A few summers ago I picked up this scribbled-on, scribbled-in, musty-smelling copy of The Poky Little Puppy at a yard sale. It was in the give-away pile and I felt sorry for it. Since my copy, actually, both of my copies were in Greene and I was in Cooperstown, I felt like it was the right thing to do.
The Poky Little Puppy is like an old friend. I remember asking my mother to read it to me over and over.
I identified with this independent-minded puppy who followed his own nose instead of the pack.
Of course, it got him into trouble — but this wasn’t like the trouble Sally and her brother could have gotten in in The Cat in the Hat. That book always gave me knots in my stomach. It just seemed like there was something a little malicious about The Cat in the Hat and Thing 1 and Thing 2.
But the Poky Little Puppy was an explorer.
And he eventually paid the price by missing out on strawberry shortcake.
Still, if I were to be made into a storybook character, this would be this one.
Either that, or The Giving Tree, whom I look to as my role model.
For years I had heard my father talk about wanting to go to Normandy.
I don’t think my mother was particularly interested. She had humored him on his stops at Civil War battlefields on their way to Myrtle Beach. I had been with them on one of those visits and, I’m sorry to say, my eyes glazed over a little as he pointed to this place and that on the field in front of us. I’m not a student of the Civil War.
I’m not a student of war. While I have read any number of books about WWII, they have not been battle descriptions but concentration camp stories, or smuggling-the-Jews-to-safety stories. But that’s beside the point.
My father wanted to go to Normandy.
The year after my mother died was a rough year. She died in November. In the months immediately following, my father was diagnosed with Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus (NPH, for short). The next summer, he had surgery that involved putting a shunt in his brain that emptied into his abdominal cavity.
After his recovery from the surgery, I decided that we needed to get him to France because if we didn’t do it soon, we would lose the opportunity.
I talked to my husband and my siblings. My husband wanted to go. My sister and her husband were on board with the trip. One of my brothers cleared a week in his schedule so he could go, too.
I planned and I planned. I booked places, cancelled them, and booked others as I learned that I needed to make sure the hotel we stayed in had an elevator – aka lift. (Apparently, not all places have them, plus the first floor in France is what we call the 2nd floor.) I found a private guide. My sister helped book transportation from Paris to Bayeux and back again. She found a wonderful hotel in Paris (that had a lift).
When the time came, we flew to Paris, traveled to Normandy, and had an amazing time.
I even appreciated seeing the battlefield sites, the dimpled earth, the bunker at Pointe du Hoc, the cliffs.
What’s in the bag beside my chair?
I’ll tell you what I keep in there —
Three books
Five journals
Two mechanical pencils
Four loose pens — two black, two blue
A set of six black graphic liner pens
Another set of three in sepia tone
A set of eight Pilot G2 gel pens in varying colors
A recipe for shortbread,
Morning prayers from Laity Lodge,
My portable hard drive
A portable charger,
An I-love-you note
A thank you note
Blank postcards
Advil
Zinc cold remedy
A sticker
A pin
A travel lock
Loose change totalling 86¢
Old shopping lists
Expired coupons
Old grocery store receipts
Clearly I keep too much stuff
So I said, “Enough is enough!”
The last three items on my list
Without much fanfare were dismissed.
The other night at dinner one of my children was talking about his goals. My daughter-in-law asked, “Are you talking about goals, objectives, strategies, outputs, or outcomes? They’re all different, you know.”
I messaged her this morning to ask her to list them again and then I started looking up the differences.
Most of the websites that define the terms are about grant-writing — which makes sense because Emily writes grants for her job.
I read through several websites. As best I can figure out,
a Goal is broad and general. It defines purpose.
Objectives are specific and concrete. They move you toward your goal.
your Strategy is the approach you take
your Output is the actual result of your work
your Outcome are the changes that were wrought as a result of whatever it is you’re doing
I smiled and nodded as I read. I understood, but the hard part is application.
So I decided to tackle just one goal à la Emily the grant writer.
GOAL — to keep my father home.
The top story in today’s newspaper cemented that:
This happened in the nursing home where my mother had been. I get a pit in my stomach when I read these stories.
I know that not everyone can care for their family member at home for a number of reasons. To those of you who cannot, I give this advice: Be present. On a regular basis, be there. Talk to the staff. Talk to the other residents. Look through your family member’s closet and dresser to make sure things are there, clean, and belong to your family member.
My goal, though, is to keep my father home.
OBJECTIVE — Live in the same house with him.
STRATEGY — Move to Cooperstown. I know many people move their parent(s) in with them, but, for a number of reasons, this wasn’t the best option for us. I moved here in 2015 with my two youngest daughters and we hoped that my husband would soon join us.
This house had become the repository for many family members. In order for us to live here, we had to clear stuff out.
And we did.
But there’s still a long way to go.
OUTPUT —We’re here and my father is here.
We’ve reclaimed rooms in the house so the kids have space that is theirs. I’ve slowly whittled away at stuff that has accumulated here. Two loveseats went to the curb a few weeks ago and were quickly taken. I’m making headway with the boxes of papers. We still have more to go, but we’re moving in the right direction.
