Month: August 2012

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Labor Days I Remember


I don’t recall many Labor Days as a child.  Growing up, those carefree summer days of Midwestern humidity melted together into one big holiday. One day, I was celebrating the end of school.  The next, I was headed back, pencil and notebooks in hand, wondering how summer skipped by so quickly.   My first recollection of this weekend as a Holiday always sends my mind back to the Labor Days spent at Purdue University.  Those weekends were some of my best.

When I attended Purdue, 1977-1981, classes started the week before Labor Day.  This meant the first full weekend back on campus, was three days of welcome.  It was my first weekend of regained freedom. College summers in Wabash, Indiana were long drawn out affairs with nothing going on.  The parents still held the reins and fun was pulled in.  Labor Day was the kick-start to the freedom of campus living.  On that particular weekend homework was a distant thought, classes having just begun. The next few days sprawled in front of me seemly endless.

Those Labor Day weekends began with slowly waking to sweat beginning to form as the heat, which truly never left over the night, began to rise.  For a few moments I would lie still on the upper bunk and listen to the hum of the many fans whirring in the windows of Windsor Hall.  Soon the day was calling and the excitement of discovering friends I had missed since last May, forced me from my bed and down the hall to shower.  By midmorning the dorm rooms were so stifling everyone spilled outside.  Frisbees were flying, Doobie tunes were blaring, and cheap beer was flowing.  Three full days of getting back into the groove of life on The Purdue University campus lay before me. There were girlfriends to confide in, boys to drool over and a full year of weekend parties to anticipate.  I took full advantage of these first few days and allowed the Purdue campus atmosphere to once again seep into my pores, returning me to college life.

Eventually, the weekend would wind down, sometime on Monday.  Some students, anticipating classes on Tuesday broke from the parties early.  Others kept going late into the night, neglecting sleep before the rigors of classes began.  For me, falling asleep to the laughter of fellow students meant the start of another good year.    Summer never had a better ending and smoother transition into the fall.

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The Cicada Song


As a young girl, growing up in Indiana, I knew that summer was drawing to a close, not by the date or a change in the temperature, but, by the arrival of the cicadas.  Without warning, as a long humid day began to sink into night, we would become aware of their humming song.  My mother would state; “Six more weeks until the first frost.”  A lesson she learned long ago from her father, who was a farmer.  This proclamation did not always hold true, but my siblings and I grew to understand, with the arrival of the cicadas and their song, came the end of summer.

The rhythmic song of the cicada is a comfort to me.  Each buzz in a late afternoon can send me back to a time when the bottoms of my feet were tough enough to run across stones.   As a kid growing up in the sixties and seventies, my sisters and I didn’t wear shoes once it got hot, we ran barefoot.  Back then, I knew summer was truly underway when I could dash through the neighborhood and not notice if I was on pavement, grass or a rock driveway.

Cicada songs bring a relaxation to my shoulders as I recall endless, sultry days spent swaying in the upper branches of a tree reading a book and trying to catch a breeze.  Or, I remember lying on the grass watching cloud formations in the soft blue sky of late summer.

With the song of the cicadas comes the abundance of summer vegetables.   Fresh sweet corn picked from my uncle’s farm and still warm as we husked it.  The pleasant feel of butter dribbling down my chin as I smacked my lips together and tasted the salt mixed with the sweet of the kernels.  My mouth drools with delight at the thought of sun ripened tomatoes, plucked from the vine just before being cut.  Once we ate those acidic orbs, there was enough juice left on the plate to slurp down.  We often made a meal of corn, tomatoes and green beans.

The cicadas sang along as we churned our own ice cream.  They seemed to lead the anticipation as we waited for the milk, sugar and cream to freeze.  And they would laugh at us, as our eyes almost rolled back in our heads when we ate the freezing cold dessert too quickly.

But my favorite comfort from the cicada song was their humming that grew louder and quieter with the rustle of a breeze as I lay in bed, my mind still racing, but my body exhausted from a day of play.   Even now, as summer wanes and the cicada song begins, I find comfort in my many memories.  And I look forward to crawling into my bed and listening to their lullaby as I fall asleep.

