Yesterday's high entertainment was my father's lawn adventure on his electric wheelchair, which we call the scooter. With the spring weather at hand, he asked if I could help him get the machine out the door and down the small step to the back yard.
I rigged a sheet of plywood, supported by coir doormats, then guided the chair's front wheels onto the ramp. My dad has always had a lead foot, or in this case, a lead joystick. He took off with a start, nearly catapulting himself out of his seat as the scooter bumped over the doorjamb. I let out a shriek; my dad held on.
With the door ajar, farm dog Rex bounded in, heading for Vern's dog food. In the 30 seconds it took me to chase Rex back out, my dad had ventured into the rocked area under the deck, where he'd sunk his 200-pound chair up to its axels in river rock. His tires were spinning but his chair wasn't moving. I batted his hand away from the joystick, fearing he'd burn out his motor or start his wheels on fire.
I was able to tug him backward and get man and machine back onto firmer ground, where he promptly zipped off toward the terrace.
My phone rang. It was Dan, whose advice I'd solicited in designing my ramp, calling to suggest we park the scooter in the garage rather than rely on the plywood-doormat makeshift ramp for multiple scooter entries and exits.
This was mostly a good idea, except that after parking his scooter, my dad would need to walk from the garage to the basement entry, circumventing two retaining walls and their railing-less stairs. I explained to my dad that he'd need to take the long way around the walls to avoid the treacherous stairway.
My dad says a lot with his eyes, and when he looked at me I knew he did not plan to take the long route.
"Have you walked down these stairs before?" I accused, knowing the answer.
"Just once!" He piped, like it was a little joke.
------------------------
I am fortunate that, for the most part, I can treat my parents as the adults they are. But I understand their trajectory will eventually necessitate caregivers to make more and more choices for them.
I don't want to have to tell my father how to get from the garage to the basement. But he is unstable. If he stumbles on the lawn, he'll have a softer landing than if he nosedives on the stone steps.
I want my daredevil speed-demon risk-taking father to mellow willingly to safer choices. But that also means losing a part of him.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Day #35-36-37 Writing Through COVID-19: "Edelweiss" and Sunday Papers
Today is Tuesday, April 28.
Yesterday my father's sister Frances died. She was eight days shy of 100. She had been living at the same care center in Ft. Dodge as my parents before I moved them in with me five+ weeks ago. Last week my cousin Nancy brought her mother Frances home to die because otherwise, with COVID-19, they were not allowed to visit her. On Saturday afternoon my dad had his final conversation with his sister.
Of 11 Berryhill children, my dad and his 104-year-old sister Edith are now the last ones living.
--------------------
Randy update: No longer in ICU, Randy sang "Edelweiss" to his daughter on Sunday. The hospital is talking about releasing him to a care center. My sister and her daughter are trying to determine if they can meet his rehabilitation needs at home.
---------------------
On Saturday at 3 p.m. Iowa time, my son and his wife Andrea in New Zealand hosted a 6-time-zone ZOOM trivia contest. It was 8 a.m. (Sunday) in NZ, and Saturday 3 p.m. (Iowa), 2 p.m. (Denver), 1 p.m. (Montana), 9 p.m. (Northern Ireland), and 10 p.m. in Spain.
My parents and I were one of the two Iowa teams. We did not win, but we knew who discovered penicillin, the animal with the longest gestation, and the top-grossing film (Fleming, elephant, Avengers). My Denver daughter won the home-made hat contest with a pushup-bra and doggie-bag combo.
Dan finished planting beans.
----------------------
My parents are newspaper readers, as am I. We get two daily papers, but we do not get a Sunday paper delivered to the house. When my parents moved in, my dad called the Register and asked that his Sunday paper be sent to his new Eagle Avenue residence. Five weeks later, there was still no paper in the mailbox on Sunday.
During the two hours I mowed the lawn, my mom walked to the mailbox three times looking for the paper. I should have stopped the mower to re-orient her, but it was a lovely day and I thought the exercise was a plus.
But later in the afternoon when I visited my parents in the basement, I could sense tension. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Arguing about the paper," quipped my dad.
"They're supposed to have the paper here by 5 a.m.," my mom said.
Back and forth, my parents quibbled, my dad telling my mom the paper hadn't come, and my mom complaining that she'd checked and checked and the paper still wasn't there.
I explained that the Sunday subscription had not yet kicked in; I would call the Register to check on it.
"We don't even get a DAILY paper," my mom said, inscrutably.
"Yes you do," I said. "I bring you the Register with your lunch each day, and you also get the Ft. Dodge Messenger, although it sometimes skips a day and then comes two at once."
"Well, I haven't seen them," my mom scowled.
My dad chimed in to agree with me, but this did not ease my mother's distress.
Suddenly I thought of an idea: "I have papers in the recycling bin," I offered, "Would you like to read those?"
"YES!" my parents cheered in unison--my mother to at last have the thing she'd been hunting for all day, and my dad to have my mother's day-long complaint addressed.
-------------------
I'm realizing an aspect of my mother's dementia is that she at times gets on jags, cycles of worry or confusion that take on an energy of their own. Sunday it was the paper.
By suppertime, she had worked her way through a stack of last week's news and was in a better place.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Yesterday my father's sister Frances died. She was eight days shy of 100. She had been living at the same care center in Ft. Dodge as my parents before I moved them in with me five+ weeks ago. Last week my cousin Nancy brought her mother Frances home to die because otherwise, with COVID-19, they were not allowed to visit her. On Saturday afternoon my dad had his final conversation with his sister.
Of 11 Berryhill children, my dad and his 104-year-old sister Edith are now the last ones living.
--------------------
Randy update: No longer in ICU, Randy sang "Edelweiss" to his daughter on Sunday. The hospital is talking about releasing him to a care center. My sister and her daughter are trying to determine if they can meet his rehabilitation needs at home.
---------------------
On Saturday at 3 p.m. Iowa time, my son and his wife Andrea in New Zealand hosted a 6-time-zone ZOOM trivia contest. It was 8 a.m. (Sunday) in NZ, and Saturday 3 p.m. (Iowa), 2 p.m. (Denver), 1 p.m. (Montana), 9 p.m. (Northern Ireland), and 10 p.m. in Spain.
My parents and I were one of the two Iowa teams. We did not win, but we knew who discovered penicillin, the animal with the longest gestation, and the top-grossing film (Fleming, elephant, Avengers). My Denver daughter won the home-made hat contest with a pushup-bra and doggie-bag combo.
Dan finished planting beans.
----------------------
My parents are newspaper readers, as am I. We get two daily papers, but we do not get a Sunday paper delivered to the house. When my parents moved in, my dad called the Register and asked that his Sunday paper be sent to his new Eagle Avenue residence. Five weeks later, there was still no paper in the mailbox on Sunday.
During the two hours I mowed the lawn, my mom walked to the mailbox three times looking for the paper. I should have stopped the mower to re-orient her, but it was a lovely day and I thought the exercise was a plus.
But later in the afternoon when I visited my parents in the basement, I could sense tension. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Arguing about the paper," quipped my dad.
"They're supposed to have the paper here by 5 a.m.," my mom said.
Back and forth, my parents quibbled, my dad telling my mom the paper hadn't come, and my mom complaining that she'd checked and checked and the paper still wasn't there.
I explained that the Sunday subscription had not yet kicked in; I would call the Register to check on it.
"We don't even get a DAILY paper," my mom said, inscrutably.
"Yes you do," I said. "I bring you the Register with your lunch each day, and you also get the Ft. Dodge Messenger, although it sometimes skips a day and then comes two at once."
"Well, I haven't seen them," my mom scowled.
My dad chimed in to agree with me, but this did not ease my mother's distress.
Suddenly I thought of an idea: "I have papers in the recycling bin," I offered, "Would you like to read those?"
"YES!" my parents cheered in unison--my mother to at last have the thing she'd been hunting for all day, and my dad to have my mother's day-long complaint addressed.
-------------------
I'm realizing an aspect of my mother's dementia is that she at times gets on jags, cycles of worry or confusion that take on an energy of their own. Sunday it was the paper.
By suppertime, she had worked her way through a stack of last week's news and was in a better place.
 |
| Multi-continent ZOOM Trivia |
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Saturday, April 25, 2020
Day #34 Writing Through COVID-19: Mother Issues
My brother-in-law Randy is having trouble swallowing, so he has been fitted with a feeding tube. His classical guitarist's hands are swollen to the point of immobility. He is confused. My sister is anxious about her husband's long road of rehab ahead. Still, we call today's progress good news.
--------------------
Yesterday morning I read Robert Browning's "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" to my parents at breakfast. I love the poem, its disturbing story, its tickling language, its super-tight rhythm and rhyme. But I haven't read it for years, and I would not have read it yesterday if my parents were not living in my basement.
Poetry shared is pleasure multiplied. As my parents and I felt the frisson of the poem's final stanzas, my mother said what has become a daily refrain: "My mother would have loved knowing you!"
My mother's mother was, like me, an English teacher. She was also a librarian, a poet, a bit of a scold, and a terrible housekeeper. She died of breast cancer at age 53, three years before I was born.
For my mom to tell me her own mother would have enjoyed my company is a high compliment. That she says it daily is not just a reminder of how forgetful she is; it's an affirmation of how our relationship is healing during these weeks in quarantine.
I've alluded to the strained relationship I've had with my mother most of my life. I was a middle child of five who felt all the good roles had been taken, so I glommed onto black sheep and tore through adolescence like a bat out of hell. My first two years of college would make an excellent How-Not-To tutorial.
When I discovered the English major and decided to teach, I at last felt a purpose larger than the distractions I'd been calling "life." But by this time my relationship with my mother was frayed to a thread. I continued to feel judged negatively by her throughout most of my adult years and learned to protect my bruisable heart by limiting time with her to perfunctory, infrequent interactions.
