Minds Lost

Walking down the hallway of shiny linoleum tiles, I couldn't help but notice the smell of urine, decay, and Clorox.  There were sounds of machines beeping out life function statistics and moans and groans of those unable to be up and about.  I couldn't get to my grandmother's room quickly enough. Fast enough that the smells wouldn't permeate my nose and before the feelings of degeneration settled in my thoughts.

There she was sitting in her wheel chair staring blankly at the floor of her room.  I'm not sure where her mind was at that moment.  Was it here...right now...today?  Was it back with my grandfather decades earlier happy on the farm?  Or was she further away still, back with her family as a child.  I stood there quietly in the doorway for a moment, considering how this woman who could slip cover everything that would stand still, cook Chinese cuisine, garden, crochet, and flock her own Christmas tree had been reduced to this sad state.

Damn you Alzheimer's.

She looked up to see me and smiled. Not so much a smile of recognition, just a smile of gratitude for a break in a monotonous day. I drew a deep breath in and summoned every cheerful bone in my body. I told her how happy I was to see her and that it was manicure day. This is how I passed time with what was left of my grandmother. I would bring things to do her nails and I would talk to her while I softly filed her nail tips. Depending on where she was in her mind, she would talk back sometimes.

The memory of a person with Alzheimer's can be compared to an onion. Over time the layers are peeled away with where they are and what they are familiar with. Outermost layer being current day and time, unraveling decades with each layer, until you get to the core where there is very little...perhaps like when we were tiny infants incapable of communication and merely observers of life's activities. She did not speak at all the last couple of years.

I picked up her right hand and studied the effects of a woman who had used them diligently in her lifetime. The skin no longer tight and smooth. There were age spots, big blue veins, and arthritic enlarged joints. Hands never lie. The meals she had cooked, the gardens she planted, all the crocheted afghans, and houses she had made beautiful, welcoming homes were all obvious.

She patted me on my arm and said, "Honey, it's so very sweet of you to come and do this for me." I was delighted she was actually present and spoke, and paused my work to smile and soak it up. Then she continued, "cause you don't even know me." I had become a stranger. No longer in her inner circle. I told her that she might not know me, but I knew her pretty well.

Triggers

The concrete steps leading up to the back door of my grandmother's house were always cool to the touch. I can't tell you how many afternoons I sat there with her and shelled black eyed peas that she had purchased by the big brown paper grocery bag full. I would watch her hands easily free the tender shiny peas from their earthy shells. Slitting the edges with the side of her thumbnail and pushing the peas into a bowl in one fluid movement.







The bowls we used for this purpose were not just any bowls, but melamine Texasware mixing bowls. They are practically industructible and perfect for a grandmother to use with her young granddaughter when passing on the art of cooking. No worries over breaking or spilling. The bright swirls and specks create patterns unique to each bowl...no two are exactly alike.







As we shelled peas, she had plastic insulated tumblers filled with iced tea. In the south, you never have to ask for sweet tea....it's all sweet tea. Lucille's tea was so sweet, you actually could crunch sugar crystals as you drank.




If I became bored with shelling peas, she would walk around to the side of the steps and grasp a couple handfuls of Horsetail Equistoms that grew beautifully next to the air conditioner unit. She would snap the segments apart and give me a piece of string, encouraging me to string them and make a necklace.







She was gifted at finding things for my small hands to do.  Things that didn't seem like busy work at all.  We'd go to town and buy some coordinating yards of fabric to cut up into squares and then hand stitch into a quilt.  She would hand me the back of envelopes to draw on.  I couldn't have a new piece of paper until the prior one was completely covered.  She would take me out to the garden and tell me what each plant was.  This woman is also the reason why I can never ever look at a pot of petunias without laughing of embarrassment...that was her code word for a lady's private parts.









These are all things that stay with me and follow me still. Brown paper grocery sacks, black eyed peas, Texasware bowls, sweet tea, Horsetail Equistoms, quilts, petunias....and more. They remind me of her. Like she is reaching back through time to say "hello, I'm still here....I love you."



























- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Bared Roots

I climbed through the slightest suggestion of ancient fence this morning to check on the horses kicked out in the pasture behind our home.  I trekked down to the water trough to make sure it was full and was greeted by the horses.  Greeted is a strong word.  They really were just coming to see if I brought them any snacks. When they realized I didn't bring snacks, they wandered off as quickly as they came.