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Bad Day


Minor issues that would not normally upset me, or would cause a small amount of frustration before I moved on, have lingered with me all day.  At a celebration for the three ski team girls who graduated this spring, I didn’t take any pictures.  Never mind that we all had such a great time pictures weren’t really thought of until too late.  An appointment this morning went all wrong.  I realized that I should have sent a greeting card for an event, but the thought never crossed my mind until it was too late.  All minor issues that have grabbed my emotions and tangled them into a knot of regret.  It seems I am having a bad day that I can’t shake.

I am in a low place, and maybe this is the reason, why.   I find myself reflecting on my relationship with my mother.   I worry, that I hurt her feelings without knowing it.  My mind rambles back through my teen and young adult days.  Did I do and say things that were callous?  Was I so wrapped up in myself I forgot that Mom was a person with feelings, too?  I know I did.   I wonder how many times she forgave me and I was totally oblivious to her grace.  Today, even though it is silly, I’m struggling with these regrets that weigh heavy on my heart.

With each step of my life I have realized, as many woman do: my mother did the best she could.  When I only had two young toddlers, I could not even imagine how my mother handled three, along with three older children.  When my girls and I struggled through the teen years, I often reflected on my feelings about how mistreated I felt by my mother.  With age comes the vision of hindsight and with that, the realization Mom was probably struggling to know how to handle my teenage anxiety, just as I struggled with my girls.   I did come to one conclusion: Mom could have been more forth-coming with hugs.  Perhaps, some acknowledgement of accomplishments would have been nice.  I hated being told there were so many kids at the high school far worse off than me, when all I really wanted from Mom right then, was a hug and the words, “I love you.”   I carried that resentment with me for many years.  I believe that same resentment helped me to be a different and, hopefully, more loving mother to my girls.

We often learn from our mistakes.  But, as my mother used to tell me, “I hope you are watching and learning from your older sisters mistakes.”  I did watch and learn; not only my sisters’ but my mothers’.  Because, as Mom believed, each generation should learn from the old and carry that knowledge into the next.  Thanks, Mom.   I love you.

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Richer


Yesterday afternoon I saw an eagle fly.  I know there have been many lines written in songs about this, because they are going through my head right now. My favorite singer, as a young girl, John Denver sang, “I know he’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly.”   I can agree, it was an amazing sight and I do feel richer for the experience.

There is a spot on the Great Sacandaga Lake where you can go by boat and spot an eagle’s nest.  Late yesterday afternoon my hosts took us for a boat tour of the lake.  They were pointing out the nest when one of the eagles appeared overhead and soared on magnificent wings that had beautiful markings on the underside.  The eagle lazily drifted in circles above us, giving us a wonderful view.  Then, just as suddenly, the mate appeared.  The two eagles danced overhead, wings stretched out, swerving over the treetops and back out over the water.  We spectators in the boat sat in awe and enjoyed the show.  This was a sight not many people get to enjoy and we all remarked how lucky we felt.  The eagles’ huge bodies seemed almost small against the massive cloudless blue sky and the towering pines of the shore line.  But we could feel and see the grace in these birds with each down stroke of their wings and the gentle way they glided on the enormous length of their wingspan as the rose and dipped on the air currents.  One of the eagles landed in the expansive nest built into the top branches of a white pine tree.  The other eagle left our view, perhaps in search of food.  We all turned to each other, the thrill of what we had just witnessed still etched on our faces.  “That was amazing.  What a gift to be able to see two eagles flying.”  With that thought still lingering on our faces and in our minds, we turned the boat to head back home, our tour more than completed.

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Time for me


I went to sleep last night listening to loons calling.  It is a long call that sounds almost as a flute fluttering through several notes.  The sound echoes over the water and disappears slowly through the mountains.  It is late August in the Adirondacks and that means the weather is cooling.  The air is clear and dry, the nights require a sweatshirt.  One of my favorite times of year.

This summer, like many before it, has slipped through my hands.  When the last weather front came through, knocking back the humidity and dropping the temperature, I knew summer was on its way out, here in upstate New York.  Consequently, I took advantage of a standing invitation and yesterday arrived at The Great Sacandaga Lake in time for a swim before cocktails.

