Just Keeping It Real

March 25, 2017April 21, 2017 Sally5 Comments

I read a comment on Facebook yesterday about women’s faith blogs — how they talk about messy lives but fail to show the mess. Let me show you my mess. Without my mess, my blog is meaningless.

It’s after 9 AM. I’m still in my pajamas. My top is an oversized men’s shirt that I bought at a thrift store. My flannel pants are old and comfy. I put on socks because my feet get cold in the morning. I grabbed the ones on the floor by my bed because they were closest, and I was bleary-eyed from a lousy night’s sleep. The socks are threadbare. Just keeping it real.

My left ankle aches. The bruising from my knee injury is draining to my feet. I asked a doctor about it — the husband of a friend — at a swim meet because I didn’t want to make a trip to the clinic. He said it was normal. It looks awful but no one sees my ankles, and I can live with the ache. But I prop my leg up like an old woman, and I guess I am.

When I finish my quiet time, I hide my pile of books on the floor by the chair where I usually sit. If I don’t, my father may start looking through them. It’s not there’s anything I don’t want him to see and I would be happy to share them, but something about unbidden looking feels like an invasion of my minimal privacy.

The dog follows me everywhere. She sleeps by my bed. I hear her licking at weird hours of the night. At 5 AM she follows me down the stairs, and up and down with me every time I use the bathroom or get something from my bedroom. She has bad breath and thunks up and down the stairs gracelessly.

The kitchen table is a mass of papers. My parents have always had clutter problems. I inherited that gene. What if something I recycle turns out to be important?

… but

If I choose to focus on the positives…

My coffee was delicious this morning. Fresh ground coffee beans make all the difference. Even “Fred” said this morning, “Mom, you make great coffee.”

Yes, “Fred” is visiting. And Helen. And Bud is back from his business trip. My father is working on the crossword puzzle in the chair next to me. Philip and Henry video-called this morning. I am surrounded by family and feeling oh-so-blessed.

Even the dog is in the room, lying on the floor far enough away that I can’t smell her. I can see where her coat is turning from black to gray and am reminded that she is an old dog. How much longer will we have her? I don’t know, but I’m going to be thankful for that time.

“Fred” is trying to write a haiku for Henry and every line rhymes. Helen laughs, and says, “Haikus don’t have to rhyme, you know,” but “Fred” keeps working on it.

Life is good. Even with a cluttered kitchen table and threadbare socks.

Caregiver’s Serenity Prayer

March 22, 2017March 22, 2017 Sally6 Comments

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot do,

I can’t “fix” my loved one.

I can’t make him think more clearly.

I can’t make him understand.

I can’t go back in time, and mustn’t languish over how or what he was, because he is who he is now and that’s where we are.

Courage to do the things I can,

I can handle business affairs — writing checks, paying bills, scheduling appointments.

I can do laundry.

I can prepare meals and serve snacks.

I can answer the phone.

I can chauffeur.

I can explain things over and over and over and over, and set my exasperation aside.

And the wisdom to know the difference.

When I lay in bed at night, let me not angst over the battle, but, in the weariness of a hard-fought day, take my rest knowing that I did the best I could.

Few will see or know what I do.

My own loved one will never fully grasp the sacrifice that I, and my husband, and my children, are all making on his behalf.

But it is right and good.

And You know, o Lord.

Let that be enough.

Adapted from The Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr.

family

Pi Day

March 18, 2017 Sally4 Comments

On Pi Day (3/14) I made pie: shepherd’s pie for dinner and lemon meringue pie for dessert. I forgot to take a picture of the shepherd’s pie at all, and I snapped a shot of the lemon meringue after we had already had some.

Today I was thinking about the Meal-on-Wheels controversy. Apparently Donald Trump proposed cutting funds that provide for that program.

At first I was horrified.

My father-in-law relied on Meals-on-Wheels. Of course, he didn’t always like the meals and let us know. He also saved up the little cans of juice that he got with the program and offered them as treats to his grandchildren. It turns out nobody really liked them.

If Meals-on-Wheels funding had been cut back when he was using it, what would have happened? I’m sure we would not have let my father-in-law go hungry. My first call would have been to his church and the next to other people in the community where he lived most of his life. It would have taken some work, but we would have figured something out.

It would have required something of me.

I thought about Meal-on-Wheels on Pi Day, because I know my father isn’t a huge shepherd’s pie fan. I comforted myself with the fact that he was getting a hot homemade meal — not because I’m part of a government program, but because I’m his daughter.

This morning I read this from Pascal:

Dost thou wish that it always cost Me the blood of My humanity, without thy shedding tears?

I fear that we, as a people, are reaching a point where we are always looking for someone else to pay the cost without us having to shed a single tear. Or make a meal for someone else. Or even help ourselves.

If governmental funding for Meals-on-Wheels is cut, we could still get to work and make sure our elderly are fed.

When the going gets tough, we need to look for ways to help.

elderly · family

Shoveling Again

March 17, 2017 Sally9 Comments

Just my luck — I’m the daughter of a stubborn man.

I looked out the window yesterday and this is what I saw.

