain our strength and balance. We’ll think of it as a gift to ourselves, to our daughter, and to anyone who may need to care for us one day.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

Once Again, Ash Valentine’s Day

This year, Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day both fall on February 14.  The last time this happened was in 2018.  I know, because I wrote about it back then.  What follows is my post from six years ago, with a few minor changes. 

These two holidays are unlikely bedfellows, so to speak.  Ash Wednesday is a day when Christians are urged to face mortality head-on and clear-eyed, to gaze into the bleakness of what would have been, had it not been for God’s saving grace.  It marks the start of Lent, the forty-day period leading up to Easter, during which prayer, repentance and self-denial are encouraged.  Lent’s Biblical basis is Christ’s retreat to the wilderness to commune with the Father in preparation for his ministry. 

Valentine’s Day, on the other hand, needs no explanation.  It’s a day for celebrating love in all its forms. It typically involves the giving and getting of various treats.  It’s a day for indulgence, not denial. 

To Lenten sticklers for self-abnegation, the concurrence of Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day will likely pose a conundrum.  To deny or not to deny?  Chocolate or no chocolate?  Dessert or no dessert?  Wine or no wine with that special Valentine dinner?  Perhaps a compromise:  to begin the denial process on February 15? 

I’ve written several times about Ash Wednesday.  See: Looking into the Ashes (March 1, 2017), and Saved from the Ashes (February 10, 2016).  I’ve tried Lenten self-denial in the past, but I’ve been known to lose track of the larger purpose.  The season’s truly spiritual pursuits–prayer, Bible reading, penitential introspection–they sometimes were left in the dust (or the ashes) of Ash Wednesday.  A couple of times, when I renounced all things sweet, my Lenten journey became little more than a period of dieting.  I wince when I recall certain instances of self-righteous forbearance that must have made me a most disagreeable companion.  See Mindful Eating, and a Mindful Lent (March 24, 2012). 

The purpose of Lent is to try to become more like Christ.  Instead, in our singular focus on denial, we become more like the Pharisees, those elite Jewish leaders who prided themselves on following every iota of the Mosaic Law.  They were probably among those Jesus denounced for ostentatious fasting:  “And when you fast, don’t make it obvious, as the hypocrites do, for they try to look miserable and disheveled so people will admire them for their fasting.  I tell you the truth, that is the only reward they will ever get.” (Matthew 6: 16, New Living Translation)  Jesus called out the Pharisees for their empty, showy arrogance and for the stumbling blocks they set up for others:  “You shut the door of the Kingdom of Heaven in people’s faces.  You won’t go in yourselves, and you don’t let others enter either” (Matthew 23: 13).  Overly zealous regarding trivial details, they tended to miss the big picture:  “You are careful to tithe even the tiniest income from your herb gardens, but you ignore the more important aspects of the law–justice, mercy and faith.  You should tithe, yes, but do not neglect the more important things. Blind guides!  You strain your water so you won’t accidentally swallow a gnat, but you swallow a camel!” (Matthew 23: 23-24).   

On Ash Wednesday, I look into the dark ashes and contemplate Jesus’s supreme sacrifice.  I give thanks that his unimaginable love lifts me from the depths of destruction and despair. 

On Valentine’s Day, I’ve usually painted cards for family members, sometimes also for friends. There will be candy for my mother and daughter. I try to cook one of my husband’s favorite meals. If I’m really on top of things, I’ll make the caramel-topped sponge cake, or the sugar cookies he likes. (I apologize in advance this year, when there will be no homemade desserts.) H may come home with a box of Russell Stover’s candy–maybe the Assorted Cremes? He knows that’s my favorite. He’s also learned over the years that I’m not a fan of that traditional over-priced Valentine staple–the bouquet of dark red roses.

During Lent, I’ll try to take Jesus as my role model. I’ll keep my Bible close at hand.  I’ll eat some chocolates.  I may also swallow a few gnats. 

But I hope to avoid the camels.  

Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!