I could tell the water temperature has already begun to drop from its record high of 82 degrees this summer; it was cool but not enough that the swim didn’t feel delightful.  There is something amazing about swimming in a mountain lake.  The water is soft, like swimming through silk, and so clear you can see the bottom and all of the boulders and rocks as you skim across the surface.  Looking up and down the lake, as I swam, I relished the view of the gentle Adirondack Mountains.  Not tall and majestic like the Rockies, but round and comfortable.  Like the arms of a mother.  Growing up, I knew I wanted to live in or near mountains.  And so, my dream has come true.  That is why, I had to do myself this favor and allow the time to come to this lake and slow down, take time to cherish the last fleeting warm days of this summer.  I did not want to look back in the middle of February and think, I didn’t get enough lake time.

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A Youth Re-lived


Last night I re-entered my youth. My husband Paul and I went to a Doobie Brothers and Chicago concert at SPAC. (Saratoga Performing Arts Center) It is a beautiful outdoor concert hall. There are seats inside under a roof and then a slopping lawn for anyone willing to throw down a blanket. Paul bought us tickets inside.

The Doobies came on first and Paul and I rushed to our seats, massive beer in hand, to enjoy. Music can transcend time and as our favorite tunes from high school and college floated through the air we were once again teenagers. Paul felt himself cruising in his mother’s huge Buick, eight track tape pushed in, windows rolled down and music blaring.  I remembered listening to WLS out of Chicago, hoping one of my favorite Doobie tunes would come on and then I could shift my parent’s red and cream-colored VW van into fourth and cruise through the hot spots of Wabash, Indiana.

It felt great to once again feel so carefree even for a few hours.  The music, and the emotions it brought back, blocked all worries and cares from our 50-year-old brains.

Chicago, the band, was just as exciting.  We loved watching the musicians that were displayed in front of us, each one demonstrating tremendous talent. Man, those guys can still blow a good horn, while moving all over the stage.   It was clear to us why they were still performing after all of these years.  They were good and they loved it.

The best part of the night was at the end when both Chicago and the Doobies came on stage.   I knew, that in my lifetime, I never thought I would see both of those groups performing together.  Paul and I were wide-eyed with excitement.  The energy level just increased as the bands took turns playing each other’s hits.

The evening finally ended and we walked to our car in the cooling upstate New York August air.  We got home around midnight and crawled into bed.  Our 50 something bodies remembering what our brains did not.  But, it will be some time before I forget the thrill of once again being young.

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Re-birth


I have been many things in my life. A bare-footed child playing her way through a long summer in Indiana. A shy high school student who made herself try out and get into a performing choir. A college student finding her own identity on the campus she still thinks of as home. A young wife moving across many states to begin a life where she knew no one. A daughter, sister, mother, friend, teacher. All of these different phases of my life now combine, in a scattered way, inside my conscious. As I once again re-invent myself I take some part from each of those beings I once was and, hopefully emerge re-born.
I am a mother to my daughters, but they are grown and do not need me as they once did. I was once mother to my own mom as she slipped into dementia. That was a struggle for both of us. The word mother seems to have one meaning, the female parent of a child. But, we mother’s know it has so many more. We cradle our children to our breasts, snuggle them and kiss their beautiful heads. We watch them gallop freely away from us a young children, but know they will turn back to us when they become frightened. We argue with them as teens as they try to find their own definition of themselves. And we cry with excitement and loss as we watch them walk away from us on a college campus. At that moment we know they will truly never return to us as children. I realize my daughters are adults and quite capable of making decisions. Yet, I struggle when I know or feel a decision will not be the right one for them. Still, unless they ask, I try not to voice an opinion. At this point, I have to let them learn from their mistakes. Consequently, I, as so many other mothers before have done, must rebuild the image my daughters and I have of myself.
How do we mothers go about building that new relationship with our children? I am struggling with that now. How do I define to my girls that I no longer feel the need to mother them? In my opinion they turned out pretty good. I know I cannot be a girlfriend. But, can we be friends? Can we share experiences as adults? The trial begins as I realize I must stop myself from being a mother, and they will need to stop being a child. It is a difficult transition. I don’t think I ever successfully made that with my mother. But, I want to try with my daughters. I want to establish a relationship still built on trust, but not reliance. I want my daughters to come to me for advice, but not expect me to solve their problems. I want to respect their independence, but I need them to understand I need independence too. Most of all I want to have fun. I want to laugh with them over silly things. I want to enjoy our times together. I want us to find a common ground we can be comfortable with in our new roles.

