Memory Lane

I find myself at holidays sometimes consumed by memories.  I suppose everyone is guilty of thinking back to their favorite Christmas, or some wonderful holiday celebration from the past.  And we all compare this holiday to the last, to the special one, to the one when we were a child.  We look back and think of what was before.   I am a scrapbooker at heart - seeking ways to remember special moments, to preserve feelings and seconds of time. It’s our nature, I suppose, to remember and compare.  Why else, of course, would we be able to remember?  Why would we take pictures or save mementos, but to savor the memory of something lovely that we don’t want to let go.

But this Christmas, I was wallowing in my memories for different reasons.  This Christmas I have been unable to shake the words that hover, inside my brain.  That this will be the last Christmas.  Daddy's last Christmas.  I have my Daddy on my mind all the time, his illness is eating at me.  I know so little about Alzheimer’s disease, and I don’t have a lot of faith in the medical community on this one either.  So many things go on inside the human mind that I don’t think people can trace and monitor and interpret.  I suppose part of me wants to believe what the reports say, because it will give me some comfort and make my life easier.  But there’s still that corner of my own mind, where I wonder what really goes on in the mind suffocated by the disease.  What does my daddy remember?  What memories are there for him?  I know he has memories, because all too often, when he talks, it’s about things from his past, people he knew, and things he did.  But what are the memories that remain?  And what makes them linger while others disappear like smoke in the wind.  How does that damn disease pick and choose what to take and what to leave behind?

Daddy doesn’t really remember me most days.  He has called me Sandy.  And Phyllis.  Most days, he simply shakes his head that he doesn’t know me.   Sometimes, my Mom can tell him I’m there, and he is aware I’m someone he should know. Now and again, I can see a flicker of recognition.   But mostly I can tell by the confusion in his eyes that he doesn’t know.  I worry that he doesn’t remember me anymore because I wasn’t around enough.  Because I was last.  Because I was a pain growing up.  Because I let him down.  Because...  Because why?  What about me makes my memories fade in his mind while others are fresh and vibrant and seem so real that they block out the reality of his day to day?  I am at least relieved that for now, he always knows my mom.  They were married for sixty one years in May.  He has been with her his whole life.  It makes me happy that, for now, she is still lving in his mind and still a part of his world.  I cannot imagine a world more dark than one where the person who you knew best and loved most just disappeared.  I need to believe that hasn’t happened for Daddy.  That it won’t happen for Daddy.  That he will, until whatever end there is, know that she is there with him and for him.  That she sits by his bedside – holds his hand.  That when she gets there each day, she makes sure his hair is combed, and she files his fingernails.  That just as surely as she fixed his breakfast every morning for 61 years, she is still there with him now.   I hope those images live in his mind, too, knowing that she is still the one he can count on.

On days like today, though, I torture myself with questions about what is on his mind and in his memories.  When he sleeps, he seems so fitful, as if something is bothering him, nagging him.  And I wonder, are his memories good ones?  Or are they, like all of our memories, a mix of good and bad, with happy moments sprinkled like sugar, over deep scars of pain and sorrow.  For me, as much as I want to remember every detail of the happy moments in my life, I find I have much deeper memories of the sad ones.  I can remember snippets of the day Mike and I got married, but I remember almost every tearful minute of my Uncle Ronnie’s funeral.  It’s that reality that bothers me.  That if the human mind is more prone to remember sorrow, if those are the memories that are stronger and more vivid, then are those the ones left for my Daddy?  Does he recall those snapshots I have of him laughing in the front yard with his nephews when he was younger?  Or instead, is he haunted by the night his sister died in a car accident? Does he remember the day we visited his friend whose dog begged for ice cubes, making him laugh out loud?  Or is he watching his grandson slide out the passenger door of the truck while he drives?  What makes a memory stay or leave?  I need to know.  I need to have someone tell me that he isn’t re-living all the heart-breaking days of his life, as images flutter away, a day at a time.  That somewhere, still burning in his mind, are family Sunday afternoons, under the mulberry tree in the back yard, taking a nap in the cool breeze between Sunday morning service and Sunday night service.  That when he awakens, he can still smell the musty odor of a barn full of freshly baled hay, not just the antiseptic smells of the nursing home where he stays.  I want to believe he’s reliving the joyous moments of his life – taking walks with Trouble to the farm, watching all his grandsons crawl up on the tractor and long to drive it like Grandpa Draper.  Evening supper on Wednesday night, when Mom would make cornbread and pinto beans for him.  And visits to Aunt Mary on Sunday afternoon, where she would tell stories and make him laugh.