Walking back, I was staring at the ground.  There are more big places of dirt than grass.  The dirt is so devoid of moisture it is hard and cracked.  Parched.  The grass isn't green...just the dried up bare root structures of grass clinging...waiting...hoping...desperately longing for moisture.  Real moisture.  Not spit that dries within seconds of the constant 30+ mph wind.  We haven't received any measurable rain for 9 months.



Things don't live without water.

I looked back up at the horses...their heads like vacuum cleaners on the ground.  They were searching too. Searching for food to sustain them.  I know it is dry...I've known it for months.  Looking at the ground this morning, the desperation for moisture hit me like a brick house fell out of the sky and landed squarely on me. Yes Dorothy, there's no place like home.  Sometimes in the forecast they give us a chance percentage of rain.  Last week it was 80%...not a drop fell.

If rain doesn't come soon...there will be no more grass.  No grass for animals to eat.  Animals will have to be sold. What is a ranch without animals?  Where will food come from for the people of this nation?   It's too late for the thousands of acres of wheat.  It is dying early and going to seed at a chance of saving itself for next time.  A crushing blow.  It's all crushing right now.  The desperation of it all is starting to weigh heavily.

I caught up with my grey mare that is temporarily on break to heal her hip.  She has big kind eyes and a sweet personality that endears me to her.  My youngest child can't wait to get her back.  I put my hand on her injured hip, I looked up into the cloud covered sky, and I prayed.  Right there in the pasture, I thanked Sweet Infant Baby Jesus for all of the many blessings we had received.  I told Him how much I appreciated the animals entrusted to our care and would He please see clear to let it rain.  I specified measurable, soaking, life giving rain that went on for months.  I asked for this so we can keep our animals and take the best care possible of them.  As the wind whipped violently over and around me, I asked for Him to heal this horse and return her to the little girl that loves her...and let it all be in His perfect timing and all to His glory.

It is not in my nature to be melancholy...I always look for the humor in every situation.  I seek joy. All most always I find it too.  It's getting harder.  So, I pray more and I'm thankful more.  As I see the needs, I ask for God's peace...the kind that brings joy in abundance....and I give thanks for the many blessings.

It hasn't rained yet.  But it will rain again...one day.

Be A Blessing

Truth:  There is something about going to Wal-Mart that doesn't bring out the best in me.  My eyes inevitably focus on my fellow patrons and I stand there trying not to let my transparent facial expressions cause an incident.  Just by observing the folks at Wal-Mart I sense that the world has taken a severe left turn for the worse and I get a sick feeling in my stomach that involves my fear for the fate of our country.  I know that may sound harsh, but it's true.  

So, in a concerted effort not to lose my Jesus, I have limited my trips to Wal-Mart and started patronizing a local grocery store instead. The store is clean, well stocked, and if I go at the right times, I have the store nearly to myself.  The people who do shop there don't look like aliens from another planet, they are wearing real pants instead of pajamas, and acting in a civil and dignified manner...with exception to an older man who farts with every step he takes.

The past couple of times I have gone to my new choice in grocery stores, I have had the same cashier. Her layers upon layers of inexpensive brightly colored jewelry always catch my eye.  Last week I noticed that with every item she picked up from my cart she winced with pain. She had deep splits in her fingertips that would open from the pressure she applied to pick up an item. Item after item after item.  I felt guilty for buying so many things and torturing her...but she stood there at her register trying to smile and doing her best to do her job so she can pay her bills. 

Some days are hard enough just to get through, but when you hurt constantly just from doing your job, it has to really suck.  I couldn't get her off of my mind as I drove that thirty miles back home to the ranch. There is somebody I know that has those same splits, so I called them to see what, if anything, had worked. 

About a week later, I had to go back to the grocery store. I was disappointed I didn't see this cashier when I walked in, but I got my items and proceeded to the checkout. That cashier just happened to come back on duty from her break so I got in her line. I watched her unload my cart. There were band aids on her fingers trying to shield her fingertips from continual punishment. As she handed me my receipt, I handed her some things that will hopefully help her.  She was momentarily quiet, looking at what I had given her.  Studying it with her eyes and listening to me explain I had watched her trying to smile while doing her job and that I wanted her not to hurt so she could really smile.   She offered to pay me and I refused, telling her that this had been laid on my heart and was something I just wanted to do for her. She started to cry and asked me why I would do something so nice for her when I didn't even know her.  She didn't feel worthy of an act of love by a stranger...at first.  She looked up and asked me my name and came around the register and asked to give me a hug.  I  told her I was from the south and strongly believed in hugs.  We aren't strangers any more. 