By age 55 I had this under control. I'd stopped mourning a relationship I'd never have. I'd accepted that closeness with one's parents is not a prerequisite for a satisfying life. I had moved on.
About this time my mom's memory began to thin. She became sweeter, less critical, softer. And I had grown less defensive, more okay with who I was. My monthly visits were easier because we granted each other wider swaths of grace.
But I never expected to find myself at age 60 daily sharing deep and sincere affection with my mom. Nor did I expect to feel such kinship with a grandmother I never met, but whom my mother assures me daily would enjoy my company.
--------------------
 |
| The second stanza of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" by Robert Browning. |
Poetry shared is pleasure multiplied. As my parents and I felt the frisson of the poem's final stanzas, my mother said what has become a daily refrain: "My mother would have loved knowing you!"
My mother's mother was, like me, an English teacher. She was also a librarian, a poet, a bit of a scold, and a terrible housekeeper. She died of breast cancer at age 53, three years before I was born.
For my mom to tell me her own mother would have enjoyed my company is a high compliment. That she says it daily is not just a reminder of how forgetful she is; it's an affirmation of how our relationship is healing during these weeks in quarantine.
I've alluded to the strained relationship I've had with my mother most of my life. I was a middle child of five who felt all the good roles had been taken, so I glommed onto black sheep and tore through adolescence like a bat out of hell. My first two years of college would make an excellent How-Not-To tutorial.
When I discovered the English major and decided to teach, I at last felt a purpose larger than the distractions I'd been calling "life." But by this time my relationship with my mother was frayed to a thread. I continued to feel judged negatively by her throughout most of my adult years and learned to protect my bruisable heart by limiting time with her to perfunctory, infrequent interactions.
By age 55 I had this under control. I'd stopped mourning a relationship I'd never have. I'd accepted that closeness with one's parents is not a prerequisite for a satisfying life. I had moved on.
About this time my mom's memory began to thin. She became sweeter, less critical, softer. And I had grown less defensive, more okay with who I was. My monthly visits were easier because we granted each other wider swaths of grace.
But I never expected to find myself at age 60 daily sharing deep and sincere affection with my mom. Nor did I expect to feel such kinship with a grandmother I never met, but whom my mother assures me daily would enjoy my company.
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Day #33 Writing Through COVID-19: Forgive
My brother-in-law Randy continues to improve, although still hospitalized in Scott County. My sister said he is confused; he seems to think it's August. But his physicality is better. He's sitting up and watching TV. He's on oxygen, but at a lower level than yesterday.
Today I read an article about hospitals that have mortality rates higher than 80 percent for ventilated COVID-19 patients. We don't have a clear picture yet of Randy's prognosis yet, but I want desperately to claim the past few days' progress as a victory.
-----------------
Yesterday was my town day. I headed in at 9 a.m. I allotted time to access the journalism photo server from the high-school parking lot (no luck). I then headed to the elementary parking lot where tech support told me the signal was stronger (still no luck).
Next, I went to the bank drive-thru before making a distance-conscious Walmart stop and two passes through Hy-Vee. I wore my mask. I monitored my physical spacing. I sanitized every surface.
Running errands during quarantine is work. It takes awareness, concentration, and a lot longer than you think it should.
So when I arrived home at noon (after delivering both my mother-in-law's and son's groceries), I popped the Hy-Vee pizza in the oven and told my parents I'd be down with lunch in 15 minutes. I darted to the computer to post the link to the day's ZOOM class, then unloaded groceries and prepped the lunch tray.
I was hungry. I was tired. The ZOOM classroom was set to open in 15 minutes.
So when I descended the stairs with my parents' (WELL BALANCED!) lunch tray and found them both still reclining on their sofas, reading the papers, the table not yet set, I felt my first genuine irritation since their arrival almost five weeks ago.
Rather than express this in words, I (the martyr!) proceeded to slap dishes on the table, unload my tray, and announce that I would be upstairs teaching classes for the next two hours.
My parents looked up from their newspapers, two turtles peeping out from their shells, just as I climbed over the old bunkbed ladder that I've positioned at the foot of the stairs as a makeshift gate to keep Vern (hairy, warty Vern) on the lower level.
------------------
My parents are not stupid. They read my impatience.
Later in the afternoon, I overheard my dad's phone call to my sister. He told her how busy I was, how hard it was for me to be teaching classes while also tending to them. My mother tucked a $10 bill into my hand to thank me for bringing them chocolates.
I felt terrible.
I do not want my parents to think I am too busy or impatient for them. Yet that is what my nonverbals expressed in my delivery of their lunch.
COVID-19 has given me a chance to put my life on pause. I genuinely want to embrace this interlude as a gift. How often do we get to stop and re-set how we spend our time, what we value, what gives us purpose? For me, the changes imposed by the pandemic have given me an unexpected opportunity to know my parents again, at what is likely the closing years of their lives.
I am lucky my parents are woven of forgiving fabric.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Today I read an article about hospitals that have mortality rates higher than 80 percent for ventilated COVID-19 patients. We don't have a clear picture yet of Randy's prognosis yet, but I want desperately to claim the past few days' progress as a victory.
-----------------
Yesterday was my town day. I headed in at 9 a.m. I allotted time to access the journalism photo server from the high-school parking lot (no luck). I then headed to the elementary parking lot where tech support told me the signal was stronger (still no luck).
Next, I went to the bank drive-thru before making a distance-conscious Walmart stop and two passes through Hy-Vee. I wore my mask. I monitored my physical spacing. I sanitized every surface.
Running errands during quarantine is work. It takes awareness, concentration, and a lot longer than you think it should.
So when I arrived home at noon (after delivering both my mother-in-law's and son's groceries), I popped the Hy-Vee pizza in the oven and told my parents I'd be down with lunch in 15 minutes. I darted to the computer to post the link to the day's ZOOM class, then unloaded groceries and prepped the lunch tray.
I was hungry. I was tired. The ZOOM classroom was set to open in 15 minutes.
So when I descended the stairs with my parents' (WELL BALANCED!) lunch tray and found them both still reclining on their sofas, reading the papers, the table not yet set, I felt my first genuine irritation since their arrival almost five weeks ago.
Rather than express this in words, I (the martyr!) proceeded to slap dishes on the table, unload my tray, and announce that I would be upstairs teaching classes for the next two hours.
My parents looked up from their newspapers, two turtles peeping out from their shells, just as I climbed over the old bunkbed ladder that I've positioned at the foot of the stairs as a makeshift gate to keep Vern (hairy, warty Vern) on the lower level.
------------------
My parents are not stupid. They read my impatience.
Later in the afternoon, I overheard my dad's phone call to my sister. He told her how busy I was, how hard it was for me to be teaching classes while also tending to them. My mother tucked a $10 bill into my hand to thank me for bringing them chocolates.
I felt terrible.
I do not want my parents to think I am too busy or impatient for them. Yet that is what my nonverbals expressed in my delivery of their lunch.
COVID-19 has given me a chance to put my life on pause. I genuinely want to embrace this interlude as a gift. How often do we get to stop and re-set how we spend our time, what we value, what gives us purpose? For me, the changes imposed by the pandemic have given me an unexpected opportunity to know my parents again, at what is likely the closing years of their lives.
I am lucky my parents are woven of forgiving fabric.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
Day #32 Writing Through COVID-19: Stumbles
Randy was extubated yesterday. This is good news. My sister has been told he moved one foot and one hand. The internet tells me the post-intubation recovery often includes difficulty with movement, thinking and, of course, breathing. As far as I know, he is not speaking yet.
-------------------
Vern is an old, well-behaved dog. But he sheds. When I suggested he could use a good brushing, my mother demurred. "He has warts. He doesn't like to be brushed."
I brought down a soft brush and suggested she brush tenderly. "He has warts," she said. "He doesn't like to be brushed."
Maybe we'll just vacuum more often.
-------------------
When I came down with the post-supper Klondike bars, my parents were standing near the refrigerator laughing heartily.
"He fell into my arms!" my mother cried.
"She caught me!" my dad howled with delight.
Evidently, my dad had stumbled, coming around the corner from the bathroom, and just as he started to go down, my mom reached out and caught him in something of a cross between a hug and a salsa dip.
Good times?
------------------
"Alli, could you help us find something on TV?" my dad held out the three remotes it takes to toggle between Netflix, Amazon Fire, and good old TV. "Maybe something without a lot of swearing," he said.
The night before, I'd turned on "The Silver Linings Playbook." I remembered enjoying it a few years ago. What I didn't remember is the violent shower scene, the fight with the mother scene, the reason Tiffany got fired scene, and all of the l-a-n-g-u-a-g-e.
My parents have seen a lot of living in their combined 179 years; they are not naive. But the "romantic comedy-drama" liked by 91% of Google users was not a good choice for them.
The documentary about National Parks was much better.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
-------------------
Vern is an old, well-behaved dog. But he sheds. When I suggested he could use a good brushing, my mother demurred. "He has warts. He doesn't like to be brushed."
I brought down a soft brush and suggested she brush tenderly. "He has warts," she said. "He doesn't like to be brushed."
Maybe we'll just vacuum more often.
-------------------
When I came down with the post-supper Klondike bars, my parents were standing near the refrigerator laughing heartily.
"He fell into my arms!" my mother cried.
"She caught me!" my dad howled with delight.
Evidently, my dad had stumbled, coming around the corner from the bathroom, and just as he started to go down, my mom reached out and caught him in something of a cross between a hug and a salsa dip.
Good times?
------------------
"Alli, could you help us find something on TV?" my dad held out the three remotes it takes to toggle between Netflix, Amazon Fire, and good old TV. "Maybe something without a lot of swearing," he said.
The night before, I'd turned on "The Silver Linings Playbook." I remembered enjoying it a few years ago. What I didn't remember is the violent shower scene, the fight with the mother scene, the reason Tiffany got fired scene, and all of the l-a-n-g-u-a-g-e.