 I cannot stand to think that he’s somewhere else in his mind, plagued by memories of people who made him angry, and moments that left him sad.  Forced to relive days like the one when he had to help a man who’d lost his foot in a machine at work – Daddy found him.  He had to call the ambulance and wait with the man.  I remember that night at home, how pale Daddy was when he talked about it.  Or when Aunt Mary died, and Daddy was so heartbroken and angry.  Or that day, not so long ago, when he told me his dog Trouble had died, tears in his eyes.  And if I remember those things so vividly, and they are not my memories, how bright then must they burn in Daddy’s mind?  If I cannot forget them, can he?  When I pray at night, the first thing I pray is that those memories are the ones that have fled.  That if there is one blessing in this awful disease, it is that it eats away the painful memories that take root in the mind, that it erases them first.  So things like broken promises, and broken hearts, will disappear from his life.  And then, I pray, that the ones that remain are the sweet ones, the ones I know he would love to live over again.  Those are the moments I hope he has tucked away, as the last ones to go.  Memories of his mother, of my mother, his grandchildren and great grandchildren.  The farm.  His dog.  Years with his brothers and sisters surrounding him.  That big horse he had when he was young.  That night at the fair, when he had his picture taken ( I still love to look at that picture), as he was laughing.  Let him remember the moments he spent laughing.  And then I pray that God will let me remember them too. 

Welcome Home

Sometimes little moments take root in your mind, for a reason or by accident.  Sometimes, maybe, it's both,  All the talk of troops coming home has brought a smile to my face, and a memory to mind.  A memory that I like to think is being echoed through hundreds of airports throughout the states. 

Not very long ago, on a business trip home from Ohio, I had the privilege of being reminded what our US Servicemen and women sacrifice for us every day. 

As I sat in the Atlanta airport, passing time people watching, I noticed a small gathering of folks around a nearby gate.  There was a young woman, with a “Welcome Home” poster, and her two small children, dressed in appropriate army attire, probably 2 & 4 years old, as well as an older couple, parents, I supposed, with a flag and another poster.  And they were obviously waiting for the flight to unload.  When people began to pour into the terminal, the young kids began to dance nervously, small legs providing less than perfect view of the adults swarming out of the gate.  And when the first glimpse of camouflage came into view, there came the tentative “Daddy?” from the little girl.  But no, the man who came out first was not who the family waited for.  And it occurred to me that they were so young to not see their dad every day – that perhaps they didn’t really remember what he looked like at all.  And that thought, what it would feel like to come home and find that your children couldn’t quite remember your face, would be enough to keep a father awake at night.  Still, the stream of passengers from the plane continued. 

The first commotion had obviously caused more of the audience in the terminal to take note of the scene, so now I was just one of many viewers, anxiously awaiting the arrival of this family’s hero.  But the flight that day had several servicemen, one after another; and as they poured off the plane that day, a really wonderful thing happened.  Suddenly, busy travelers, usually only intent on getting to their destination, stopped and noticed.  The clapping began, cautious at first and then wholeheartedly, for these men and women coming home, whether for a day or for good.  As each travelling soldier stepped into the airport, the area erupted with clapping; people really took the time to see beyond their own itinerary, to see the faces of young men and women, home from a place where they are not wanted, from doing a job no one else would have, but doing it with great pride and conviction.  And finally, with the very last passenger, the long awaited moment arrived, and two small children rushed forward, screaming for the father they hadn’t seen in so long.  He grabbed them both in his arms, sweeping them off the floor as they squealed in delight, and suddenly everyone around was on their feet, clapping their hands and yelling.  I watched the scene, and tears came to my eyes, brought on by the touching moment, by the realization that this was what real joy was made of.  When the children were returned to the floor, the young man’s wife ran forward, jumped in his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him as if she would never let go.  And the clapping grew louder, onlookers overcome with the raw emotion in the room. 