After being a frequent flyer at the Emergency Room for chest pain, my father’s doctor and I came up with a strategy. She told me to 1) Sit him in his recliner with his feet up. 2) Check his blood pressure. 3)DON’T take him to the ER for at least 2 hours unless his numbers look bad. The first few times were rough — he was very insistent that he needed to go, but with his BP, pulse, and O2 all normal, I told him that we needed to wait. Each time whatever it was passed and he went back to bed. We’re making progress.
OUTCOME —My father is still home. It’s not so much a change as standing our ground.
I think that’s an accomplishment. It’s not easy. It’s hard on everyone, but as the doctor we saw today said, “I would do anything for this man.”
My father is that kind of person. Having lived a generous life, he should be able to reap some of what he has sown.
I’ve got nothing for you today — certainly not my five favorite songs. Besides, today’s top five will be different from tomorrow’s top five. For the record, though, the top five songs on my iTunes are all Andrew Peterson.
So here’s a little nonsense with song titles by some of the artists or albums I like:
1Dear Prudence,
2What’s the buzz?
3If I could 4colour my world — 5wait, 6I don’t know how. 7If I had a million dollars 8I’ll find a way.
9After all these years 10what hurts the most, 11Sir Duke (had) 12nothing to say 13until you came along.
14Ready for the storm? 15Sigh no more 16if 17the rain keeps falling 18here in America. 19Where you are, 20carrot juice is murder.
21Good night.
22PS I love you.
1. The Beatles — you’ve got to love the Beatles
2. Jesus Christ, Superstar — I listened to this album no less than 1679 times
3. Simon & Garfunkel (El Condor Pasa)
4. Chicago (loved the flute solo in this song)
5. The Beatles
6. Jason Gray
7. Barenaked Ladies
8. Jill Phillips and Andy Gullahorn (also Jason Gray)
9. Andrew Peterson
10. Rascal Flatts (representative of my country music listening era)
11. Stevie Wonder (first album I remember buying with my own money)
12. Andrew Peterson
13. JJ Heller
14. Rich Mullins
15. Mumford & Sons
16. Bread
17. Andrew Peterson
18. Rich Mullins
19. Rich Mullins
20. Arrogant Worms (they make me laugh)
21. The Beatles
22. The Beatles
I made the collage at the top for last year’s A-to-Z Challenge. The background is from Ezra Jack Keats’ Over in the Meadow. The child is from The Silly Sheepdog by Heather Amery and Stephen Cartwright. The bee (and maybe the spider, but I’m not sure) is(are) from A Trip to the Yard, pictures by Marjorie Hartwell and Rachel Dixon.
In 3rd grade (maybe it was 4th)
I won the spelling award.
I thought Jack Harvey would win it
When they called my name, I was floored.
Shocked. Delighted. Astounded
That I had scored higher than Jack
But the biggest bombshell of all
Was seeing my dad in the back.
When the principal called out my name,
I was startled and caught by surprise
But I walked to the front of the gym
To collect my certificate prize.
Then I turned to walk back to my seat —
And I was caught by surprise once more.
Could that really be my father
Framed in that far back door?
He had left the hospital early –
The nurses, patients, and staff –
To squeeze in the crowd at the elementary gym
Because his daughter could spell giraffe.
Now beating Jack Harvey was one thing
And ’tis a good thing to know how to spell
But knowing your father is proud of you
Well, that’s just pretty darn swell.
“Do you ever think about what it would be like if things were different?” my husband asked yesterday.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Like, what if the job in Hershey had worked out,” he said.
Ah, yes, the job in Hershey. In 2005, Bud had taken a job in Hershey, PA, that turned out to be not exactly what it looked like on the surface. In fact, we found out later that he had been one of a string of people who had walked through that revolving door and walked out again within a few months. The toxic work environment hadn’t been evident at interview time — but he saw canaries dying everywhere in that departmental coal mine after he started.
Five hours away, I was home with the children. Our oldest had started college, but our youngest was not yet two. I started having back spasms from the stress of trying to homeschool while keeping our house clean enough to show to prospective buyers.
Then I did what any person in that situation would do — I got a puppy.
“I try not to think about Hershey,” I told Bud. “That was a stressful time.”
“But if we were there, you wouldn’t be here,” he said wistfully. He and I both want to be together again.
After Hershey, my husband took a job in Binghamton, about an hour and a half from Cooperstown. Our Cooperstown house sold and we bought a house in Greene, an hour and fifteen minutes away from Cooperstown
The process of moving to Cooperstown to help my father happened in small steps. First, I started coming once a week with the girls to help him with my mother. Then twice a week. Then spending one overnight. Then for the summer because the kids had jobs in Cooperstown.
It was like boiling a frog, raising the temperature one degree at a time.
Caring for my parents became a larger and larger job, but I didn’t see a good alternative. I still don’t.
Before the fall when I actually moved here to stay with my father, my husband and I discussed the options.
“I think I’ll be able to work remotely when we get this new computer system in,” he said.