My parents have seen a lot of living in their combined 179 years; they are not naive. But the "romantic comedy-drama" liked by 91% of Google users was not a good choice for them.
The documentary about National Parks was much better.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
 |
| Puzzle success. |
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Day #31 Writing Through COVID-19: Lost Days, Found Days
I've lost four days.
I began blogging through COVID-19 on Wednesday, March 18. My school had closed two days earlier, and I sensed that if I didn't pay attention, I would lose large swaths of time during the strange days ahead.
Two days after that, my siblings asked me to shelter my parents who had been living in a care center.
Today I'm writing Day #31 on what is actually Day #35.
I feel like I've been writing every day, but some evenings I get started and then tell myself I'll finish in the morning. Then in the morning, after posting, I check writing off my list...Somehow I've lost four days this way.
In truth, this feels right. Time has become shapeless. I sleep until I wake up. I stay up until I feel sleepy. I slide into a puzzle with my mom and when my neck starts to hurt I don't know if we've been at it for 20 minutes or two hours. But the cardinal is almost finished and we have a good start on the chickadee.
I turn on an evening movie for my parents, intending to just get them started, then melt onto the couch until the credits roll. On Sunday, my NYT crossword app told me I'd spent 2:23 on the puzzle.
If I add it all up, I've lost more than four days. I'm caught between a (shrinking) need to feel productive and the seduction of floating on whatever moment is at hand, embracing stillness and slow motion, allowing the day to unfold as it chooses.
-------
Late in the afternoon my mom and I washed the last of the basement windows. This is a project we began weeks ago, but who's counting? We washed one window each day, with days off for snow, wind, or laziness.
After I fed my parents, I headed to my mother-in-law's for accordion practice. On the way home, near sunset, I saw my husband's planter in the field. I pulled in and rode a round with him on this first day of planting, something I haven't done for years.
I've lost days, but I've found some too.
I began blogging through COVID-19 on Wednesday, March 18. My school had closed two days earlier, and I sensed that if I didn't pay attention, I would lose large swaths of time during the strange days ahead.
Two days after that, my siblings asked me to shelter my parents who had been living in a care center.
Today I'm writing Day #31 on what is actually Day #35.
I feel like I've been writing every day, but some evenings I get started and then tell myself I'll finish in the morning. Then in the morning, after posting, I check writing off my list...Somehow I've lost four days this way.
In truth, this feels right. Time has become shapeless. I sleep until I wake up. I stay up until I feel sleepy. I slide into a puzzle with my mom and when my neck starts to hurt I don't know if we've been at it for 20 minutes or two hours. But the cardinal is almost finished and we have a good start on the chickadee.
I turn on an evening movie for my parents, intending to just get them started, then melt onto the couch until the credits roll. On Sunday, my NYT crossword app told me I'd spent 2:23 on the puzzle.
If I add it all up, I've lost more than four days. I'm caught between a (shrinking) need to feel productive and the seduction of floating on whatever moment is at hand, embracing stillness and slow motion, allowing the day to unfold as it chooses.
-------
Late in the afternoon my mom and I washed the last of the basement windows. This is a project we began weeks ago, but who's counting? We washed one window each day, with days off for snow, wind, or laziness.
After I fed my parents, I headed to my mother-in-law's for accordion practice. On the way home, near sunset, I saw my husband's planter in the field. I pulled in and rode a round with him on this first day of planting, something I haven't done for years.
I've lost days, but I've found some too.
 |
| Window washing April 20, 2020 |
 |
| First day of planting, April 20, 2020 |
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Day #30 Writing Through COVID-19: Blue Funk
I deliver a poem alongside my mother's meds and my dad's coffee each morning. On Saturday (the 18th of April), I, of course, chose Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "Paul Revere's Ride." This marks their fourth week in my basement.
But after the poem and coffee, I had to hustle back upstairs to be ready for a 9 a.m. ZOOM meeting for the Iowa Council of Teachers of English. In April we usually meet for a face-to-face full day of work. In the past, we have rented a cabin at Jester Park where during breaks we can take walks in the woods and sit in the sun. It is always a productive, uplifting day, spent with English teachers I admire and enjoy.
ZOOM is no substitute for Jester Park. And as our two-hour meeting progressed, I felt my energy draining. By the time we signed off at 11, I felt wiped, and by Saturday afternoon I had hit a funk. I took a nap. I helped my mom work on a new puzzle. I practiced accordion. I did a little housework. I read. But I felt blue.
It took me most of the day to make the connection between the morning hours spent in ZOOM planning for the unplannable and my dip in spirits. It feels futile to discuss our annual August Eng Camp. Teachers are swamped with professional development "opportunities" right now. And in August there is a chance we'll all be prepping to start the school year online.
It is hard to plan for Iowa's October conference when it feels like we will never again gather 300 people in the same room. What about the National convention? Eight thousand English teachers convened in Baltimore five months ago, where we packed the convention center to hear Tommy Orange and Tara Westover. I attended sessions by Kenny Gallegher and Penny Kittle that were so full teachers sat on the floor, in what now seems like a reckless failure of social distancing!
Today, Sunday, the sun helped a bit. This afternoon I took my parents into the back yard where we flew a Spiderman kite. We finished the bird puzzle.
My days are better if I stay in the moment.
I'm not ready to think about August yet, let alone October and November.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
But after the poem and coffee, I had to hustle back upstairs to be ready for a 9 a.m. ZOOM meeting for the Iowa Council of Teachers of English. In April we usually meet for a face-to-face full day of work. In the past, we have rented a cabin at Jester Park where during breaks we can take walks in the woods and sit in the sun. It is always a productive, uplifting day, spent with English teachers I admire and enjoy.
ZOOM is no substitute for Jester Park. And as our two-hour meeting progressed, I felt my energy draining. By the time we signed off at 11, I felt wiped, and by Saturday afternoon I had hit a funk. I took a nap. I helped my mom work on a new puzzle. I practiced accordion. I did a little housework. I read. But I felt blue.
It took me most of the day to make the connection between the morning hours spent in ZOOM planning for the unplannable and my dip in spirits. It feels futile to discuss our annual August Eng Camp. Teachers are swamped with professional development "opportunities" right now. And in August there is a chance we'll all be prepping to start the school year online.
It is hard to plan for Iowa's October conference when it feels like we will never again gather 300 people in the same room. What about the National convention? Eight thousand English teachers convened in Baltimore five months ago, where we packed the convention center to hear Tommy Orange and Tara Westover. I attended sessions by Kenny Gallegher and Penny Kittle that were so full teachers sat on the floor, in what now seems like a reckless failure of social distancing!
Today, Sunday, the sun helped a bit. This afternoon I took my parents into the back yard where we flew a Spiderman kite. We finished the bird puzzle.
My days are better if I stay in the moment.
I'm not ready to think about August yet, let alone October and November.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Friday, April 17, 2020
Day #29 Writing Through COVID-19: Good News; Not-So-Good News
On Wednesday, nine days into my brother-in-law's intubation and induced coma, he was given plasma from a recovered COVID-19 donor. Today, two days later, his medical team was able to reduce the oxygen level of his ventilator from 50 to 40 percent. He is still very sick. My sister and her children have not seen him for 11 days. There is a lot of uncertainty and waiting ahead. But this is the first good news we've had in almost two weeks. We'll take it.
--------------
Also today: At the end of our daily AHS English Lockdown (ZOOM class), one student lingered longer than the others. She was angry that this morning Governor Reynolds announced Iowa schools would not reopen this year. Several districts had already made that call on their own. "It's not fair," she said. "This isn't even real. My parents said people are just having heart attacks and dying of the flu and people are just saying it's Coronavirus."
I was stunned to silence, but my best-ever colleagues spoke up. They directed the student to seek out trustworthy information from the CDC and reliable science and news sources. They told her that people are very sick and dying from COVID-19, and we must be sure the information we are relying on is from quality sources. The girl again asserted her parents as her end-all-be-all source of information.
"Good-bye," we said. "See you Monday."
Day #28 Writing Through COVID-19: Where Am I?
Mid-morning yesterday I checked in on my parents to find my dad sleeping on the sofa. My mom's meds were still in the teacup that I'd brought down hours earlier. The dog Vern was asleep in his kennel.
I did a quick scan of the bathrooms, bedrooms and back yard, but I didn't see my mom.
It's hard to explain my mom's dementia because it's amorphous. In my presence, she is often lucid. My dad has told me she is better when I'm around. Then again, she at times repeats herself like a skipping record.
After her first week here on Eagle Avenue, she seems to have settled into her new home. I didn't think she would wander down the gravel road, but my siblings had brought up the possibility, and when I couldn't find her, my heart leapt into my throat.
I woke my dad as calmly as I could: "Where is Mom?"
He lifted his head from the pillow, bleary-eyed, and said, "She went to town."
Just then I heard my mom's voice call out from the bedroom: "I'm in the bathroom!"
But she wasn't! She was on her bed, out of view from my quick glance into the room.
------------------
Within a few minutes my parents had shaken off sleep's confusion, and we all laughed about our disoriented conversation. "Did you think I'd hitchhiked to town?" my mom quipped.
"Did you have breakfast?" I asked.
"We think so!" my dad nearly shrieked with laughter: "but it's hard to know!"
I did a quick scan of the bathrooms, bedrooms and back yard, but I didn't see my mom.
It's hard to explain my mom's dementia because it's amorphous. In my presence, she is often lucid. My dad has told me she is better when I'm around. Then again, she at times repeats herself like a skipping record.
After her first week here on Eagle Avenue, she seems to have settled into her new home. I didn't think she would wander down the gravel road, but my siblings had brought up the possibility, and when I couldn't find her, my heart leapt into my throat.
I woke my dad as calmly as I could: "Where is Mom?"