The point of this story is not to tell you I am a good person....I'm not. I've met some really nice people in my life.  The kind that if you poked holes in them, they would bleed Jesus.  They've probably never said a bad word...not ever...and are always there when church doors are open.  Sorry, that's not me.  The point...THE POINT... is to remind you and me that every day we can open our eyes to those around us and recognize a need. A need we can do something about. We can choose to be a blessing and be the change we wish to see in this messed up world. One small act of love at a time. 

Cause what the world needs now....is love....sweet love...it's the only thing that's there just too little of.

Thawing Out

As a small child growing up in the deep south, snow was a fantasy only revealed once every seven or so years.  Like the mystical unicorn that materializes for fleeting erratic moments to keep the romance alive.  It didn't matter if there was just a dusting or an actual accumulation that could be measured in inches.  School was canceled.  You hustled to put on layers of mismatched clothes to get out in it...to embrace it...to touch the unicorn!  We would not come in for hours, not until there was no feeling left in our little hands and feet.  Wind chapped red faces and raspy breathing, we would only be staying in long enough to thaw out.  Pining to get back outside and complete the biggest snowman out of whatever white stuff could be gathered.

These were the days before I had cows in my life.  You see, there is something about animals that whenever there is a change in the atmospheric pressure their bodies decide "hey, this would be a great time to give birth."  This will be on my list of great mysteries that I save until that day that I get to crawl up in the lap of my Father.  He will lovingly brush my hair out of my face and ask me "child, what is it that you want to know?"

Storm Titan blew through the ranch in the dead of night on the second of March.  It got down to negative nine degrees that night.  There was a thick layer of snow on the ground from the last round of winter storms before this one blew through.  Nights like that I can't sleep.  In the darkness, I curl up into the fetal position and pray fervently over the animals as I listen to the wind howl over and around the house.  Please protect them I ask over and over.

Morning comes.  We hustle to put on layers of clothes covered by insulated coveralls and muck boots.  The diesel truck is loud but the crunching snow and ice under the tires is louder.  We have to put out hay because all their normal food is covered up by white stuff.  We have to break the ice in the water tanks so these lactating mommas can stay hydrated to make milk for their babies.  When it is nine degrees you hope the whole tank isn't frozen solid.  

We stop to cut the netting off the hay bale and my eyes start darting from cow to cow.  Noting which have had babies, if their babies were with them, do their bags look like they've been sucked.  The cows that just had babies are off at a distance....as is their custom.  They go off by themselves to give birth.  I see a white faced cow by herself.  Her big black calf laying there at her feet.  He is frozen solid.  She had him in the dead of night and she couldn't get him up and cleaned off fast enough.  He stuck to the ground and there was nothing she could do to get him up.  So he froze to death as she watched.

She saw us putting out the hay.  She was hungry.  Her maternal instincts were stronger.  She would not leave her baby.  Tears welled up in both my eyes and were about to spill over onto my checks.  I turned to hide my head and walked to the other side of the truck.  I wanted to hide the shame of my tears.  Kept telling myself to suck it up, this is life, this is what happens when you have cows....but my tender mother's heart was broken for my white face cow.  

We saw another cow a little further out who looked to have a new baby stashed under the cedar tree.  She would not leave her baby to come eat either, so we took some hay to her.  Her calf was black with a white face.  His black patches around his eyes made him look more like a panda bear than cow.  This momma loved her baby and wanted to take care of it, but it was obvious he hadn't eaten yet even though he was a couple hours old.  Ed jumped out of the truck and ripped the calf off of the ground.  He was starting to freeze to the ground and frost bite was evident on his tail and ears.  Ed shoved him in the front seat with me and I held him all the way to the cabin.  I studied his white eyelashes and deep dark eyes while holding onto the soft damp fur his mama had cleaned off.  

Once at the cabin, the storm of activity begins to save the calf.  Heater placed in bathroom, plastic covering the the floors, quilts gathered to maintain body heat, and rubbing all over to stimulate him.  The giant white plastic bottles filled with powdered colostrum replacement mixed with warm water have been prepared and topped with giant red nipples.  This calf didn't need much convincing.  He latched on and was eager to fill his empty belly.  He made it clear he wanted to live.  Titan wanted to live.

This is what snow means to me now. Trying not to focus on the calves lost...but find joy in the ones we rescued from an early icy end.  