Sometimes I AM wishful about that — because it still hasn’t panned out.
During the first fall I lived here with the girls, my father had a fall in which he hit his head. It caused a subdural bleed. A month later my mother died. The doctor told my father he couldn’t drive anymore. My father had brain surgery. I was so glad I was here for all of it.
But the journey of aging only goes in one direction.
I love what I do, though. I love being able to help people I love. I know this is a privilege; not everyone has the support or the means to do it.
Every day, I am grateful that I can.
One small change would make it the perfect job — to have my husband here with me.
I usually misquote Henri Nouwen’s and say, “My interruptions are my work,” when someone asks me my favorite quote. Here’s the real quote in context:
A few years ago I met an old professor at the University of Notre Dame, Looking back on his long life of teaching, he said with a funny wrinkle in his eyes: “I have always been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I slowly discovered that my interruptions were my work.”
That is the great conversion in our life: to recognize and believe that the many unexpected events are not just disturbing interruptions of our projects, but the way in which God molds our hearts and prepares us for his return.
~ from Out of Solitude by Henri J. Nouwen
But having recently reread Shakespeare’s Sonnet #116, I’ve been pondering this line:
… Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
My father so faithfully loved my mother through her dementia.
I hate talking about myself. Who cares that 1I love coffee and 2hate brussels sprouts?
If a person is defined by the company he or she keeps, let me tell you about some of the people who are dear to me. That may tell you more about me than my blathering.
All her life, my mother saved newspaper clippings. When I cleaned out her desk, I found that she had saved clippings about me — from 3when I volunteered at a Red Cross bloodmobile as a teen, from 4that time USA Today featured my family in a little story about the Baseball Hall of Fame, from the interview 5when I was coaching the high school swim team and I didn’t say all the things I said. My mother wasn’t good at overtly expressing love or letting me know that she was proud of me, but those clippings said a lot.
My father asked me to be 6his health care proxy many years ago. Until we sat in that awful meeting with the doctor discussing end-of-life care for my mother, I didn’t realize what a heavy burden that was. To make those decisions is not for the faint of heart. Of late, I have realized that one of the things I have disliked about myself — 7that I am an INTJ — is the very thing that equips me for that task.
Thankfully, too, 8I have three surviving siblings(Donabeth, Peter, and Jim) that will stand, sit, and walk beside me when the time comes. I’m not alone.
9My oldest brother, Stewart, had a fatal heart attack in 2014. 10I hadn’t returned his final phone call to me a week before. I’ll have no regrets like that from here on out — I’m going to love and care for my family with every ounce of my being.
11My husband is my biggest supporter. I couldn’t do what I’m doing (12caring for my father) without him. Our time together these days is limited, but that makes it all the more sweet when we can get away together, like 13our trip to France last year and 14 to Laity Lodge this April.
15We have eight children (Philip, Owen, Sam, Helen, Jacob, Karl, Mary, and Laurel), three daughters-in-law (Amanda, Emily, and Donna), and two grandchildren (Henry and Everett). Getting everyone together is rare and so very sweet.
Zaengle gathering 1985
My husband is from a large family — thirteen children (joeybuddyjackiebillydonnytommyjimmyeddieanniemaryjanniejeanniekenny), although two are now deceased. When they all get together, with spouses and children and grandchildren, whew – what a crowd! 16I love large families. 17The introvert side of me, though, needs lots of recharging after family gatherings.
I’ve met some of my favorite people at an event called 18Hutchmoot. Those friendships have extended beyond the conference. Alyssa and I have kept up a correspondence for years that involves the baring of hearts and sharing of lives. Helena sent me her book when I asked her about it. Melanie sent me an out-of-print book for pretty much the same reason. I sent David chapstick when I heard he hated it. Libby talked to my daughter Mary about being a librarian. Leah traveled the world with me. Kim came to my son’s wedding in British Columbia. A group of us went to Laity Lodge together and hold each other in prayer regularly (including AE, Jade, two Kristens, two Lauras, and more).
19I love meeting people from other cultures, and some of my favorite people are Muslim. I’m looking at you, Maftuna, as well as Hanka, Sabina, Šefika, Amina, and Ayla.
20I skipped out on my 40th high school reunion last summer. I couldn’t get past the thought of making small talk for hours. Thankfully, though, one of my friends, Dana, called that weekend and we went to breakfast together to catch up. Another friend, Brad, stopped by the house. Still others – Jack, Cheryl, Beth, Dan – keep up with me on Facebook. I see Mark almost every time I go to the grocery store. I ran into Hugh last week at a party. Who needs a reunion?
I wanted to introduce you to so many others — Anna Brown, who is a delight, that I met through blogging and then met in real life; Laura Brown, a fellow caregiver and a great teacher, whose superpower is encouragement; women from our church in Greene (Donna, Kay, Joy, and Tammy) who regularly check in to say they miss us and ask how we’re doing; Pastor Amy, who touched my life in ways I can’t express; friends like Jan and Mary whose families parallel my own — but this is already too long.
I think I blathered.
But I’ve listed more than 20 people and numbered 20 facts about me.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 