He lifted his head from the pillow, bleary-eyed, and said, "She went to town."
Just then I heard my mom's voice call out from the bedroom: "I'm in the bathroom!"
But she wasn't! She was on her bed, out of view from my quick glance into the room.
------------------
Within a few minutes my parents had shaken off sleep's confusion, and we all laughed about our disoriented conversation. "Did you think I'd hitchhiked to town?" my mom quipped.
"Did you have breakfast?" I asked.
"We think so!" my dad nearly shrieked with laughter: "but it's hard to know!"
Thursday, April 16, 2020
Day #27 Writing Through COVID-19: Helpful Suggestions?
I am the middle of five children. Over the past several years my siblings have stepped up to help my parents adjust to issues of aging.
My brother took over the maintenance of their small walnut tree farm. One sister researched and acquired my dad's electric wheelchair for him; she drove to Ft. Dodge each week to help him pay bills and make sense of his finances. Another sister, a physician like my dad, calls him often for engaging conversation in his favorite milieu: medicine. My other sister lives in Ft. Dodge, so she is the lynchpin, organizing our parents' appointments and grocery shopping, as well as visiting them several times a week.
So when my parents arrived at my house almost four weeks ago, my siblings rightfully thought they had insight to offer.
"Dad likes hominy," one sister texted, as if I had a pantry just stocked with the stuff.
My brother asked if Dan could hook up a C-PAP to a welding-torch oxygen tank to use as a Red and Green farm-style ventilator if the need should arise.
Another sister suggested I make a poster listing where my parents are and why they're here and post it visibly in the basement.
Considering our mother's penchant for picking up litter, the third sister thought I might want to sprinkle some trash around the yard to keep Mom occupied and feeling helpful.
----------------
I have not yet resorted to strewing garbage on my lawn for my mother's entertainment. My parents dismissed out of hand the idea of the "You Are Here" posters. My own Red-Green farmer's eyes lit up when I told him about my brother's welder-ventilator idea, but at least for now I've dissuaded him from setting up production.
On my last town run, I did buy two cans of hominy.
My brother took over the maintenance of their small walnut tree farm. One sister researched and acquired my dad's electric wheelchair for him; she drove to Ft. Dodge each week to help him pay bills and make sense of his finances. Another sister, a physician like my dad, calls him often for engaging conversation in his favorite milieu: medicine. My other sister lives in Ft. Dodge, so she is the lynchpin, organizing our parents' appointments and grocery shopping, as well as visiting them several times a week.
So when my parents arrived at my house almost four weeks ago, my siblings rightfully thought they had insight to offer.
"Dad likes hominy," one sister texted, as if I had a pantry just stocked with the stuff.
My brother asked if Dan could hook up a C-PAP to a welding-torch oxygen tank to use as a Red and Green farm-style ventilator if the need should arise.
Another sister suggested I make a poster listing where my parents are and why they're here and post it visibly in the basement.
Considering our mother's penchant for picking up litter, the third sister thought I might want to sprinkle some trash around the yard to keep Mom occupied and feeling helpful.
----------------
I have not yet resorted to strewing garbage on my lawn for my mother's entertainment. My parents dismissed out of hand the idea of the "You Are Here" posters. My own Red-Green farmer's eyes lit up when I told him about my brother's welder-ventilator idea, but at least for now I've dissuaded him from setting up production.
On my last town run, I did buy two cans of hominy.
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
Day #26 Writing Through COVID-19: Angry Blog
Ten days ago when I made a grocery run, three of us in Hy-Vee were wearing masks. Today there were too many to count. I understand that wearing the mask does not prevent me from acquiring the virus, but it may prevent me from infecting others if I am a silent carrier.
I wanted to thank everyone I saw who was wearing a mask. But since we were more than six feet apart, we just smiled with our eyes.
-----------
I picked up my mother-in-law's hearing-aid batteries at the audiologist. The receptionist set them out on the bench so that I wouldn't have to come inside. The pharmacy is allowing only drive-throughs, and I felt welcomed by the gloved and masked woman who handed me the meds.
I then girded myself for Hy-Vee where I made two pass-throughs, one for my mother-in-law and one for my household. I wiped the cart handles and maintained a 6-foot distance from others, at times slowing my shopping to a crawl. I reminded myself that my only real job these days is to be as responsible and safe as I can. Everything else is gravy.
------------
The process of venturing out into the public is stressful. I am keenly aware of the itch on my face, the bare hands of the woman who passed me a grocery cart, the transfer of the receipt from the checker's hand to mine.
I felt relief to at last arrive at my mother-in-law's with her batteries, medications, and groceries.
But as I unloaded her sundries, she mentioned she had heard on the radio that maybe people were over-reacting and all of this distancing might not be necessary, and I felt my eyes brim with tears.
My mother-in-law and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum, but for more than 35 years we have lived by an unspoken agreement to keep politics out of our respectful and loving relationship.
"More people die of the flu and car accidents," she said, parroting what she has imbibed from the right-wing radio commentators continuing to downplay the pandemic. "I just don't think we need to overreact."
"My sister's husband is intubated in an induced coma with a dire prognosis," I reminded her. "So when I hear people on the radio saying this is no big deal, I feel it on a personal level."
I explained again that our health-care system is not equipped to absorb the surge of the very sick and highly-contagious COVID patients. I asked her to remember what my daughter Eloise in Spain said two weeks ago about doctors sobbing as the bodies piled up. I gave her the facts: as many as 25% of those ill with COVID-19 are healthcare workers, trying to fight for others' lives while imperiling their own.
____________
I do not want to argue with my sweet mother-in-law. But I--and I believe most Americans--are doing whatever we can to isolate, to lower the curve, and to protect each other by sacrificing our own immediate proclivities.
I am not angry at Janet. But I am angry at Rush Limbaugh and the like who are undermining my effort to keep these dear 90-somethings protected.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
I wanted to thank everyone I saw who was wearing a mask. But since we were more than six feet apart, we just smiled with our eyes.
-----------
I picked up my mother-in-law's hearing-aid batteries at the audiologist. The receptionist set them out on the bench so that I wouldn't have to come inside. The pharmacy is allowing only drive-throughs, and I felt welcomed by the gloved and masked woman who handed me the meds.
I then girded myself for Hy-Vee where I made two pass-throughs, one for my mother-in-law and one for my household. I wiped the cart handles and maintained a 6-foot distance from others, at times slowing my shopping to a crawl. I reminded myself that my only real job these days is to be as responsible and safe as I can. Everything else is gravy.
------------
The process of venturing out into the public is stressful. I am keenly aware of the itch on my face, the bare hands of the woman who passed me a grocery cart, the transfer of the receipt from the checker's hand to mine.
I felt relief to at last arrive at my mother-in-law's with her batteries, medications, and groceries.
But as I unloaded her sundries, she mentioned she had heard on the radio that maybe people were over-reacting and all of this distancing might not be necessary, and I felt my eyes brim with tears.
My mother-in-law and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum, but for more than 35 years we have lived by an unspoken agreement to keep politics out of our respectful and loving relationship.
"More people die of the flu and car accidents," she said, parroting what she has imbibed from the right-wing radio commentators continuing to downplay the pandemic. "I just don't think we need to overreact."
"My sister's husband is intubated in an induced coma with a dire prognosis," I reminded her. "So when I hear people on the radio saying this is no big deal, I feel it on a personal level."
I explained again that our health-care system is not equipped to absorb the surge of the very sick and highly-contagious COVID patients. I asked her to remember what my daughter Eloise in Spain said two weeks ago about doctors sobbing as the bodies piled up. I gave her the facts: as many as 25% of those ill with COVID-19 are healthcare workers, trying to fight for others' lives while imperiling their own.
____________
I do not want to argue with my sweet mother-in-law. But I--and I believe most Americans--are doing whatever we can to isolate, to lower the curve, and to protect each other by sacrificing our own immediate proclivities.
I am not angry at Janet. But I am angry at Rush Limbaugh and the like who are undermining my effort to keep these dear 90-somethings protected.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Monday, April 13, 2020
Day #25 Writing Through COVID-19: Winners and Losers
I'm not sure there is such a thing as a busy day during COVID time, but today felt like one.
After a slow hour of coffee and conversation with my parents (more stories about those naughty Potter boys), I queued up for three back-to-back ZOOM meetings.
First I met with my delightful broadcasting students who want to make an at-home quarantine episode for "Eye of the Needle," their (usually) weekly news show.
Next it was an hour with the Building Leadership Team to discuss how to plan for the unplannable.
Finally, the English department met to set up our week's online "learning opportunities" (reminder: do not call these "assignments").
ZOOM meetings exhaust me--maybe from trying to look engaged every moment since my face is RIGHT THERE. Or maybe from the extra effort it takes to mute/unmute again and again.
Whatever the reason, I followed the ZOOMS with a two-hour nap.
This evening when I pulled up Netflix, Fiddler on the Roof was first in my "recommended" list. This says something about my search habits of late. Regardless, it was the perfect movie for my parents tonight. I watched the first 30 minutes with them before sneaking upstairs to write a poem and this post.
-------------------
As I looked back on the day, the "Fiddler on the Roof" success reminds me of how even with good-hearted intentions, my efforts do not always hit the mark. I made a scoreboard and was relieved that we do have more winners than losers.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
After a slow hour of coffee and conversation with my parents (more stories about those naughty Potter boys), I queued up for three back-to-back ZOOM meetings.
First I met with my delightful broadcasting students who want to make an at-home quarantine episode for "Eye of the Needle," their (usually) weekly news show.
Next it was an hour with the Building Leadership Team to discuss how to plan for the unplannable.
Finally, the English department met to set up our week's online "learning opportunities" (reminder: do not call these "assignments").
ZOOM meetings exhaust me--maybe from trying to look engaged every moment since my face is RIGHT THERE. Or maybe from the extra effort it takes to mute/unmute again and again.