Old habits really do die hard.

Aw, phooey.

family

Old Habits Die Hard

March 15, 2017 Sally5 Comments

“Aw, phooey,” he said, as he handed me the shovel and turned to go back inside.

“Aw, hell,” he said, as he hung up his coat and turned toward his walker.

We are in the midst of a major snowstorm. The Weather Channel said something about 48″ around Cooperstown. I believe it.

Even the dog doesn’t like it — and our dog loves snow. Maggie can’t play in this. All she can do is flounder.

Last night and this morning Laurel and I shoveled for a while and barely got past one car. Then my brother, Peter, came down to borrow the car because he needed to go into town. His driveway is much longer than ours, and the plow guy hadn’t come yet.

So Peter walked over and together we shoveled.

And shoveled.

We finally had a path wide enough to back the car out. I ran into the house to get Peter some money so he could pick up a prescription for my father. Just inside the door stood my father, coat on, gloves on, ready to head outside.

“Where are you going, Dad?” I asked.

“Well, I’m going outside to help,” he said.

“I think we’re all set,” I told him.

“Do you know how much work it took to get all this stuff on?” he asked, and headed for the door.

I sighed, and ran to find my wallet. It wasn’t worth arguing about, and he might like to see all the snow.

When I came back out, Peter was talking to my father on the ramp leading to the house. Laurel and I had barely shoveled a path wide enough for the walker to fit. I gave Peter the money and he left.

“Okay, Dad,” I said, “let’s go back in.”

“I want to go get that shovel,” he said, pointing to the shovel I had shoved into the snowbank.

“I can get it,” I told him, but he pretended not to hear me and headed down the ramp.

When he reached the shovel, I was right behind him. “Let me take that back to the house for you,” I said, reaching for the shovel.

“I’d like to shovel,” he said.

I groaned. He started shoveling. Inside I was feeling frustrated.

“Dad,” I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, “you may have reached the time in your life when you need to let others do things for you — like shoveling.”

He stopped and looked at me. “I’m not helpless,” he said.

I walked back to the house and stood there. Why can’t he just stop? I muttered in my heart.

I touched Tuga was in my pocket. Go help him, Tuga seemed to whisper.

I grabbed another shovel and went back down to where my father was shuffling snow. He leaned on his shovel when I got there. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and handed his shovel to me.

“Aw, phooey,” he said, and I felt a little sad.

“Aw, hell,” he said when we got inside, and my heart broke a little more.

His instinct was to help, and I had just told him that he couldn’t.

family · swimming

The Record Board

March 13, 2017 Sally2 Comments

Whenever I go to a pool, my eyes are drawn to the record board.

It’s kind of funny, because I haven’t always been a fan of the record board. Helen still holds over 20 age-group records at the pool in Cooperstown — the earliest from when she was 8 years old, and the latest from when she was 13. Then we moved, and she started racking up high school records in Greene.

A couple of years ago, I caught one of the swimmers in my group staring at the record board in Cooperstown.

“Do you know Helen Zaengle?” she asked.

“I do,” I told her. “She’s my daughter, and she’s Laurel’s sister.”

“Wow,” Margaret said. “She has a lot of records. I’m going to break some of them.”

That was the moment my feelings about the record board changed.

Helen was very good at swimming from a young age. She loved winning races — although there was one time when she asked me why she couldn’t get a rainbow ribbon (the ribbon handed out for participation); all her ribbons were blue.

The record board wasn’t posted at the time, and, quite frankly, I think Helen and I were both unaware of all the records. When the record board went up, part of me felt a little embarrassed because I never sensed that Helen was swimming for the glory of the record board or all the accolades. She swam with the truest sense of the amateur — a love of the sport.

But I worked in the pool these last few years with all those records at my back, and I tried not to look at them. Don’t misunderstand — I am very proud of Helen, but not because she rules the record board. I just think she’s wonderful.

Margaret helped me to see that the records are goals for other swimmers, not to induce pride, but to produce hard work.

Michael Phelps said, “Goals should never be easy,” and Margaret took that to heart. She’s 10 years old now and continues to push herself harder than her peers. She still hasn’t made it to the record board, but I have no doubt that she will.

Last year, Laurel made it to the record board, by breaking a record that had been up there since before Helen was even born. 11-12 100 Breaststroke.

This year Laurel was studying the records to see if there were any she was close to.

“How about that one,” I said, pointing to 13-14 200 Breaststroke. “I think that one is do-able, maybe not this year, but next.”

The name next to the record: Helen Zaengle.

Helen called me right up. “I heard you told Laurel to break my record,” she said.

“Heck, yes, I did,” I replied.

“I think that would be great,” she said.

She holds her records with open hands, bidding other swimmers to take them, and I think that makes me even prouder than all the records combined.

elderly · Faith · family

What Will You Bleed?

March 11, 2017 Sally1 Comment

The patterns for our personalities are set early on.

My friend, Susan, used to talk about someone she knew who, in the delirium of a high fever, mumbled out Bible verse after Bible verse. When she had been poked, she bled the Bible.