What intense relief to be once again united with family, to feel love and comfort, a part of your own world again, after being so far away for so long?  How many of us really know what these men and women give up every day?  The simple comforts we take for granted, a kiss goodbye in the morning, dinner conversation, bedtime stories, are but a fond memory for these brave soldiers for months at a time.  They leave behind their home, their family, and all the things they know, to serve this country.  Some of these men and women are so young, they’ve never even lived away from their parents when they head for whatever battle zone requires their help. And not just the soldiers feel the pain and loneliness from their departure.  As I watched that young woman, hugging her husband so tightly, I was reminded of how many nights I have awakened from a dream, only to snuggle closer to my husband and return to sleep.  There is no such comfort for a serviceman’s wife, no hand to grab, no shoulder to lean on.  We hear sometimes that “They signed on for that life,” but what does that really mean?  You fall in love with someone and get married, make a plan to spend the rest of your life with a person, and what career they choose is rarely a piece of the equation.  Knowing that your partner is a serviceman does nothing to make you miss them any less, to make the pain disappear, when they are deployed for 6 months.  And who signed on for the heart-stopping fear every time the news begins a story with “Eleven servicemen killed?” 

Knowing your husband is serving his country is little comfort when there are two small children at home, still needing your attention, and no one to share the load.  There are no second set of eyes to keep track of roaming children at the store.  There is no one to hand off a crying baby to.  There is no one else when a virus hits and all you want to do is sleep for just one hour, but the kids still have to be fed, dressed, and sent to school.  And who explains service and dedication to small children?  Who will make up for the missed kissed boo-boos, the missing dad at Daddy’s day at school, the birthday’s he can’t be there for?  Who is there for the first word, first steps, first day of school, first school play?  I think of all the little moments we cherish with our family, that seem so simple, so day to day, that so many other people will have to miss in the name of the United States of America.  Serving this country take so much from our men and women of uniform, so many hours, so many events, and so many moments they’ll never get back.  Beyond the fear that they will never come home, is the fear of how long it will be until they come home, and what they will have missed while they were gone.  It is easy for the public to criticize a war we cannot win, a government supporting the cause; but we should be careful to realize that our criticism echoes back to these men and women giving all they have, every day, in the name of honor and service.  They give not just a career, but their life and livelihood.  They give more every day than most of us will ever be called to bear.  We complain about our jobs because the benefits are bad, or the parking is lousy.  We find little things about the person in the booth next to us, or our boss, that makes our job just horrible.  But most of us get to go home every night.  Most of us will never have to wrap our arms and legs around our husband to convince ourselves that he is finally in our arms.  Most of us will never have to really know sacrifice in the name of our country. 

Welcome home.  Thank you.  May life give you back a beautiful piece of what you were willing to give.

Keep Manhattan

Yes, for those of you who may not know it, I grew up on a farm. Now, before you minimize, let me be clear.  Not a house in the country- a farm.  With a capital F.  I have watched them slaughter pigs on cold winter mornings, up close and personal, and can write down the steps..  I have, on more than one occasion, followed behind a tractor to pick up the potatoes as they were dug fresh from the ground.  And yes, Virginia, I have milked a cow.  Complete with side humor of spraying milk at the barn cats and watching them chase the milk down for a taste.  So, given the evidence, let's all agree that while I may indeed be a little on the prissy side, I did indeed start out on a farm.

