Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
I’m not a big fan of pictures of myself — but I like this one because it brings back so many memories of a very happy trip.
And this one, taken last month. We taken my father for his weekly dinner at the Doubleday Cafe on Main Street in Cooperstown. After dinner, the kids were going to walk down to the lake to take some pictures. Laurel grabbed me and said, “Hey, Mary! Take a picture of me and Mom.” So she did.
Yes, Laurel is taller than I am.
Our refrigerator is slowly dying.
I picked out a new one, and ordered it.
Before the delivery guys came, I cleaned the old fridge, throwing away old and unidentifiable items. I disposed of leftovers that had gotten pushed to the back and overlooked until they turned pretty colors. I tossed out salad dressings whose “Best by” date was two years ago.
I was ready.
The new refrigerator arrived on a hot, hot day in late May. The temperature hovered around 85, the humidity around 80.
They backed the delivery truck to the house and I went out to meet them. “Can we see the place this is going?” one asked, and I showed them in.
They nodded approvingly at the large sliders they would bring the refrigerator through. One pulled out a tape measure and measured the other two doorways it would have to pass. They looked at the dying refrigerator and asked if they were hauling that one away.
Yes, yes, yes. Everything was a go.
They wiggled the old fridge out and put it on a hand truck. The whole process gave them a trial run (in reverse) of getting the new fridge in. It all went smoothly.
While they lugged the old one out to the truck, I quickly cleaned the floor underneath since I knew it wouldn’t see the light of day for a while.
They brought in the new fridge, shiny white and wrapped in plastic, and a box that they set on the table.
“This is your ice maker,” one of them said to me.
“Wait — what?” I asked. “Isn’t it already installed?”
“No, you have to call a plumber for that,” he said, and nicely explained all the reasons that was so.
“But when I called and ordered, no one said anything about that,” I told them.
They apologized as they unwrapped the new refrigerator, but I knew they couldn’t do anything about it.
As they tried to wiggle the new fridge in the old spot, they stopped to realign many times. Too many times. I knew there was a problem.
“Ma’am,” the spokesman said, “we have a problem. See how this is bowing out here?” he asked, pointing to the side panel from the cupboards. “This unit is about a 1/4″ too wide. And up here,” he pointed at the cupboard above, “you’re a good inch too low.”
I looked. He was right. We stood there silently studying the refrigerator that didn’t fit.
He finally broke the silence. “What do you want us to do?” he asked.
“Are there choices?” I asked.
“There are always choices,” he said, smiling and dripping with sweat.
The other guy was sweating even more. He said, “I think your husband can fix this.” I don’t think he wanted me to consider the other choice.
“We can leave it here and your husband can make some modifications so it will fit,” the first guy said, and I looked at him doubtfully, not doubting my husband’s skill of course, but doubting this old house. “Or we can bring the old one back in.”
The other delivery guy was pleading with me with his eyes.
I sighed.
“I am so sorry,” I said. “Can I fix you some ice water or something?”
They both looked at me, waiting for me to say the dreaded words.
“I think I want the old one back,” I said.
I walked behind them, carrying the ice-maker-in-a-box so they wouldn’t forget it as they hauled the new refrigerator out. Then they brought the old one in again.
Here’s a peek inside my refrigerator this morning. Nobody can tell that it was recently cleaned out.
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.
Plus I spent a whole week with people I love.
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 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.
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.
My challenge for June:
Last week I attended a dementia care conference with Helen.
The conference was informative, but quite honestly, for me, the day was more about spending time with my daughter than about going to a conference. Helen is excited about pursuing something in nursing that supports caregivers and our aging population. Seeing her excited, passionate, and so engaged was worth the price of the conference.
At one point, one of the speakers mentioned going into the home of a person with dementia and looking in their refrigerator. The only things in it were vodka and Ho-Hos.
Helen leaned over to me and whispered, “That could be the title of a blog.”
“What?” I asked.
“You know, Vodka and Ho-Hos, like Hot Dogs and Marmalade,” she said.