“I want to be the kind of person who does that,” Susan said to me thirty-some years ago.

Years later, when Susan was poked, she bled praise. She suffered a stroke in her 40s and I have never heard her utter a bitter word about it. After seeing Susan last June, I asked another friend, Jennifer Trafton Peterson, to make this custom artwork for her. The words are ones I have heard Susan say many times.

The other day I was wearing a new-to-me shirt and my father noticed.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he said.

“I got it at the thrift store,” I told him.

He grinned, fist-bumped the air, and said, “Hurrah!”

My father has always liked a bargain. It’s the Scotsman in him, I think. My mother had to live with it and work against it.

She was also very frugal, but, at the same time, she wished she could do some of the things that the other doctors’ wives got to do. After he retired, he yielded to her and they went on a trip to Hawaii.

It was life-changing. He still talks about it.

“I’m so glad that I listened to Mom and we made that trip to Hawaii,” he often says.

“Everyone should go to Hawaii. When are you going?” he asks me, when he’s thinking about that trip.

But my father bleeds frugality. As dementia takes hold little by little, I see a deeper austerity emerging. He sometimes wears corduroy pants that are nearly threadbare. “There’s still some wear in these,” he says when I suggest he change.

“How much is that going to cost?” he asks, when I suggest a necessary home repair or appliance replacement, in a can-we-possibly-do-without-that sort of way.

The pattern, I think, was set early on.

My sister’s mother-in-law was a fairly passive woman. In her elderly dementia, she became more and more withdrawn into a unresisting submissiveness. When she was poked, that was what she bled — utter compliance.

My mother — I had to think about her for a while to come up with what she bled — I think she bled marmalade, both sweet and sour, involving food, and serving others. She wanted to help, but she got frustrated with the muddle in her mind.

And I can’t help thinking, What are the patterns being laid in my life? When I am poked, what will I bleed?

family

Behind the Camera

February 27, 2017 Sally3 Comments

“Here’s an old picture of us,” I said, passing Bud a family photo that I found in a pile of stuff. “We’ve got everyone but Philip there.”

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Behind the camera,” I replied.

It’s true. Bud took a lot of the family pictures when we were on vacation. If we didn’t snag a passer-by, he was out of the big group shot. He would appear in the just-a-Zaengle family picture that my brother or brother-in-law would take, but the everyone shot often didn’t include everyone.

Who is in the picture (and who isn’t) — just two of the clues about what year it was taken.

I’m in the center, behind Helen who is holding Laurel. Helen couldn’t possibly do that today because Laurel is now taller than Helen. Laurel’s age, though, tells me that it’s probably 2004.

Mary is wearing her Matt Kenseth Dewalt Tools hat. That tells me that we were in our NASCAR phase — everyone had a driver that they followed. Mary liked Matt Kenseth because she was fascinated with power tools; we had recently completed an addition on our house and she had seen an awful lot of yellow tools lying around.

Philip isn’t there. He must have been at college.

Karl’s cheeks are quite pink. He’s either sunburnt (unlikely, since no one else is), or had just been running around (likely, he’s a little boy). We, as a family, have this pink-cheek thing going on whenever we exercise.

My hair is short and I’m not wearing a jumper. That tells me a lot about me at the time.

But the man behind the camera, had his hair starting turning gray yet? I wish he was there beside me to complete the picture. Time to shuffle through more piles of photos to find out.

family · Life

La La Land

February 26, 2017 Sally4 Comments

Warning: this post may contain spoilers

On the way home from La La Land Mary asked me which song was my favorite. I didn’t have to think about it — “The Audition Song.”

“You’re a storyteller. Tell us a story,” the people behind the desk told Mia. She stood for a moment, collected her thoughts, and then told a story about her aunt jumping into the Seine River.

In her audition she sang,

Here’s to the ones who dream
Foolish as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that break
Here’s to the mess we make

I should have been forewarned by the lyrics that broken hearts were ahead.

I left La La Land feeling dissatisfied with the story.

Later, largely due to discussion about the movie over at the Rabbit Room, I realized that my problem was that I had been Hallmark-ized. The only ending I could consider happy was the one where the right guy and the right girl end up together.

Had that been its ending, La La Land would have fallen into the same category as so many of the movies I choose to watch. A feel-good moment soon forgotten. Hallmark movies that are simply background noise because I don’t need to pay attention to know what is going to happen. La La Land would have been, in so many ways, the same-old-same-old — good music, nice story, satisfying ending.

Like my father’s nightly bowl of vanilla ice cream.

A sweet way to end the day.

But La La Land left me unsettled.

The truth is the stories I love most leave me unsettled.

Fiddler on the Roof, Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Big Sky, A River Runs Through It, A Tale of Two Cities.

None have syrupy happy endings.

They all leave me with something to ponder. They take a long time to absorb.

I fear that I have gotten used to a jiggly jello diet — stuff that slides down easily and digests easily. I don’t know how to handle more substantial foodstuff.

On the way home from La La Land, Mary and I also talked about upcoming movies and what we’d like to see next. The ripples from the pebbles of La La Land may need to subside before I’m ready for another.

family · photography