Whatever the reason, I followed the ZOOMS with a two-hour nap.
This evening when I pulled up Netflix, Fiddler on the Roof was first in my "recommended" list. This says something about my search habits of late. Regardless, it was the perfect movie for my parents tonight. I watched the first 30 minutes with them before sneaking upstairs to write a poem and this post.
-------------------
As I looked back on the day, the "Fiddler on the Roof" success reminds me of how even with good-hearted intentions, my efforts do not always hit the mark. I made a scoreboard and was relieved that we do have more winners than losers.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Day #24 Writing Through COVID-19: Easter in the Basement
The Easter Bunny tiptoed downstairs this morning to deliver baskets to my parents. My mother, the early riser, was out of bed but had lain down on the sofa in the main living space.
The dog Vern rose up and jangled his collar as I placed the baskets and a small ceramic bunny on the table. My mother didn't stir. Success!
But when I got upstairs, I realized I hadn't put the kites in their baskets! I snuck down again...Vern jangled...and I again made my getaway!
THEN I realized I'd forgotten the Sweedish Fish in the plastic eggs! (I needed coffee.) I filled six eggs and Ninja-ed downstairs again. By this time Vern was wide awake and prancing to greet me. I got the eggs into the baskets when my mom, on the sofa, opened her eyes and said, "Hi!"
"Shhhh," I said. "Pretend you didn't see the Easter Bunny." I darted up the stairs.
------------------
When I checked on my parents 30 minutes later, they were enjoying the basket trinkets (dried fruit, KitKat bars, small Polly Pocket dolls and Lego men; one egg held my mom's morning meds). She did not mention catching me in the Easter Bunny act.
They then watched the recorded service from their home church in Ft. Dodge.
-------------------
At lunch, I brought down a pastel tablecloth embossed with rabbits and eggs, along with two settings of my good china and crystal. I served up all the holiday fixings: mustard-honey pork roast, baked garlic grits, broccoli-cheese casserole, pear and melon salad, apple crisp for dessert. Upstairs, Dan and I ate the same meal, sans china and crystal.
I took my deserved post-holiday-meal nap (two hours!) before heading downstairs to orchestrate my parents' Easter egg hunt. Because their dog loves nothing more than eggs, I decided to hide them in an unused bedroom, keeping Vern away from the action while simplifying the egg-hunting terrain for my parents.
I armed them each with a small basket and explained that all seven of the eggs we'd dyed on Saturday were within sight. "Stop when you've found four eggs!"
They were off! I videotaped the 2.5-minute egg hunt, which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JRdRSDm_6o
------------------
My mother-in-law Janet lives a mile from us. She has been living alone since Leon died eight years ago. Although she is my parents' age, she is in remarkably good shape, both mentally and physically. Tonight we worked on a puzzle before moving on to the day's accordion lesson. I enjoy her as a friend, an equal, a peer.
In many of my interactions with my parents, I feel the same way. But at other times I find myself tilting my lens, adjusting my wording, click-click-clicking my perspective to make sense of our interactions. Moving between my fully-functioning mother-in-law and my almost-functioning parents requires re-calibration.
-----------------
This evening I delivered my mom's dessert (butterscotch pudding) and her meds (in a pink plastic egg) in a small wicker basket.
Tonight Dan said it hadn't felt much like Easer. "Really?" I said. "It felt like Easter in the basement!"
The dog Vern rose up and jangled his collar as I placed the baskets and a small ceramic bunny on the table. My mother didn't stir. Success!
But when I got upstairs, I realized I hadn't put the kites in their baskets! I snuck down again...Vern jangled...and I again made my getaway!
THEN I realized I'd forgotten the Sweedish Fish in the plastic eggs! (I needed coffee.) I filled six eggs and Ninja-ed downstairs again. By this time Vern was wide awake and prancing to greet me. I got the eggs into the baskets when my mom, on the sofa, opened her eyes and said, "Hi!"
"Shhhh," I said. "Pretend you didn't see the Easter Bunny." I darted up the stairs.
------------------
When I checked on my parents 30 minutes later, they were enjoying the basket trinkets (dried fruit, KitKat bars, small Polly Pocket dolls and Lego men; one egg held my mom's morning meds). She did not mention catching me in the Easter Bunny act.
They then watched the recorded service from their home church in Ft. Dodge.
-------------------
At lunch, I brought down a pastel tablecloth embossed with rabbits and eggs, along with two settings of my good china and crystal. I served up all the holiday fixings: mustard-honey pork roast, baked garlic grits, broccoli-cheese casserole, pear and melon salad, apple crisp for dessert. Upstairs, Dan and I ate the same meal, sans china and crystal.
I took my deserved post-holiday-meal nap (two hours!) before heading downstairs to orchestrate my parents' Easter egg hunt. Because their dog loves nothing more than eggs, I decided to hide them in an unused bedroom, keeping Vern away from the action while simplifying the egg-hunting terrain for my parents.
I armed them each with a small basket and explained that all seven of the eggs we'd dyed on Saturday were within sight. "Stop when you've found four eggs!"
They were off! I videotaped the 2.5-minute egg hunt, which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JRdRSDm_6o
------------------
My mother-in-law Janet lives a mile from us. She has been living alone since Leon died eight years ago. Although she is my parents' age, she is in remarkably good shape, both mentally and physically. Tonight we worked on a puzzle before moving on to the day's accordion lesson. I enjoy her as a friend, an equal, a peer.
In many of my interactions with my parents, I feel the same way. But at other times I find myself tilting my lens, adjusting my wording, click-click-clicking my perspective to make sense of our interactions. Moving between my fully-functioning mother-in-law and my almost-functioning parents requires re-calibration.
-----------------
This evening I delivered my mom's dessert (butterscotch pudding) and her meds (in a pink plastic egg) in a small wicker basket.
Tonight Dan said it hadn't felt much like Easer. "Really?" I said. "It felt like Easter in the basement!"
Sunday, April 12, 2020
Day #23 Writing Through COVID-19: Meredith, Grown Old
Saturday was a slow day on Eagle Ave.
I tucked my mother's morning meds and daily poem into a white milk glass chicken dish.
I made a big Saturday-morning breakfast: sausage, eggs, English muffins with honey butter. We spent an hour over coffee and stories about uncles and cousins. My dad told me about when Uncle Boyd in Oregon no longer felt he could control his wayward teenage son Jerome. Boyd drove him to a youth military school on the East Coast and left him there. But Jerome immediately escaped and hitch-hiked back to Oregon, almost beating Boyd home!
My mom told the story of when she was 70 and her brother Wink, 75, was near death and very confused. She visited him in Michigan. They had a good conversation, talking about growing up in St. Claire Shores. Then suddenly Wink looked at her: "Who are you?" he asked. "I'm Meredith, grown old," she said. He nodded and understood.
Seventy no longer sounds old, we all agreed.
------------
At 12:58 p.m. I got an email from a student saying she couldn't find the link to the day's 1 p.m. ZOOM class. I reminded her today was Saturday and that "school" is Monday-Friday.
------------
We are all worried about my sister's husband who is hospitalized in eastern Iowa with COVID-19. At 65, with a history of asthma, he is in an at-risk population. He is intubated and resting in an induced coma. A little internet searching tells me many COVID-19 patients on ventilators do not make full recoveries. Updates are few. Like 25% of Iowa's COVID-19 patients, my brother-in-law is a health-care worker.
----------------------
In the afternoon my mom and I dyed eggs together. We covered the table with newspaper; we used a
little vinegar, hot water, and food coloring. It smelled just like Easter egg dying always smells. Nice.
We then worked on a puzzle while my dad read snippets about Teddy Roosevelt aloud from Big Burn.
Toward evening I practiced accordion with Dan's mom. She presented me with two more social-distancing masks she'd made. I'm getting used to wearing one while we wheeze out "The Merry Widow Waltz." I only realize I have it on when it causes my glasses to fog over.
------------------------
Tonight when I came downstairs to serve dinner, my mom stood up to help set the table. We've turned one of the bathrooms into a little kitchen where she washes the dishes and sets them on a shelf we've cleared in the towel cupboard.
I followed her into the little "kitchen" to help carry the dishes and silverware. She had two glasses balanced atop two plates in a precarious lazy-man's-load. I reached out to steady the glasses, and she jerked away from me, nearly toppling the stack. "I've got it!" she said.
She needs to feel capable and helpful.
I need to feel helpful and minimize accidents.
Sometimes our needs collide.
I tucked my mother's morning meds and daily poem into a white milk glass chicken dish.
I made a big Saturday-morning breakfast: sausage, eggs, English muffins with honey butter. We spent an hour over coffee and stories about uncles and cousins. My dad told me about when Uncle Boyd in Oregon no longer felt he could control his wayward teenage son Jerome. Boyd drove him to a youth military school on the East Coast and left him there. But Jerome immediately escaped and hitch-hiked back to Oregon, almost beating Boyd home!
My mom told the story of when she was 70 and her brother Wink, 75, was near death and very confused. She visited him in Michigan. They had a good conversation, talking about growing up in St. Claire Shores. Then suddenly Wink looked at her: "Who are you?" he asked. "I'm Meredith, grown old," she said. He nodded and understood.
Seventy no longer sounds old, we all agreed.
------------
At 12:58 p.m. I got an email from a student saying she couldn't find the link to the day's 1 p.m. ZOOM class. I reminded her today was Saturday and that "school" is Monday-Friday.
------------
We are all worried about my sister's husband who is hospitalized in eastern Iowa with COVID-19. At 65, with a history of asthma, he is in an at-risk population. He is intubated and resting in an induced coma. A little internet searching tells me many COVID-19 patients on ventilators do not make full recoveries. Updates are few. Like 25% of Iowa's COVID-19 patients, my brother-in-law is a health-care worker.