For approximately the first 18 years of my life, I wouldn't have even admitted this information in crowds.  A farm.  A freakin' farm, for heaven's sake.  Does it get any more hick?  Oh my God, cows and pigs and chickens, and really, how much hay do we really need to grow?  That farm was the bane of my existence.  I hated the garden in the back yard.  Do you have any idea how many beautiful summer days were ruined by having to hoe weeds out of the rows?  Or pick beans?  Or pick up apples off the ground so they didn't rot? (Side note: this was particularly painful when Daddy had honeybees, because inevitably, apples did rot, and honey bees, well, they are mean.  People use the term "agressive" but that is an understatement.  They are ornery, and they will chase you.  Trust me on this.  I have the experience to prove it.).  And no, the fall did not bring any respite, because just when we went back to school, and the weekend was my only free time, it was time to cut down corn stalks.  If you have never had the pleasure of cutting and stacking corkstalks...thank your Lord every day.  It is nasty, and those corn knives are not our friends.  Exhibit A - at 42 years old, I still bear the scar on the back of my leg from an afternoon where the cornstalk and I had an altercation.  I can't really say who won, given Exhibit A). And then there were the cows.  Cows that were constantly needing to be fed, or moved, or corralled to take to the slaughterhouse.  Or worse, cows that somehow managed to get out.  Yes, escape.  They would end up in all sorts of places, at the most inopportune times.  Nothing better than looking out in the front yard and seeing 16 or 17 cows grazing.  What????  Or worse, having Daddy wake you up in the middle of the night to go and herd them back to the correct pasture.  Cows are not bright animals. Write it down.  I hated the farm.  I lived for the day I would go away to college, or just go away from the farm.  I vowed I would never again eat anything that I could not buy at the grocery store.  That I had chased my last cow.  That I didn't even want bales of straw to decorate my yard at Halloween. Farm life, been there - done that.  Got the scars to prove it.

And for a while, I did just that.  I moved into town.  I didn't even buy vegetables at the fruit stand.  Nope - I'll take the tomatoes from Kroger, thank you.  And at twenty one, on a retail salary, steak wasn't in my budget anyway, so I was pretty much done with cows, too.  Oh, of course I went home.  How else does a twenty-something get a home cooked meal?  But, the farming days were done.  Slowly, my Dad was stepping away from farming, too.  The Saturday afternoon hay baling began to wane.  One day, he sold his last beef cow.  And then the milk cows were gone.  And the garden started getting smaller and smaller.  From a distance, I watched the farm turn into a house in the country. And still, I didn't miss it at all.  Stupid cows, breaking down fences.  Stupid hayfields, needing mowing.  Stupid pastures with the broomstraw that needed burning every winter.  Good riddence to bad news. 

And then one day I noticed that the tomato on my salad didn't taste quite right...kind of bland.  I bet they're better at the fruit stand.  And if they're better at the fruit stand, what if I just planted a couple of plants in pots on my deck?  And maybe a flower or two, to hide all the concrete.  It's really not very pretty on a concrete deck without some foliage.  And then there was the house.  And what's a house without flowers and shrubs, and...hey, since there's a yard, why not get a dog?  I mean, it's nice to have a pet around.  Of course, I can't let him loose, because the houses are on top of each other around here.  Wow, it's really loud on this street.  I wish we could afford maybe a couple of extra acres, you know, some space.  It seems so crowded around here.  It would be nice to maybe have the room to plant a couple of cucumber vines, maybe some peppers, and well, of course some tomatoes.  Hey wait a minute....

