Decline

My parents never thought about their inevitable aging. Mom always called others in her same age group, “Little Old Ladies, saying she still felt as though she were much younger.

Dad continued working long after retirement, by choice, and last worked in his eighties. His last contract to install electrical wiring in the attic of an old building refurbished for a small church community which he did voluntarily without pay except for reimbursement for necessities.

Mom’s first stay at a nursing home ended when she called 911 because she was constipated and in pain, and the nursing home “would do nothing to help her”. EMT's arrived and took her to the Emergency Room. She received treatment and was returned.

The following Monday, Dad was asked to take her back home. He took care of her himself from that time forward while denying his own frailness another couple of years. Mom was legally blind, having lost 85% of her sight due to Macular Degeneration, getting hard of hearing, incontinent and could no longer walk without assistance. Several times they fell down together as Dad tried to help her get into bed. Due to the fact that their income slightly exceeded the poverty level, they did not qualify for any of the services that would otherwise assist them. They ended up without house or car.

Once the car was gone and Dad’s independence stripped from him, it was painful to know the situation they were in. Because they lived far from other family members, we arranged for them to move to assisted living a few blocks away from their granddaughter. Since she was a nurse she was able to at least keep an eye on them. Dad’s COPD was getting worse and he needed oxygen, but he felt it was important to save money, so he used it as little as possible. At the same time, not using the air conditioning that would have helped protect him from the Southern California smog.

With my older brother in NY, younger one in AZ, my baby sister in TX, and I in northern CA, was heart rending for all of us to watch this demise. Previously, younger brother lived near them and was Dad’s shoulder to lean on. My sister, also living in Southern California at the time, drove up to four hours in order to be there in person to help them out as often as she could tolerate it after putting in a full day’s work. Then cutting her work hours so she could spend more time with them. It seemed miraculous how she did it in her mid-fifties like that. She sacrificed so much in order to care for them.

I felt helpless, but because of my own chronic medical issues, I could do nothing tangible to help out. So the telephone became our bridge. Daily calls for the reports of the day, mostly complaints of the new disappointments that life was bringing them. But, the joint pleasure that sustained them both were their pet Abyssinian cats. I could always depend on being able to bring a chuckle out of Dad, or a giggle out of Mom and help soothe away the troubles they were challenged with daily, simply by asking, “How are the Beau and Boo doing?” Suddenly cute stories of their observations and interpretations of the cat’s behaviors came pouring out. So, being telephone support person, became my way of being there.

Then came the day when my daughter, the nurse, informed us all that “Grandpa has made some mistakes with Grandma’s medicine. And he really is not well enough to care for her anymore.” So the decision to encourage them to move into the nursing home together arose. Of course, my father would have nothing to do with it, until we were able to get him to understand that it would be best for Mom.

To keep them from having broken hearts, I promised to take in their precious cats. The day they moved into the nursing home, my niece put them in her car and drove 400 miles to bring them to me.

Karen's Story - A Snippet 2

It wasn't until summertime that someone actually made friends with her. It wasn't me, though. I was surprised to learn it was my little sister. One day, I found the two of them, sitting on the ground leaning against the trunk of the old cherry tree eating tomatoes picked fresh from our garden.  An unlikely pair, they looked odd together, Karen, tall, pale and gangly next to my short, rosy faced 8 year old sister. Karen looked more bedraggled than she had throughout the school year, her long bruised legs barely covered now by her too small dress. That same dress I'd always seen her wearing to school.

Karen, shyly kept her eyes averted from me until I asked her how old she was. I was shocked to learn she was a few weeks from her 13th birthday. I was 16 at the time. She seemed so much younger playing games and giggling with my sister.  As the days went by I realized Karen was waiting outside at the edge of our property, probably since dawn, until my sister got up and went outside. So I invited her in and gave her breakfast. She didn't turn me down and thanked me profusely. That girl could put away a lot of food!

Her eyes spoke volumes. I just didn't know how to interpret the message. I thought I knew then why the guarded, sad eyes. Her mother had died and she lived in that shack with her father who left her alone to manage throughout the day as he went to work. No wonder she spent all her time hanging out with my sister. As they ran and played across the woods and pastures, the dogs lolling along with them Karen bloomed and ripened with the apple trees. I liked to think it was the three square meals we provided her every day.

A short time before school was to start in the fall I was up in my room sewing my new clothes. Farm girls did that back then. I heard the girls shreiking in joy and I went to the window to see what was going on. They were jumping up and down and going in circles, Karen holding some dollar bills in her hand. I don't know why it made me suspicious, but I went downstairs and called them in to have lemonade. Karen had the money rolled tightly in her hand as she whispered in my sister's ear and passed it on to her.

"What's going on?" I asked, wondering if the girls had stolen the money from the old man who took care of the chickens and slept in the converted cow shed. Old Jim had been a fixture on the farm since we had moved there and the landlord gave him the right to live there until he died, as he had worked for his family as a farmhand for generations. Old Jim swore like a sailor and drank too much in my opinion. I didn't care for him and steered clear. I knew he had recently recieved his social security check as his friend, Clarence with the old Bathtub Nash, had driven by to pick him up so the two of them could go into town and buy booze.