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Missing Back to School


The other day the Target flyer came, the one with all of the back to school sales.  I love that flyer, so many cool items.  But, after my first initial inhale of anticipation, I let out a slow disappointed sigh.  I have no one to buy back to school junk for.  No one to buy a myriad of notebooks, a bundle of pens and pencils.  No one to buy funky chairs for the dorm room or a sweet string of lights.  As my sigh ended I was struck with the knowledge.  Once again, I have encountered another new phase of my life.  As a Mom, I have moved out of the school years completely.  Pre-school, Elementary, High School, College, all a blur, all finished.  I have been thrown not under the school bus, but past it into this next phase of my life.  The complication is, I am still struggling to decide what to do.

Last fall I started a new part-time job.  I work for the Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum.  My job, besides the fact that I have to  carry very heavy loads into the schools, is fun.  Yes, fun word be the word.   In fact, I enjoyed the school year so much, I signed on to teach summer sessions this year.  The other day, as I was trying to get to my destination I became very frustrated.  Traffic, construction and the fact I was lost all sent my heart rate soaring.  When I finally arrived at the school, I was flustered and upset with myself for being late.  The teachers were very gracious and  soon I had everything set up and we were under way with the class.  That day, I was teaching an elementary level class of developmentally disabled students, how to make ice cream.  There were about 30 of them.  I did a small presentation on fun facts about ice cream.  I had several students help me pour the ingredients into our small coffee cans.  The anticipation was growing as I explained how we needed to put the smaller can into a large can and surround it with ice and salt.  Then I put a sleeve made of old sweat pants around each of the three large cans and handed them to the students.  They gathered around their teachers and aides and following my instructions began to roll the cans to freeze the milk and cream inside.  Each table was intent on accomplishing their task.  The students went at their job with gusto.

I stood back for a while and observed the room.  The teachers were encouraging the students, with smiles and kind words.  The students responded with delight and huge grins.  I felt the rush of excitement in the air, like a flash of lightning.  It was that startling to me.  And then I realized I was going to cry.  I bit my tongue.   This will be really embarrassing if I cry for no apparent reason in front of these people.  But the gratitude I felt for the fact I had found a job that brought me such joy was incredible.  It was fulfilling to realize I had a part in bringing a day to these students that would be remembered for a long time. Not wanting to cry I turned from the scene and busied myself with cleaning up and preparing to serve the ice cream to my happy, hungry students.  Yet, the moment stayed with me.  I realized here was one of my purposes in life.  I say one, because I know I have others.  And, like any good student, whether I need to buy back to school stuff or not, I am ready to learn.

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The Caregiver Nation


It seems lately that everyone who twitters has their own nation of followers.  Ryan Lochte, the USA Olympic swimmer calls his followers, the Lochte Nation.  Appropriate.  I follow several Purdue affiliates, and I suppose I am a member of the Purdue Nation.  In fact I like that idea.

Recently, it occurred to me we need the Caregivers Nation.  If you are a parent then you are a Caregiver.  But, talking with woman my age, those of us with aging parents, I find we are more than just caregivers to our children.  We have become the caregivers for our parents.  It seems almost daily someone I know brings up the fact that they are finding themselves having to do more for their parents.

I can certainly relate to this dilemma.  I recently lost my mother to dementia.  But I spent six years prior to that taking on increasing responsibilities for her as her condition declined.  When I hear someone talking about their parents, with that desperate tone to their voice, I feel compelled to help.  Perhaps it is just to listen to them vent their frustrations.  Maybe I can give some advice based on my past experience.  Mostly, I want to tell them, this frustrating time will pass.  Take the time now to enjoy what you can about your parent.  Find things you can do together.  Share their laughter.    You will find it difficult to step up to the parental role for your parent and they will struggle to let you become their caregiver. Consequently, bring in as much help as you can.   Be patient, your parent is frustrated and scared, just like you.  Some days will seem to stretch on forever.  Some days you will think, I can’t sit with my parent one more day and struggle to find something to discuss.  On those days just be there, hold their hand.  You can not be all things, but you can be their companion, their rock to hold on to as they flounder into the sea of dementia.