I’ve gotten so used to Hot Dogs and Marmalade as my blog name that I don’t even think about it anymore. Probably new readers just think it’s a quirky name, or that I’m weird, or both. Both have some truth.
It’s more than a quirky name, though. It goes back to when my mother, in her dementia, was putting marmalade on everything. She would gaze lovingly at the jar of marmalade on the counter, placing her hand on it, like it was a long-lost friend. She put a layer of marmalade on casseroles, on leftover Chinese food, on ham sandwiches, and, yes, on hot dogs.
I tried to think what blog title I would choose now, as I care for my father. Here are two of my thoughts:
But I’ll stick with Hot Dogs and Marmalade — salty and sweet — like life.
Trying to inspire myself to write more, I found this blogging challenge on Livelovesimple.com. I’ll give it a try for June.
That little pat on the back that I was giving myself was premature. Way premature.
I had gone to the gym this morning to work out. I love working out. Love it, love it, love it. I wish I could get there every day.
For me, exercise is such a key part of my well-being. I feel more optimistic after I exercise. Big ideas come to me while I exercise. My body craves healthy food on the days I exercise. It’s an all-around win-win-win.
So this morning I exercised.
In the course of elevating my heart rate, oscillating ropes, swinging the kettlebell, and dripping with sweat, I started thinking about caregiving and how far I’ve come on this journey. I used to get so frustrated with my mother — but she had a bitter sharpness that my father doesn’t have. She would harp at me, insisting on something that wasn’t, or lash out at one of my children for something they didn’t do. She could be a challenge.
My father, on the other hand, laughs at the darnedest things. He’s happy and content. He works on his puzzles, reads his books, and listens to his music. People stop to visit him. He gets a bowl of vanilla ice cream every day. He watches the Red Sox play nearly every night. It’s a good life, I think.
So I was working out and thinking about all this. I was thinking, I’ve got a good handle on this caregiving thing. I think I’m doing all right.
I patted myself on the back and began mentally writing a blog post of encouragement for other caregivers. I wanted to tell them that they’ll have good days, maybe even a bunch of them in a row.
When I got to the house, Dad was coming out the door with the dandelion-stabbing tool (surely, there’s a better name for it) because he wanted to start getting after the dandelions. I asked him to stay on level ground and checked to make sure he was wearing his LifeLine in case he fell.
As I headed inside, almost as an after-thought, he said, “It was the strangest thing, but I found all this money today. I left it on the table for you.”
“Where did you find it?” I asked.
“Here and there,” he said, waving vaguely with hands to indicate that it was in a variety of places like the dandelions in the yard.
Puzzled, I went to investigate.
My wallet was sitting out on the kitchen table. I looked inside and it was mostly empty. My heart sank.
I found all that money he had been talking about, stuffed like a bookmark into a book. It was a twenty and three fives — $35 that had been in my wallet.
I looked in the garbage and found gift cards, receipts, coupons, a note from Mary, and other papers that only an hour before had been in my wallet.
I grabbed the crumpled papers and marched out to my father who was still standing on the deck holding the dandelion-stabber and looking at the dandelions.
“Did you find the money?” he asked innocently.
I exploded. “That was the money in my wallet,” I said. “And these –” I held out the papers I had pulled from the garbage — “these are mine.”
“They aren’t anything important,” he said.
“Not to you, but to me they are,” I said, far more loudly than I should.
And the argument went on far longer than it should have.
I knew in my head that he couldn’t understand, but I was frustrated.
Gone were back-pats. Gone were my words of encouragement. Gone was any goodwill left over from my workout.
I went in the house and fixed my green smoothie. From inside the house, I watched as he sat in the grass and stabbed at dandelions. I stabbed at writing words of encouragement and this is what came out.
Fellow caregivers, some days are like that.
But it’s still all so good.
The sun is shining.
The dandelions are smiling (unaware of their fate).
The smoothie was delicious.
And I have $35 safe in my wallet — upstairs now.
In March 2011, I wrote the following post. It’s a sweet story — and a reminder. I took it out of storage and dusted it off for today.