"Will you sew some clothes for Karen, for school? She has money to buy the fabric."

"And where did this money come from?"

"Old Jim."

I couldn't believe my ears. Not only did they steal the money but they were stupid enough to tell me about it. "You girls go put that money back from where you got it! Or I'm telling Mom!"

My sister, defiant, came to Karen's rescue. "But, she didn't steal it. She earned it. Jim asked her to clean up his place and gave her the money for it."

I was relieved and agreed to sew some new school clothes for Karen. It began to bother me as more money and more requests for new clothes came every few days.

Karen's Story - A Snippet

Beyond the end of the road, the girl who lived in the apple orchard shack got on the school bus every day wearing the same faded nondescript cotton dress. While climbing the steps, she tightly gripped her schoolbooks.  I wondered if she was afraid of dropping them. Her straggly brown hair hung limp and dirty over her eyes as she kept her head down looking at her dirty finger nails.

She always took the same seat directly behind the driver, stared out the window, and never spoke to others. Not that anyone ever wanted to speak to her anyway, except maybe to pick on her. But, lucky for her, she was more invisible than that. She was considered to be one of those "Cootie" kids.

I was very curious about her; wondered how anybody could be so poor as to not have a change of clothes.

We were poor, too, after the bankruptcy. But, at least my parents got decent clothes for us at the thrift shop and hand-me-downs from friends. We grew our own vegetables and raised chickens and eggs. We weren't bone skinny. I wondered why she was so skinny and most of all, how she could fall asleep on the way home from school on the bus and not wake up in all the noise. Why was she so tired?

Yard Sales and Thrift Shopping

What makes a person hoard, or collect things?

Was it what triggered my mother's frequent visits to thrift shops and yard sales? She seemed to have a never ending compulsion to buy up trinkets, knick knacks, kitchen ware and clothing.

She had various collections over the years. I remember the rooster stage. The house was full of them. Then there was the "copper kitchen" phase. Her Hummel figurines and angels had their own shelves strategically placed throughout the house. Still, she culled and cleared once in a while. Her sense of being a dutiful housewife had not been overidden her desire to own things. Underneath it all, she was a clean freak.

If Mom had a penchant for signs of abundance, I'm sure it was due to the poverty of growing up in the post depression era. It was a time of little food, clothes made out of papa's worn shirts and going without shoes all summer to save the expense of buying new ones. She owned one doll in her whole childhood, and one little child size teapot she cherished until the day she died.

In order for me to come to the decision of becoming a minimalist, I am affording myself a look upon that which has brought me to this point as I tackle the not insurmountable task of divesting myself of "stuff". The last ten years, I have lived in one house, beginning with it empty, except for bare minimum of belongings. Now, I'm guessing, my belongings could accommodate the needs of several families.

I have diligently discarded margarine tubs, and not allowed myself to have sentimental attachment to Christmas cards and magazines. (Paper is my weakness.) I've regularly made a run through my house de-cluttering and discarded things a la Fly Lady. But, like my mother, I have a penchant for the delight of finding a treasure at a bargain price whether it be a teacup edged in gold or sturdy bedsheets.

About five years ago I gave up stopping at yard sales! It was sort of like severing my arm from my body, but I needed to lighten the burden of my "things". I wanted to let go and be free of excess. It's an addiction difficult to break.

At first it was extremely challenging to drive by without taking a wistful look. I learned to carry no cash. Who would take a check for even my most avid purchase? And it certainly helped having someone else do the driving, admonishing me, "Don't Look!"

Today, however, I stopped at the thrift shop on a whim. They take credit cards, you know. The store called out to me, I swear. "Stop! Don't pass me by!"

Or was that "buy"?

It's Mom's Birthday

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 89. She led a good life, a hard life. She had such a lovely name, Genevieve.

Her early memories were of living in the lumber camps, where Papa's work was still necessary, a blacksmith when it was a dying art. Her mother worked as cook and washerwoman for the lumber company. Their home, less a home than we can imagine, with a shed-porch where she and her brother slept and woke up to snow on the bed, because of the open slats holding up the roof.

She didn't think it was a hard life then. She just thought that was the way life was.

In a way, she worked for the lumber camp herself, setting the long tables with plates and eating utensils. Putting syrup, molasses, salt and home made jams in the center for the pancakes while her mother cooked up the big pans of bacon and eggs fried in their grease.

Once the lumbering dried out, no more trees to cut, you see. They went to live in the house of a relative who took them in. Papa tried to run his smithy there on that Crooked Creeak Road out "in the sticks", as she called it. Papa died when she was nine, at the beginning of the fall of the stock market and the Depression. It made no difference in their lives. They were already poor.

So she could find work as a housekeeper, mother sent her off to live with her older, married sister.

A year later she was brought home to live with Mother and her new Step-Dad.  Suddenly, the poverty was not so oppressive as her mother continued to work in a diner as a cook. Her pies the prize of the county.

Those are just some facts about my Mom's childhood, shared for no particular reason except today is my mother's birthday and these things have come to mind.

The first photo is my mother as an infant with her mother and aunt, and work horse.

Second photo was taken the year Papa died.

The third photo was taken when Genevieve was 14, when times were better.