----------------------
In the afternoon my mom and I dyed eggs together. We covered the table with newspaper; we used a
little vinegar, hot water, and food coloring. It smelled just like Easter egg dying always smells. Nice.
We then worked on a puzzle while my dad read snippets about Teddy Roosevelt aloud from Big Burn.
Toward evening I practiced accordion with Dan's mom. She presented me with two more social-distancing masks she'd made. I'm getting used to wearing one while we wheeze out "The Merry Widow Waltz." I only realize I have it on when it causes my glasses to fog over.
------------------------
Tonight when I came downstairs to serve dinner, my mom stood up to help set the table. We've turned one of the bathrooms into a little kitchen where she washes the dishes and sets them on a shelf we've cleared in the towel cupboard.
I followed her into the little "kitchen" to help carry the dishes and silverware. She had two glasses balanced atop two plates in a precarious lazy-man's-load. I reached out to steady the glasses, and she jerked away from me, nearly toppling the stack. "I've got it!" she said.
She needs to feel capable and helpful.
I need to feel helpful and minimize accidents.
Sometimes our needs collide.
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Day #22 Writing Through COVID-19: Scrabbled
My mother and I carry within us countless lines of poetry. Last night when she mentioned pretty dandelions on the lawn, I began reciting "Oh, burdock, and you other dock--" and she chimed in: "That have ground coffee for your seeds--" In unison, we finished Edna St. Vincent Millay's sweet tribute to weeds. This launched us into recitation of Millay's figs. But when we tried to recall "The Ballad of the Harp Weaver," we had only bits and pieces between us.
So this morning I printed the poem and brought it to my mother with her morning meds. It's kind of a creepy poem, actually, but my mom has always loved Edna, so it was a good start to our day.
--------------
At lunchtime, I invited my parents to play Scrabble with me at 2 p.m. when my ZOOM teaching was over. They accepted the date happily.
Thus began one of the biggest failures of our time together so far.
--------------
It's not easy to judge what my parents can and cannot do with confidence and pleasure. Two days ago I played chess with my dad and he whipped me soundly. I call that success! But today Scrabble spiraled us into despair.
Within the first minutes of the game, my mom was confused about how many letters she should have.
My dad struggled to understand that "double word score" only applies the first time a tile is placed.
When my mom proudly placed "crutch" on the board, my dad and I both tried to explain that if a word butts up against others, they must all still make words.
I felt my mom bristle at our correction. "Well then I can't play anything," she snapped.
I asked to see her tiles and began offering various plays she could make, but she said, "It feels like cheating if you have to help me." She sounded both angry and sad.
Later, telling my sister about it, I said it felt like trying to calm a skitterish horse. I wanted to soothe my mom away from her frustration, but I had to do so without talking down to her or adding to her befuddlement.
We didn't dare make eye contact.
Then my mom reached out and put R-A-G on the board. Success! Unfortunately, she had not connected her letters to any others on the board--which is the central tenet of the game. I glanced at my dad to see if he was going to point out her mistake, but he was already planning his next play, so I assumed we had silently agreed to show my mother grace.
I deliberately placed my tiles in ways that offered my competition the most options for building off my words. I took my turns as quickly as possible, while my addled parents took F-O-R-E-V-E-R.
On my dad's next turn, he gleefully played Z-O-O. Like my mother, his tiles were not connected to any others on the board. Evidently, we had now rewritten the rules of Scrabble. But unlike my mother, who had placed R-A-G on low-value squares, my competitive father placed his strategically in the far corner to garner a triple word score of 33.
We were not having fun. But we also don't know how to quit.
Each time it was my mother's turn, I felt myself holding my breath. I knew I could ignore her mistakes, but I wasn't sure my dad would. Time and again she placed tiles up against others and my dad called her out. She huffed, and I then pointed out the wide-open spaces on the board, encouraging her to put together whatever word she wanted in no-man's-land.
At this point, I was the only person remotely adhering to any rules. My dad was openly browsing through the Scrabble dictionary to find words. My mom had a C and a K and seemed unable to understand that she did not have to use them together.
The game took us two and a half hours. As I subtracted the points of our unplayed tiles (I was left holding two Qs), I felt exultant. We had survived.
My dad, of course, won.
My mother came in second.
I am third.
Thursday, April 9, 2020
Day #21 Writing Through COVID-19: In Cold Blood
Rough day. I slept late, then hurried my parents through our morning routine. The windy weather kept them inside, alone, as I dashed off a report to the Audubon Dems Rules Committee.
At lunchtime, we talked for a bit and I mentioned that Harrison was looking for a copy of "In Cold Blood" for his girlfriend to read. I remembered from years ago my parents telling me how in 1965 they had awaited each week's installment of the book in the New Yorker, where Truman Capote's masterpiece was first published.
I told them how much I'd enjoyed teaching the book to juniors several years ago. "Have you seen Capote?" I asked, referring to Philip Seymour Hoffman's Academy-Award-winning performance. "Or the movie In Cold Blood?"
My dad was excited. He had seen neither and wanted to see both. My mom chimed in, remembering how gripping the book had been to experience 55 years ago.
I told them I needed to teach my class (Zoom, online) at 1:00, but we set a movie date for 2 p.m.
-----
As we settled in to first watch "In Cold Blood," I balanced my laptop on my knees to double-task and answer some emails. My mom, sleepy midafternoon, dozed in and out on the sofa next to me. But my dad watched with full attention.
If you are familiar with the book or movie, you know that we meet the characters first on the morning of the killings. We follow them through the day until Dick and Perry approach the Clutters' house. At this point, the story skips over the murder scene and follows the investigation through to the arrest and confessions of Dick and Perry.
The reader/viewer does not experience the actual murders until 3/4 of the way through.
So 90 minutes into the film, we see Dick and Perry enter the house. We see Mr. Clutter explain that there is no money; there is no safe. Dick and Perry tie up the family. They lock them in the bathroom. Perry positions Kenyon on the sofa...
"Alli," my dad interrupted. "I don't believe I want to watch anymore."
I fumbled for the remote, hurrying to hit pause before the horror of the next scene unfolded.
I gushed apologies: I hadn't realized how hard this film might be to watch.
More than anything, my dad sounded sad. "I'm sorry you went to all the trouble," he said. "But the book seemed better than this. Maybe there was a distance." He seemed to be apologizing now.
I felt so bad.
Our afternoon of movies had caused him distress. Of course he didn't want to watch the murder scene. There is no hope for a happy ending.
My mom said she'd dozed off a few times and lost track of what was happening. "It just feels like a movie to me," she said.
But my dad looked wan. He is an empath of the highest caliber. I suggested he take the dog out or maybe we could play a game--something to shake us from this tense moment.
"I'd like to read for a while," he said.
My mother said she'd like to take a nap.
-----
Later, my mom found my Jolly Green Giant puzzle in a basement closet. We worked on it together. I made a goulash for supper and served Klondike bars for dessert.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
At lunchtime, we talked for a bit and I mentioned that Harrison was looking for a copy of "In Cold Blood" for his girlfriend to read. I remembered from years ago my parents telling me how in 1965 they had awaited each week's installment of the book in the New Yorker, where Truman Capote's masterpiece was first published.
I told them how much I'd enjoyed teaching the book to juniors several years ago. "Have you seen Capote?" I asked, referring to Philip Seymour Hoffman's Academy-Award-winning performance. "Or the movie In Cold Blood?"
My dad was excited. He had seen neither and wanted to see both. My mom chimed in, remembering how gripping the book had been to experience 55 years ago.
I told them I needed to teach my class (Zoom, online) at 1:00, but we set a movie date for 2 p.m.
-----
As we settled in to first watch "In Cold Blood," I balanced my laptop on my knees to double-task and answer some emails. My mom, sleepy midafternoon, dozed in and out on the sofa next to me. But my dad watched with full attention.
If you are familiar with the book or movie, you know that we meet the characters first on the morning of the killings. We follow them through the day until Dick and Perry approach the Clutters' house. At this point, the story skips over the murder scene and follows the investigation through to the arrest and confessions of Dick and Perry.
The reader/viewer does not experience the actual murders until 3/4 of the way through.
So 90 minutes into the film, we see Dick and Perry enter the house. We see Mr. Clutter explain that there is no money; there is no safe. Dick and Perry tie up the family. They lock them in the bathroom. Perry positions Kenyon on the sofa...
"Alli," my dad interrupted. "I don't believe I want to watch anymore."
I fumbled for the remote, hurrying to hit pause before the horror of the next scene unfolded.
I gushed apologies: I hadn't realized how hard this film might be to watch.
More than anything, my dad sounded sad. "I'm sorry you went to all the trouble," he said. "But the book seemed better than this. Maybe there was a distance." He seemed to be apologizing now.
I felt so bad.
Our afternoon of movies had caused him distress. Of course he didn't want to watch the murder scene. There is no hope for a happy ending.
My mom said she'd dozed off a few times and lost track of what was happening. "It just feels like a movie to me," she said.
But my dad looked wan. He is an empath of the highest caliber. I suggested he take the dog out or maybe we could play a game--something to shake us from this tense moment.
"I'd like to read for a while," he said.
My mother said she'd like to take a nap.
-----
Later, my mom found my Jolly Green Giant puzzle in a basement closet. We worked on it together. I made a goulash for supper and served Klondike bars for dessert.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Wednesday, April 8, 2020
Day #20 Writing Through COVID-19: LOVE in the Time of Hysterectomy
This interlude is in many ways a gift. The pandemic has slowed us to a crawl, so several times a day, my elderly basement guests and I settle in for lengthy memory chats.
This morning we talked about how after the birth of my twins, I needed a hysterectomy and cystocele repair. Look it up...actually, don't.