And then it hit me.  I missed it.  I missed a yard big enough to play baseball in.  I missed the cows in the pasture, the barn cats, and the rows and rows of fresh corn.  I missed Saturday afternoons loading hay onto a trailer, and learning to drive in a cornfield.  I missed plucking tomatoes fresh off the vine and having tomato biscuits for dinner.  I missed fresh sausage and eggs.  I missed cold mornings sitting by the wood stove while Mom cooked breakfast.  My toaster and microwave put off no warm air, no faint aroma of burning wood.  I missed a basement full of canned vegetables, a freezer full of fresh beef.  I missed summer days on the farm, when if it got too hot, you could just take off your shoes and wade out into the cool water of the creek.  Okay, so maybe you'd occasionally kick up a snake.  You'd live.  I did.  I missed a field full of potatoes that would last all winter, and listening to the corn being ground into feed for the cows.  I never realized how nice it was to not know when your neighbors came home, for the only lights on summer nights to come from the lightning bugs in the yard, and to have dogs and cats that could lounge under the shrubs by the house.  I would give anything to plant that garden again - to see rows of corn, tomatos, cabbage, and onions, out the kitchen window.  To pick up a bowl full of apples out of the yard and make a batch of apple butter on the stove.  Life on that farm was pretty simple.  You got out what you put in.  You had enough to have and share.  And you could see what you had accomplished every day. 

Today, I love to head downtown in the summer to the farmer's market, to indulge in the fresh fruits and vegetables there.  I smile a little nostalgicly at a field full of cows, grazing on green grass, and I always look for that one cow, somewhere, who's sticking her neck through the fence as far as she can get it... And I love to smell a field of fresh cut hay, and close my eyes and remember riding on top of those bales...the straw scratching my legs, the sun shining down.  A farm.  What I wouldn't give for a farm. 

Christmas Past

When I was young, I loved Christmas and everything it meant.  I loved Christmas at home, with the tree and the presents and the cooking.   I loved Christmas at school with the party and the making crafts.  I loved Christmas at church, with beautiful singing and the story of the nativity.  I loved it all.  Most of all, though, I loved Christmas visits to my Aunt Mary's house.

My Aunt Mary, though, was a treat in herself.  She lived in North Carolina, and for most of MY life, was a widow.  I vaguely remember my Uncle Howard, but only as the man who drove Aunt Mary up for visits.  Aunt Mary was my Daddy's oldest sister, and the oldest of seven kids.  I think that's what made her seem motherly, even though she had no kids of her own.  She always just seemed to be the one in control.  Her house was always perfect, her day was always planned, and she never seemed even a little bit wrinkled.  She was the best cook I have ever met, and that distinction stands to this day.  She's the only person I've known who could make the Southern Living recipes even LOOK like they did in the book.  She would cook even the simplest dish and make it fabulous.  People all over the little town of Yancyville would come to visit, just hoping to be asked to stay for lunch.  And she always did.  She was a force to be reckoned with.  And as a kid, it was pretty darn cool to see her telling my dad and my aunts and uncles how to act, what to do, and whether they were right or wrong. 

She had this house that was always spotless (not like ours), this furniture that was grand and sophisticated (not like ours) and all these wonderful dainty trinkets that were amazing to look at (if they ever existed at our house, trust me, they were quickly broken or put away to protect).  And my parents, with five kids experience under their belt, were terrified to turn us loose in her home.  For years, I thought she was the one who didn't want us wandering around - reality check?  Mom and Dad were horrified by the notion that we'd break HER things.  So they told us, over and over, to sit quietly on the couch, and be quiet and respectful.  But there were always the bathroom breaks.  They were the escape route, to wander into the "other rooms" and see all the wonderful things.  Like the formal livingroom, with perfect white furniture, that still had the plastic on it!  And the diningroom with the beautiful picture on the wall, and the peculiar doors on all sides.  And the basement, oh the wonders of the basement.  Rooms and rooms that went back forever, and had things stored in every nook and cranny!  What a wonderful, wonderful place.  I was in sensory overload, all the time.  But Christmas, good Lord, it was like a separate world.