Deep Abiding Love

There was a knock at my door...which doesn't happen very often out in the middle of no where.  It was my neighbor, Mr. Fields.  He was stopping by to talk to my husband about repairing some fences that separate our properties.  Mr. Fields is 96 years old. 

He stood outside my back door wearing a crisp light blue shirt, khaki pants, and nice leather loafer style shoes.  These are his work clothes and he was about to get on his tractor and plow up his fields preparing for the eventual planting of wheat when our chances of rain are better than pigs taking flight.  I told him that Ed wasn't home and had been gone every day since they last spoke.  Mr. Fields said he understood...stating that he was a hard worker too and there was nothing wrong with being a hard working man.

He has always gotten up at 5 AM without an alarm.  He goes to the café and orders one egg and one piece of toast to go with his coffee.  The other men in the café give him a hard time cause that's all he ever orders, to which he replies "I only eat what I need to.  I don't eat too much and I don't get fat or tired." His wife used to cook breakfast for him every morning.

Her name was Kate. 

When he was a spry nineteen year old, he was at the stock barn at the county fair.  He looked up to see a vision of loveliness and followed her to the building where the handmade quilts were on display.  He recalls just walking up to her and plainly stating "I'd like to know you."  They courted for the next four years.  It might be up to six months in between their dates.  In a day and time where relationships are quickly started and ended with nonstop communication, this fascinates me deeply.  They were married for sixty-four years.  Impressive by any one's standards.  In all that time he said he never found a fault with her and their time together was peaceful, without quarrel.  He said a woman like that doesn't come around very often.  She left for her eternal home nine years ago.

For an hour I watched his face as he spoke of her with such love and devotion.  His eyes lit up and there was such a respectful tone in his voice recalling the memories which he holds more dearly than any earthly possession.  I felt like I knew Kate personally when he was done talking.

I promised Mr. Fields that we would eat lunch with him this week and flush out the details on our shared fence project.  He was starting to walk towards his new shiny white Ford pickup truck with all the bells and whistles, and I asked him if he had a picture of Kate he could bring with him next week.  I want to attach a face to name and see this woman that still abides within the heart of her husband.

The word love gets thrown around a lot these days.  So much so it seems, that it has lost its meaning.  We use it to describe shoes, food, and many other temporary things that could never return an emotion.  The word so cheapened that it is forgotten as soon as the next sentence is spoken, but love...real love...isn't temporary.  It isn't a possession.  It was right in front of me as plain as day.  It was beautiful.

My Inner Indian

It is not unusual to look up and see my oldest daughter totally absorbed in reading a book.  She is an obsessive reader and it has become my parental challenge to keep her in books.  I was alarmed, however, to see her with big tears rolling down her cheeks while doing so.  She slowly closed her book and sat there and cried.  On the verge of being a moody little tween-ager,  I had to ask..."Gracie, what's wrong?"  She proceeded to explain that she just finished a series of books that she enjoyed and there were no more books to read in that series.  It was over.  She had to say goodbye to those characters and move on.  You'd have thought somebody she knows very well in real life had died.

Oh, the drama.

I breathed a small sigh of relief.  She then asked me what my favorite book was.  I used to love to read and always had a book in progress, but the last book I had read was What To Expect When You Are Expecting, which if you don't know is the worst book ever written to tell pregnant women what all COULD happen...and to EXPECT it!

Gracie then wanted to know why I didn't read any more.  The plain truth is I didn't think I had time any more.  Since becoming a wife and mother my time was filled with other things and books didn't make the Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs pyramid.  It was replaced with laundry, cooking, cleaning, and being the finder of lost things.  For the last twelve years I have told myself I didn't have time for books.  My child, the lover of books, told me that was the saddest thing she had ever heard.  Ever.  She publicly vowed that she would never let things get in the way of her love for books.

It broke my heart and my inner Indian cried.

My mind flashed to the Keep America Beautiful campaign/ public service announcement against littering that used to be in heavy rotation way back in my childhood.  The crying Indian standing on the side of the highway mourning people's trashy habits.  Tears for people who did not appreciate the beauty of what surrounded them.  Those big tears that rolled down his weathered face and the sadness in his eyes have haunted me to this very day.

So I promised her....as soon as the move is over....I would read a book. 

Move completed.  I read a book.  I did. I am in love with reading again and consuming books like they were puffy Cheetos. 

My inner Indian is now doing a happy dance despite the litter still on the side of the highway.