A number of years ago, I was able to accompany my father on his trip to his hometown. He was meeting with his siblings and their spouses to inter my grandparents’ remains. My mother was planning to go with him, but got sick just before they were supposed to leave. I filled in for her.
I had no idea what a special trip that would turn out to be. We went to the cemetery and sat on a little knoll while my father and his brother and sister reminisced about their parents. They each shared memories of how their parents had made their house a home. They talked about my grandmother making elaborate Halloween costumes for them, her competitive side coming out, so that they could win the town’s contest. They talked about their cousins and their pets and their school and their growing up years. Then my uncle said something which I will never forget.
He said, “They were young once. They fell in love. They had dreams and passions just like we do.”
I don’t know why that was so profound, but it hit me squarely in the heart.
My grandparents were old the whole time I knew them. My grandmother had Alzheimer’s. She smoked and drank martinis. I have seen her wedding picture and she was once beautiful.
My grandfather had Guillain-Barre syndrome in the late 70’s or early 80’s, I think. (Perhaps one of my siblings has a better memory for these details.) It transformed him from the robust, fun Grampa that I loved to go see, to a weak man confined to a wheelchair. I have wonderful earlier memories of him throwing the Hollywood brick (it was made of foam) at us, and tricking us every time with it. In fact, I think we all (the grandchildren) wanted that brick when they were emptying out the apartment, but no one seems to know where it went.
Unfortunately, my mind doesn’t always go back to happy memories. I remember my grandfather weeping in a wheelchair when I came to visit when I was pregnant with Philip. I remember my grandmother smoking and sniping.
“They were young once. They fell in love…” I chose, then and there, to replace my memories with happier ones.
Yesterday, I caught a little glimpse of that with my mother. We were sitting at the table, with a full plate of marmalade sandwiches. She had made ten or so before I got there — for the others. She looked up at a window ledge, and asked my father, “What’s in that vase?”
Now, you need to know that my mother has always a way with plants. Her home was filled with them. She had the most beautiful Christmas cactus I have ever seen. She would take little pieces of the Christmas cactus, stick them in a cup of water, wait for them to send out little roots and then move them to pots. She started so many plants that way. And the house is still littered with pieces of Christmas cactus stuck in water. That’s what was in the vase.
My father looked up at the milk-glass vase with the sad little piece of Christmas cactus drooping over the edge. “Well, that’s a genie in a bottle,” he said. “If you rub it, he’ll come out and grant your wish.”
My mother giggled like a schoolgirl. She looked at him and smiled.
When he left the room, she said, “I’m so lucky I found him.”
Oh, Mom, you have no idea.
“They were young once. They fell in love…” She was back to that point in her life. I want to remember her that way.
“Compulsive” — That’s the word my father used to describe himself when I asked him about the detailed lists he kept of his expenses and his earnings.
“My parents didn’t have much money, you know, but it was important to them that I go to college. I wanted them to be proud of me. I wanted them to know that they weren’t wasting their money,” he told me.
I see proof that he worked very hard, even from a young age.
One year for his birthday, my sister gave him this framed picture:
My father and his brother had both worked at the Brookside Store — which was also a gas station — and was also the post office. And may still be a post office.
When my father went to college, he carefully calculated out all his finances.
He also, week by week, noted all his expenses and all his earnings. Here’s one page from that packet:
I asked my father about the names in the right-hand column. Many he didn’t remember, but Mr. Johnston’s name elicited a very warm response — “Oh, I remember Mr. Johnston! He was such a gentleman. He was always very kind to me.”
“When you wrote ‘working for Mr. Johnston’ or ‘working for Mr. Bennett,’ what did you do?” I asked him.
“Yard work or whatever they needed help with,” he replied.
“And ‘waiting at fraternity,'” I asked, “is that waiting table?”
“Yes, I did a lot of that,” he said.
The detailed pages bore witness to it.
“I was so compulsive about keeping track,” he said again, laughing.
I see all the work.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 