Mind you, Aunt Mary never had a big tree, not that I can remember.  Her house was decorated perfectly though, with all these little Christmas snippets.  First, there was the beautiful wreath on the front door.  So lovely and ornate, begging you to knock.  And then there were the candle-rings and flower wreaths inside.  Candle-rings?  Not at our house.  Too fancy for our house.  And little Santa decorations scattered here and there, popping out for Christmas, fairly dancing with cheer.  But the silly thing I remember most is her doorknobs.  She had these adorable, cloth doorhangers, that hung down from the doorknobs, santa and elves, cloth and felt.  But in my eyes, they were the most wonderful decorations in the world.  I wandered from room to room looking at the door knobs, longing to have such wonderful decorations at home.  I would reach out (when no one was looking of course) to touch the soft santas, hanging from the door, and think how delightful it would be to have that elf hanging from my bedroom door.  How delightful to have those gorgeous candles sitting on our shelf in the livingroom.  How people would be envious if WE had such a glorious wreath on our front door.  What a magical Christmas she created.

As an adult, I think I try every year to re-create the magic she captured with her little door hanger elves and her pretty decorations.  I trim the tree(s) (Yes, of course there are several, it's part of the magic).  I set my little Santas and my snowmen all about, trying to remember what about her decorations were so eye-catching.  I never seem to quite get that same wonderful feeling.  Perhaps she just had the magic touch.  Maybe she was just a classy lady who knew exactly how to decorate to make people happy.  Or, maybe only the ten-year-old in me could ever find it.  My Aunt Mary passed away about ten years ago, and even though I went to the estate auction and tried to find them, I never saw those wonderful little elves and santas.  They are lost to me forever, I suppose.  But I must admit, each year, when I start to pull out the boxes of decorations and carefully unwrap the dainty trinkets, I know there's a bit of her in me, and I know she'd probably approve of my efforts.  She'd laugh that tinkling Aunt Mary laugh, and she'd sit down and enjoy the moment.  And that's a little piece of magic for me, too. 

A Long Walk Home

My dad is dying.  I have now put those words down, and they must become real to me.  So far, I have thought about it over my  meals, discussed it with my family, and pondered it as I lay in bed at night unable to sleep.  But I have not put it into words to make it real.  My father is dying.  There are words floating in the air like "Living Will" and "End of Life", heavy with meaning and thick with emotion.  For some moments, I am rational, almost detached, as I think about what is the right thing to do.  Others, I am a small child, walking with my Daddy through the woods in December, searching for a Christmas tree.  Only this time, when I turn loose of his hand, he will be gone forever.  Memories come to me at the strangest moments, of things I have not thought about in years.  Snapshots in my mind of little things he said or did that somehow found a home deep inside my brain and now, of all times, are forming a slideshow.  Remember?  Remember?

What is it about the human mind that can turn against you and make a bad situation almost unbearable by not shutting down?  Remember when I broke my arm and I was scared, and the only thing that made me feel better was when my daddy told me to wrap my arm around his neck?  Remember when my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and my daddy was unafraid to be vulnerable and admit he couldn't make it without her?  Remember the time Daddy took us to the airport in Reidsville and we got to go up on the helicopter? Remember when he told you that you had a green thumb, just like his mother, and you were so proud?  Remember? Remember?  Why must I remember all those moments.  Why can't I shut it off at all?

The suble beauty of my father was not in his softness.  He was a hard man, who worked hard his whole life, and perhaps he didn't take the time for "Disney" moments with his kids.  But there was never one moment that I doubted that he loved and lived for his children, that he'd done all he'd done in life for them, and that I could count on him for whatever I truly needed.  The subtle beauty, though, was in the simple way he went about living his life so that we could have a larger than life example of how to do it.  Honestly, fully, and respectfully, but without regrets.  Maybe I didn't understand that greatness as a child, but it didn't take long to see that my father was a great man. That I was the lucky one.  That not everyone had what I had growing up.  He made me who I am.  I learned it all from him.  Who will teach me now?  Remember? Remember?

When I lie in bed at night and think painfully of the hole his death will leave with me, I try to grasp little treasures of happiness.  He will be sitting on a front porch soon with his sisters who've already gone, laughing and playing referee.    He will have the pleasure of talking about God with his old friend and pastor, Grady Lackey, who paved the way.  And the one that makes me smile, that silly old dog, Trouble, who he loved so much, will meet him at the end of the road, and trot beside him for his long walk home.