Easter in Pillville

My dad always bought my mom an Easter lily, so I bought us one. By mutual agreement, we decided to forgo the yucky candy. 

We didn't make a big deal out of Easter here in Pillville. I was scheduled to teach T'ai Chi Chih in the park this morning at 11:00, but got another teacher to sub for me at the last minute because at 10:15  my mom still hadn't gotten out of bed. She's usually up between 8:00 and 8:30, and given the extra meds, I was uneasy with our situation. Everything turned out okay with my mom. She had kind of a low key sleepy day, but by this evening, she was totally herself.

And all this made me rise up (ahem) out of my denial. I cannot really commit to anything--not even an hour's worth of something one mile from my house without pre-planning for a caregiver. This is how it is now. I'm okay with it. But it's like a new pair of uncomfortable shoes. I'm just gonna wear the damn things and break them in. I spent a couple of hours staring at my calendar this morning deciding what to keep, what to jettison. I have a plan. And the plan will change. I'm okay with that too, though I worry sometimes that out and out fatigue is what makes me so complacent.

All in all, it's been a lovely weekend. I've reconnected with two old friends. I've counted my blessings--and I've probably been able to do that more easily because of those conversations with friends.

Tonight at dinner my mom told me about a very vivid dream she had of her deceased twin sister. She told me about how, in real life at age 13, they were grown-ups, sent out to work waitress jobs. How people didn't tip back then, and that the one customer who did tip would cause a stampede among the waitresses when they saw him coming down the sidewalk toward the door. How, in that restaurant, she lost the beautiful rings that her mother gave her. She took them off in the locker room to put on her nylon stockings and her uniform. They were gone just like that, and nobody would admit to taking them.

We talked about how people want mementos of their dead loved ones. Rings, and pictures, and other things. It made me think about my dad. I wish I had his vintage silk ties and the neon sign from his business.

It's funny though--all this He Has Risen religiosity. Spring and fertility. Eggs and pretty colored candy. Exactly one year ago, I was at Dan's place cleaning out his refrigerator. I was on a mission. Chemo, radiation, suppressed immune system, spoiled food. He was in terrible shape. And here I am again this spring, in yet another season of decline.

But hey everyone! I have that number I can call!

Hope your Easter was sweet.

The 47%-ers in My House

My mother is one of the 47%. She began her working life at the age of 14 after she graduated from 8th grade. That's how life was in the 1930s when you grew up one of the rural poor. Her first job was as a mother's helper for a rich woman who had postpartum depression--though they didn't call it that then. "Never leave the mother alone with the baby," she was told. But one night when my mother was off duty the woman tried to kill the baby even though the woman's husband was right there. Both the baby and my mother were packed up and sent off to the grandparents' house. The mother went to an asylum. There might have been another child-care job after that, and at some point she ran the roulette wheel at a casino across the river in East Dubuque, Illinois. Her parents were quite taken aback the night they stopped in for a bit of entertainment. There was a food-service job for a Catholic men's college. She remembers putting the cherry just-so in the center of the grapefruit halves for the priests' breakfasts. There was waitress work, too, her feet screaming for relief by the end of a busy night. During the war she worked as a file clerk for a big aircraft manufacturer. After that came the night club jobs. Fancy places in Baltimore with names like the Chanticleer and the Band Box where she worked as a hat check girl or taking souvenir Polaroid pictures. "You always had to ask first," she said. "In case the guy was out with another woman." She was the hostess in a restaurant after she returned to the midwest and met my dad there. She raised four kids on a budget that never had any wiggle room. She canned vegetables from the garden, made jams and pies from the fruit trees, sewed our clothes, and stretched every dollar to the breaking point. After my dad died she began a string of factory jobs and finally landed a union job that paid a decent wage. Her final job was as a custodian for the city of Baltimore where she was horrified at how much useable stuff got tossed in the trash. I've never thought of her as a victim--or as someone looking for a handout. Although she'll tell you it was a damn good thing there were food stamps after General Motors told her my dad's life insurance policy "wasn't any good." We fell into the safety net, but it wasn't long before she hoisted us back out.

This year my daughter will be a 47%-er, too, I suppose, since she quit her three jobs to start grad school.

As for me, I'm a taxpayer. I'll bet you my tax rate is twice as high as Mitt Romney's. But I guess we'll never know for sure.

photo credit: Carol Sigurdson Klein

The Margaritaville Child Labor Report & Why I Am Going to be Cremated

It's so nice to have an extra pair of hands. Last night after dinner and a stunning sunset walk on the beach, I put the girl to work. The garage cabinets were installed yesterday, and it was the granddaughter's job to put my five million photo albums into one of the new cabinets.

 Even a ten-year-old knows excess when she sees it. Yes, there are many wonderful memories that are contained those books, but I feel saddled by the bulk of it all. And the fact that Mr. Ex took most of the photos. I have no desire to look at even a single photo of the man. This Thanksgiving I will begin to lobby my daughters to weed through and save only the photos that are still relevant. Rather than connecting with people at social events, Mr. Ex hovered on the edges behind his camera. We have photos of everyone who ever crossed our path. Do we really need them? I say listen to the ten-year-old.

This morning as we wait for the "blind man"--the guy who will be installing the blinds, we built (it was a pre-fab kit, mind you) a garden bench. The girl got to see her grandmother wielding a power drill and an allen wrench. Everyone should have a drill/driver, in my opinion. Handiest gadget ever. The bench is now successfully installed next to the hose by the back door, and there is plenty of room for three grandchildren to sit and be blasted free of sand and beach tar by their grandmother. Plus the bench is pretty gorgeous and can be moved to the patio for parties. And can I say again, how wonderful it was to have an extra set of hands?

The next project coming up after this break is a potting table. More about that later.

Oh, and the surgery on the kid's bathing suit was successful. The lining was snipped out, and a half cup of sand freed from its confines. Hello, bathing suit manufactures, are you listening?

More about the beach last night: The was a dead dolphin lying on the sand. Sea gulls were dining. I spotted it first and warned the girl. She took it in stride, and even was willing to look. Maybe a bit less squeamish than I. I delivered my standard wisdom. "Good for the seagulls; bad for the dolphin." And then we talked about how maybe it wasn't actually bad for the dolphin. Maybe it was sick or injured. Maybe it's time on earth was just meant to be finished. As we walked back to the car and saw the carcass a second time, another beach walker paused near the animal, hands outstretched, and appeared to offer a prayer. The girl and I stood silently atop a dune and honored the moment.

I've delivered the good/bad analysis of  death and animals eating other animals numerous times in my tenure as a mother and grandmother. It's a little trite, and I'm relieved that I have elected to be cremated so none of my children or grandchildren, will say,"Bad for mom/grandma; good for the worms."