I was breastfeeding at the time--and maniacal about it. I was determined to keep nursing through the four-day hospitalization at Mayo Clinic, and I asked my parents to help out. They were in their mid-60s at the time, a little older than I am now.
They stayed in a hotel near the hospital in Rochester. Four times a day they rolled my babies from the hotel to my hospital room for their feedings. Harrison and Stuart were four months old at the time.
For some reason (??) my daughter Eloise, who was four, was also in their care. My other three children were back in Iowa--ages 9, 7, and 2--with Dan and his parents. Even writing this, I am shocked at how crazy my life with six children under 10 must have been.
But back to my parents: Today when we dipped into this shared memory, I was able to thank them anew for the generous support they gave to me in that difficult time. We laughed together about how they had bundled Eloise in her snowsuit (it was January), but then found the underground walkways...by the time they reached my room, Eloise was boiled in her snowsuit! My parents were horrified when they realized how hot she was.
I stripped her down and tickled her little naked back. I cherish that memory.
I also remember how during those four days in Rochester, my mom taught Eloise to write her first word: LOVE.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
This morning we talked about how after the birth of my twins, I needed a hysterectomy and cystocele repair. Look it up...actually, don't.
I was breastfeeding at the time--and maniacal about it. I was determined to keep nursing through the four-day hospitalization at Mayo Clinic, and I asked my parents to help out. They were in their mid-60s at the time, a little older than I am now.
They stayed in a hotel near the hospital in Rochester. Four times a day they rolled my babies from the hotel to my hospital room for their feedings. Harrison and Stuart were four months old at the time.
For some reason (??) my daughter Eloise, who was four, was also in their care. My other three children were back in Iowa--ages 9, 7, and 2--with Dan and his parents. Even writing this, I am shocked at how crazy my life with six children under 10 must have been.
But back to my parents: Today when we dipped into this shared memory, I was able to thank them anew for the generous support they gave to me in that difficult time. We laughed together about how they had bundled Eloise in her snowsuit (it was January), but then found the underground walkways...by the time they reached my room, Eloise was boiled in her snowsuit! My parents were horrified when they realized how hot she was.
I stripped her down and tickled her little naked back. I cherish that memory.
I also remember how during those four days in Rochester, my mom taught Eloise to write her first word: LOVE.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Tuesday, April 7, 2020
Day #19 Writing Through Covid-19: Smartest Man In The World
I grew up believing my dad was the Smartest Man In The World.
Probably because he told me so. With a wink and a grin, he'd declare: "S-M-I-T-W" when for one reason or another he was called upon to dip into his bottomless well of knowledge to identify who wrote "House of the Seven Gables" or name the capital of South Africa. He was a pre-internet Google search. He simply memorized everyone's phone numbers rather than writing them down.
The "S-M-I-T-W" acronym came from my father's childhood. "S-M-I-T-W" he'd taunt each time he out-smarted his older sisters. It became the gloating response we used within our family when one of us felt we'd outwitted the others: S-M-I-T-W!
Tonight when I brought my mom her meds, I asked Dad if he wanted to watch a movie. Yes, he said, he'd been trying to get one started but was having trouble with the remote.
In the 17 days they've been living here, he's learned to turn on the TV, and I think he can change channels. But navigating the second remote to access Amazon Prime is tricky.
I offered to guide him through the process (again). He held the remote and pressed the buttons as I talked him through:
Home button.
Down, over- over-
Enter
(Whoops)
Home
Down, over--
Repeat
It was a struggle, but his fumbling fingers finally got to the BBC's "Taming of the Shrew." He relinquished the remote sheepishly when I offered to set up the subtitles.
My dad is still very much alive. He converses quite well, as long as you aren't in a hurry. His pauses to find words can stretch out for seconds. Sometimes I offer the word I'm anticipating; sometimes I don't. Is it better to help him along (set up the subtitles) or pretend the waiting isn't a bother (and it isn't...what else do we have to do)?
My dad's days as S-M-I-T-W are, frankly, behind him.
But when he hugged me with his bony arms tonight, I almost told him S-M-I-T-W: Sweetest Man In The World.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Probably because he told me so. With a wink and a grin, he'd declare: "S-M-I-T-W" when for one reason or another he was called upon to dip into his bottomless well of knowledge to identify who wrote "House of the Seven Gables" or name the capital of South Africa. He was a pre-internet Google search. He simply memorized everyone's phone numbers rather than writing them down.
The "S-M-I-T-W" acronym came from my father's childhood. "S-M-I-T-W" he'd taunt each time he out-smarted his older sisters. It became the gloating response we used within our family when one of us felt we'd outwitted the others: S-M-I-T-W!
Tonight when I brought my mom her meds, I asked Dad if he wanted to watch a movie. Yes, he said, he'd been trying to get one started but was having trouble with the remote.
In the 17 days they've been living here, he's learned to turn on the TV, and I think he can change channels. But navigating the second remote to access Amazon Prime is tricky.
I offered to guide him through the process (again). He held the remote and pressed the buttons as I talked him through:
Home button.
Down, over- over-
Enter
(Whoops)
Home
Down, over--
Repeat
It was a struggle, but his fumbling fingers finally got to the BBC's "Taming of the Shrew." He relinquished the remote sheepishly when I offered to set up the subtitles.
My dad is still very much alive. He converses quite well, as long as you aren't in a hurry. His pauses to find words can stretch out for seconds. Sometimes I offer the word I'm anticipating; sometimes I don't. Is it better to help him along (set up the subtitles) or pretend the waiting isn't a bother (and it isn't...what else do we have to do)?
My dad's days as S-M-I-T-W are, frankly, behind him.
But when he hugged me with his bony arms tonight, I almost told him S-M-I-T-W: Sweetest Man In The World.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Monday, April 6, 2020
Day #18 Writing Through Covid-19: Back to School and Puzzles
We started back to school today. That is, after the go-ahead from our principal last Friday, our English department began hosting daily Zoom classes to offer (ungraded! not required!) reading/writing/speaking activities.
The state of Iowa has given schools three options: 1) hold mandatory online school, 2) offer non-graded/optional learning support, or 3) do nothing and make up the missed days in some future time/space.
Many schools like Atlantic, with a number of students lacking reliable internet access, are selecting option #2.
Of the 400+ students in our building, 25 showed up on our first day to help us experiment with the platform. We spent five minutes of our time together trying to help a student access her "gallery view." We then sunk another 10 minutes into a mass-frenzy of experimenting with virtual backgrounds. During our final 10 minutes, we read this poem and four students piped up to explain their interpretations and analyses.
Was it learning? In some ways.
Was it of value? Maybe.
These are the questions teachers ask ourselves every day during our planning and reflection. And if we're honest, our answers are often: "In some ways" and "Maybe."
I do believe many of the students who showed up today felt welcomed, encouraged, and valued.
-----
Day two of a 500-piece bird puzzle with my mom.
We were making good headway! We had fewer than 50 pieces to go when I left for a run to town.
When I got home, I brought down Vern's dog food and glanced at the Ping-Pong table where we'd been working on the puzzle.
Nothing.
"What happened to the puzzle?" I (kindly) shrieked.
"Oh! It was finished, so I put it away," my mother explained. "I thought you knew it was finished!"
Pause.
The only reason we were working on a puzzle in the first place was to offer my mom a distraction from the nothingness that stretches out before her each day. Whether or not I saw the complete puzzle did not matter in the least. Then why did I feel wronged?
This is a puzzle.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
The state of Iowa has given schools three options: 1) hold mandatory online school, 2) offer non-graded/optional learning support, or 3) do nothing and make up the missed days in some future time/space.
Many schools like Atlantic, with a number of students lacking reliable internet access, are selecting option #2.
Of the 400+ students in our building, 25 showed up on our first day to help us experiment with the platform. We spent five minutes of our time together trying to help a student access her "gallery view." We then sunk another 10 minutes into a mass-frenzy of experimenting with virtual backgrounds. During our final 10 minutes, we read this poem and four students piped up to explain their interpretations and analyses.
Was it learning? In some ways.
Was it of value? Maybe.
These are the questions teachers ask ourselves every day during our planning and reflection. And if we're honest, our answers are often: "In some ways" and "Maybe."
I do believe many of the students who showed up today felt welcomed, encouraged, and valued.
 |
| The AHS English Lockdown Classroom opens today. |
-----
Day two of a 500-piece bird puzzle with my mom.
We were making good headway! We had fewer than 50 pieces to go when I left for a run to town.
When I got home, I brought down Vern's dog food and glanced at the Ping-Pong table where we'd been working on the puzzle.
Nothing.
"What happened to the puzzle?" I (kindly) shrieked.
"Oh! It was finished, so I put it away," my mother explained. "I thought you knew it was finished!"
Pause.
The only reason we were working on a puzzle in the first place was to offer my mom a distraction from the nothingness that stretches out before her each day. Whether or not I saw the complete puzzle did not matter in the least. Then why did I feel wronged?
This is a puzzle.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Day #17 Writing Through Covid-19: Windows and Face Masks
This is my 17th consecutive day of blogging through Covid-19.
In non-Covid time (remember that?) I often felt I had nothing to write about. Nothing in my hum-drum ordinary life demanded to be pegged to the page.
So it's ironic that now, when my life has closed in upon itself, shrunken to the bare essentials of getting through another stay-home day, the smallest moments feel note-worthy.
With the warmth of the sun today, my mom and I got back to our window-washing project. Because we only wash one window each day, the job feels like a treat, a special event. We look at our clean window; we preen and glow. Who knew window washing could offer such satisfaction?
-------
My daughter Palmer, self-isolating in Colorado, is worried about her 91-year-old grandma (Dan's mom) who lives a mile from us. Although about the same age, Janet is stronger physically and mentally than my parents. Not only does she live independently, during non-Covid time when I'm teaching, she drives to my house each day to run laundry, start the dishwasher, wipe down the counters. (Pretty sure I just heard you sigh with envy.) Janet and I have also been learning to play the accordion together for the past three years. Our nightly practice is our shared joy, and we don't want Covid-19 to stop us.