My mother gave many gifts as she fell to dementia.  One was to look me directly in the eye and tell me she loved me.  Something she had not really done before.  It happened on one of those frustrating days when no matter what I said she just looked at me blankly.  Then from nowhere, as if she had been struggling to say this for sometime but could not figure how to do it, she turned to me and said, “I love you, Posey.”  I melted.

But, before she reached the point of only sitting in her room and staring into space, I  tried to find something positive for us to concentrate on, through each of Mom’s stages.  In the beginning, Mom and I went to lunch.  I took her to get her hair and nails done.  It was difficult getting Mom out of her home and to these places.  She struggled to remember how to get in and out of the car.  She didn’t recall how to put on her seat belt.  I found it was like trying to move around with an infant, but more difficult because I couldn’t just pick her up and carry her.  Besides, I wanted to leave Mom with some dignity.  When she  no longer felt comfortable leaving her home, we did puzzles, and watched day time TV.   With each step down in Mom’s cognitive skills she and I adjusted to what we did for enjoyment.  And, in the end, when Mom sometimes did not recognize me, we sat and held hands and watched the other residents move through her home.

Consequently, yes, I feel I have a kinship with the Caregiver Nation.  We know who we are and we know that it is not an easy life.  And, it is a life that many of us have no choice in whether we will join.  Together we will get through this stage of life and, with any luck, move into the next.  Whatever that may be.

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A Growing and Learning of Confidence


I love watching the Olympics.  I love the excitement of a good contest.  It is fun to cheer on Team USA.  This year I have been observing their amazing bodies and the control they have over them.  I don’t want to sound like a lecherous old woman, but wow, some of those guys are sporting some pretty amazing six packs.  And the woman are just as astounding.  I was watching a piece on the women’s, (and really can we call them women)gymnastic team.  It showed one girl hanging from the wall doing leg lifts.  I know even in my younger days I could never have accomplished that.

Yet lately, I have found a work out program I like.  Deep Water Aerobics.  I call it the “Old ladies secret workout.”  We do leg lifts, sit ups, jumping jacks, running, cross-country skiing and more all while floating in the deep water of a pool.  Most of us wear a floatation belt, the one lone guy in the class does not.  The first class I tried really kicked my butt.  I was in bed by nine that night.  But I have since recovered and built up my stamina.  I am enjoying the fact I feel better, have more energy and a big plus I have definitely shaped up.

So watching the olympics does give me a new understanding of just how much work these athletes must put in.   I have also come to the conclusion on another thought.  I grew up just as Tittle 9 was beginning.  In fact, I was on my high schools very first girl’s basketball team.  I was recruited by some of the other players because I was tall, not because I could play.  We had a total of five players.  Just enough for a team, no one sitting on the bench to relieve you when you got tired.  We played every game and lost every game.  But, we were playing.

On the other hand my daughters have grown up being athletes.  They played field hockey, ran track, and spent many hours tubing behind our boat.  But their biggest sport was downhill ski racing.  This they did for both their high school and a local mountain.  One observation I had many times as I watched my daughters and their friends, was the control and confidence they had in their bodies.  Sports gave them that.  I believe that the confidence my girls and their friends gained, by relying on their determination to improve or to accomplish a goal boiled over into the confidence they have in life.  It helped them get into the college they wanted, it helped them have the confidence to travel to a distant state to attend, and it helped them stay there.  Of course, sports can’t take all of the credit, but I know it helped.

I know because since I have been working out I feel more confident in myself.  Today, as we stood on one of those styrofoam water tubes and then did exercises our instructor said, “Are you proud of yourselves?  Because you should be, this is difficult.”  And I nodded my head in agreement as the realization settled in.  Yes, I do feel good about being able to do this workout.”  Naturally, I didn’t nod my head too enthusiastically, I didn’t want to throw off my balance.

My mother always said, “You should never stop learning.”  I think today I am learning to be more confident and to realize I am quite a woman.