But Palmer asked me to please wear a mask while visiting Grandma Janet. So guess who made my mask? The same amazing woman who trimmed down one of my tablecloths so it would fit my parents' small table in the basement (and then sewed napkins from the trimmed fabric): Janet.
Tonight she presented me with four masks she had made: two with ties of varying widths, two with elastic.
----------
When everything else has come to a standstill, small gestures of helpfulness and the simplicity of kindness rise up like monuments. Blogworthy.
 |
| Facemask by Janet |
 |
| Palmer (and Willet) in Colorado today. |
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Saturday, April 4, 2020
Day #16 Writing Through Covid-19: Laundry and Funerals
This afternoon I went downstairs planning to check the closet under the stairs for another puzzle. But my mom met me with a complaint: "He wants me to do the laundry," she said, glaring at my dad.
"Oh, I can help with that," I said, as I've been taking care of their small laundry needs for two weeks now.
My mother huffed into the bedroom and my dad motioned me to follow him into the bathroom where he explained that my mom had been having a confused time, hyper-focused on the non-issue of laundry.
It took only a few minutes for me to solve the laundry crisis by gathering their few soiled items, stripping their bed, and starting the wash cycle. But my mom did not look happy.
So I turned a 60-piece children's Rapunzel puzzle out of its box and asked her to help me with it. By the time we finished (five minutes later), her spirits were moving upward.
Next, I asked her to help me with the day's JUMBLE puzzle in the newspaper. Then I brought out the Methodist hymnal and asked her to leaf through the hymns.
When I mentioned one of my favorites, "This Is My Song," sung to "Finlandia," my dad said he wants that one played at his funeral. "Me too!" I said.
My mom laughed and said we could simplify things by having a double-funeral.
My dad then read the verses aloud, and we three church-going quasi-atheists, alone together in the basement, amid Covid-19 isolation, shared the hymn that will, hopefully, someday be played at our funerals.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
"Oh, I can help with that," I said, as I've been taking care of their small laundry needs for two weeks now.
My mother huffed into the bedroom and my dad motioned me to follow him into the bathroom where he explained that my mom had been having a confused time, hyper-focused on the non-issue of laundry.
It took only a few minutes for me to solve the laundry crisis by gathering their few soiled items, stripping their bed, and starting the wash cycle. But my mom did not look happy.
So I turned a 60-piece children's Rapunzel puzzle out of its box and asked her to help me with it. By the time we finished (five minutes later), her spirits were moving upward.
Next, I asked her to help me with the day's JUMBLE puzzle in the newspaper. Then I brought out the Methodist hymnal and asked her to leaf through the hymns.
When I mentioned one of my favorites, "This Is My Song," sung to "Finlandia," my dad said he wants that one played at his funeral. "Me too!" I said.
My mom laughed and said we could simplify things by having a double-funeral.
My dad then read the verses aloud, and we three church-going quasi-atheists, alone together in the basement, amid Covid-19 isolation, shared the hymn that will, hopefully, someday be played at our funerals.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Friday, April 3, 2020
Day #15 Writing Through Covid-19: What Matters?
What matters:
The English muffins were warm with honey butter.
What doesn't matter:
I did not shower. All day.
What matters:
My mom and I laughed 100 times during our game of Dominos.
What doesn't matter:
Dominoes is such a lame game.
What matters:
Harrison knocked on the window and waved to his grandparents this afternoon.
What doesn't matter:
The weather.
What matters:
Handwritten letters from my sister every day.
What doesn't matter:
The Ft. Dodge Messenger arrives 48 hours after its print date.
What matters:
Little things.
What doesn't matter:
Everything else.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
The English muffins were warm with honey butter.
What doesn't matter:
I did not shower. All day.
What matters:
My mom and I laughed 100 times during our game of Dominos.
What doesn't matter:
Dominoes is such a lame game.
What matters:
Harrison knocked on the window and waved to his grandparents this afternoon.
What doesn't matter:
The weather.
What matters:
Handwritten letters from my sister every day.
What doesn't matter:
The Ft. Dodge Messenger arrives 48 hours after its print date.
What matters:
Little things.
What doesn't matter:
Everything else.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
 |
| My parents (and Vern) at breakfast this morning. |
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Day #14 Writing Through Covid-19: Is This Thursday?
Whew. Long day here.
This morning when I checked on my parents, they were both still sleeping.
But greeting me were two dog turds on the carpet.
I am a mother of six. It takes more than a couple of turds to derail me.
But later when my mom woke up, I told her Vern had had "an accident" in the night.
"Oh yes!" she said cheerily. "He does that!"
------------
This evening I asked my mom to set the table, which she does for each meal.
"Do you want plates?" she asked, as if we hadn't set plates for each of the previous 40 meals (who's counting) since they arrived.
Then tonight she said, "There's a big black dog in the yard!"
The dog is Rex, the same dog my mother invited into the basement as Vern's new best friend three days ago.
-----------
My mother and I started a new 300-piece puzzle yesterday. She finished it around noon today. This afternoon I saw that she had already boxed it up.
"You put the puzzle away!" I said.
"Yes. I finished it a few days ago!" she said.
I'm afraid we have all loosened our grip on time. I'm thankful my parents have a dementia clock. It tells them the time (a.m./p.m.), the day, the year.
I think, vaguely, this might be Thursday.
.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
This morning when I checked on my parents, they were both still sleeping.
But greeting me were two dog turds on the carpet.
I am a mother of six. It takes more than a couple of turds to derail me.
But later when my mom woke up, I told her Vern had had "an accident" in the night.
"Oh yes!" she said cheerily. "He does that!"
------------
This evening I asked my mom to set the table, which she does for each meal.
"Do you want plates?" she asked, as if we hadn't set plates for each of the previous 40 meals (who's counting) since they arrived.
Then tonight she said, "There's a big black dog in the yard!"
The dog is Rex, the same dog my mother invited into the basement as Vern's new best friend three days ago.
-----------
My mother and I started a new 300-piece puzzle yesterday. She finished it around noon today. This afternoon I saw that she had already boxed it up.
"You put the puzzle away!" I said.
"Yes. I finished it a few days ago!" she said.
I'm afraid we have all loosened our grip on time. I'm thankful my parents have a dementia clock. It tells them the time (a.m./p.m.), the day, the year.
I think, vaguely, this might be Thursday.
.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Day #14 Writing Through Covid-19: Happy and Fulfilled?
Today is April Fools' Day. When I was a child, my mother would make a Greedy Goat Pie on this day (pie crust filled with sticks and leaves or cookie cutters or something ridiculous). She would set our table with pots and pans, ladles and asparagus tines. We ate our meal with hilarity.
I thought about doing something similar for my parents, but the day got away from me. Frankly, it seemed in questionable taste to play pranks on people who are already a bit rattled.
In the evening I pulled the car out of the garage to slip over to my 91-year-old mother-in-law's house for our evening accordion practice. The average age of the four people I have contact with (including Dan at a mere 61) is 82.75.
As I backed into the driveway, I suddenly saw my dad in my side mirror, standing on the parking, a few feet away from the car. He had walked up and around the house for a bit of exercise and was crossing in front of the garage just as I was inattentively backing out. I gasped; my dad laughed. I shuddered to imagine telling my siblings I'd run over my Covid-19 house guest.
I am participating in Ethical ELA's #VerseLove by writing 30 days of poetry during National Poetry Month.
Today's prompt was from Sarah J. Donovan, who hosts the website and dreamed up this glorious idea a year ago. She asked us to consider what our credo might be and guided us through pre-writing with questions including
She planned and executed the most creative themed birthday parties for her five children: Japanese Party, Pirate Party, Native American Party (pretty sure we called it an Indian Party--). The themes have not aged well, but 50 years ago they were planned in a spirit of education rather than cultural appropriation. There was no Pinterest; she designed and sewed the kimonos herself.
So when she said she felt happy and fulfilled by finishing big projects, I knew what she meant.
Here are the projects she's tackled in her 12 days here with me:
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
I thought about doing something similar for my parents, but the day got away from me. Frankly, it seemed in questionable taste to play pranks on people who are already a bit rattled.
In the evening I pulled the car out of the garage to slip over to my 91-year-old mother-in-law's house for our evening accordion practice. The average age of the four people I have contact with (including Dan at a mere 61) is 82.75.
As I backed into the driveway, I suddenly saw my dad in my side mirror, standing on the parking, a few feet away from the car. He had walked up and around the house for a bit of exercise and was crossing in front of the garage just as I was inattentively backing out. I gasped; my dad laughed. I shuddered to imagine telling my siblings I'd run over my Covid-19 house guest.
I am participating in Ethical ELA's #VerseLove by writing 30 days of poetry during National Poetry Month.
Today's prompt was from Sarah J. Donovan, who hosts the website and dreamed up this glorious idea a year ago. She asked us to consider what our credo might be and guided us through pre-writing with questions including
- What do you believe is the purpose of life? What helps you experience a sense of purpose and meaning?
- When do you feel most happy and fulfilled?
- What generates in you a sense of wonder and awe about life and the universe?
- List some basic core beliefs or simple truths that you live by.
She planned and executed the most creative themed birthday parties for her five children: Japanese Party, Pirate Party, Native American Party (pretty sure we called it an Indian Party--). The themes have not aged well, but 50 years ago they were planned in a spirit of education rather than cultural appropriation. There was no Pinterest; she designed and sewed the kimonos herself.
So when she said she felt happy and fulfilled by finishing big projects, I knew what she meant.
Here are the projects she's tackled in her 12 days here with me:
- Washing windows in the basement. We've finished eight and have four to go.
- Putting together a 500-piece puzzle.
- Remembering where we are, and why we're here.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
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