Summer in upstate New York, especially the Adirondacks, can be beautiful, and this past weekend was one of the top ten. Well, at least Friday and Saturday. The weather was warm, low humidity and the sky was a crisp blue. These realities alone would be enough to qualify for a weekend of joy, but a get together with friends who go way back was my additional gift. I started counting my joys upon my arrival.
There is nothing like a hug from a friend who truly knows you. A friend, who has pulled you through some difficult times and has brought forth laughter when the tears were flowing. I’m talking about a friend who knows all of your faults, and still overlooks them because they love you anyway. When I walked through the door, greeted by my friends and received those loving, knowing hugs, my heart filled with joy and I knew I was in the right place for the next couple of days.
Slowing our pace from one of a busy week to that of a relaxing weekend, we all grabbed our favorite cocktail and headed outside to the deck that overlooks The Great Sacandaga Lake. We smiled with joy at the amazing view. The water was slowly calming as weary, sun burnt, boaters headed into shore, their vessels awash in the last golden rays of the sun. Our ears filled with a joyful noise as birds began a chorus of praise for the day and the breeze kicked in just enough to bring the thought of a jacket to one’s mind.
After a joyous dinner, what many were calling a Super Moon because of its closeness the Earth over the next few weeks drew our attention. The friends gathered, paused mid-conversations to admire the beauty of the full moon as it rose above the water leaving a shimmering trail on the surface.
Mornings can be glorious on a lake in the Adirondacks. This past Saturday was no exception. At dawn, I rolled over in bed only to witness the rising sun. I sat up to admire the reds and oranges the sun shoved over the horizon of the Earth as she made her appearance for the day. The birds greeted the growing light with songs of joy and I was lulled back into sleep with their chorus.
After lunch, we all donned our bathing suits, sunscreen and hats. With drinks in hand, we headed to the dock for a boat cruise. The water sparkled with the glimmer of the sun and as always, I appreciated the fact of how clear a mountain lake can be. The cruise was en-joy-able as we admired the other passing boats and the attractive homes lining the shore. The sun was hot and so our captain stopped the boat long enough for all of us to jump in and swim around for a while. I love the feel of the softness of the water and the coolness it brings as it overcomes the heat from the sun. We lingered in our swim for quite some time.
A day on the lake cannot be complete without a cookout and ours was grand. We started with cocktails and beer accompanied by fresh steamed clams. Then, just when we thought we should not eat anymore the steak, corn and salt potatoes arrived. The wine was corked and we all dug in as if none of us had eaten in days. Yet, the atmosphere and dinner was only complete with the sweet sound of joyful laughter that arose from the table. Laughter derived from friends who can finish each other’s sentences and still laugh at the same worn jokes told at every gathering.
The joy I felt all weekend filled my heart to bursting and it was then I recognized, life does not get much better than this.
summer
Summer Wandering and Mom
This has been my summer of travel. For pleasure, my husband and I took several days and meandered down the east coast, then we bee-lined across the state of North Carolina to my favorite southern lake for a family Fourth of July party. I went on a working adventure with my daughter to help her move into her new apartment before she starts law school. I discovered, while I traveled for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the varied regions around the upstate New York area that until now were unknown to me.
During all of those hours of wandering I let my mind wonder, hoping to be inspired. To my disappointment no words jumped out of me begging to be put to print. But, a realization did occur. I have written, over the course of several years, my feelings, frustrations and the day to day surprises that helping an elderly parent with dementia can bring. Consequently, I feel it is time to share some of my words as they form into my forthcoming book.
Recently, I recalled a conversation I had with Mom on more than one occasion. This was several years before any of us suspected something was wrong with her.
“Rosemary, I seem to be forgetting things a lot.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s normal. Heck I forget things all the time.”
“Yes, but this seems to be more than normal.”
“Mom, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Thus, I brushed her concerns away before she could elaborate more. I suppose I didn’t want to hear about anything being wrong with my mother. So I felt dismay when I recently heard a doctor on a news program say that many people know that they are having early signs of dementia. They realize something is not right. It pains me to think my Mom was alone in this knowledge and that I avoided that conversation more than once.
Eventually, my siblings and I did become aware that Mom was struggling and that something needed to be done. I recall vividly the day I entered Mom’s house to pack her suitcase and bring her to my home for what I thought might be just a long visit. It turned into so much more.
The following is an excerpt from:
A Slow Slide into Nothing
I arrived at the Indianapolis, Indiana airport, rented a car and drove to Wabash. As I pulled the car into the driveway and parked, I realized it was already warm for a day in May. I walked up the sidewalk; I could smell the fertilizer being spread on the fields just outside of town. My nose crinkled and I sucked in and held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the ripe aroma of manure in the air. When I stepped onto the porch, I expected to see Mom at the door, but, instead I had to let myself in. There she sat in the dark living room. I glanced around, remembering the salmon pink limestone fireplace that fills the wall at the far end of the living room, the family portraits, and my wedding picture. I waited for the years of childhood memories to come flooding back but they did not, could not as I looked at my mother. She looked frail, tired, and scared. Her clothing was dirty and full of stains. I was taken aback. How had Mom let herself get to this state? Mom always took pride in her clothing. She had dressed competently for her job as a high school counselor, later sternly as the city court judge. Now she wore clothing that did not match and food had dribbled down the front of her shirt. Seeing her this way was terrifying. I took a deep breath; I struggled not to appear shocked. Mom seemed embarrassed by the way she was dressed; the mess the house was in. Yet, she was unable to make any decisions or act to change it.
In a few short hours, it became apparent that Mom was far worse than I had thought. When she had mentioned on the phone she couldn’t pack her suitcase I assumed, it was not that she couldn’t but that she didn’t want to. I quickly realized she didn’t have the stamina, or the power to decide what to pack. Our past phone conversations raced through my mind, and I concluded she must have been lying to me about her lifestyle. I attributed her condition to depression about my father’s death and her forced retirement after losing her re-election as city court judge. Instead of haunting familiar places and reminiscing, I spent four days visiting Mom’s doctors, getting her car in working order, throwing out rancid food and packing. Mom sat on her bed and weakly told me which clothing she might want to pack. Most of her clothes were not clean, so I stuffed them in a suitcase knowing I would need to do laundry once we returned to my house. Just going through her medication was over-whelming. There were many duplicate prescriptions, some unopened bottles; others were empty with no replacement for them. I was frustrated trying to decide what prescriptions Mom actually needed to take and why.
Over the next few days, besieged with decisions about Mom, I was the picture of business on the outside. But, on the inside emotionally, I was falling apart. I suddenly realized that Mom was now the child and I had become the parent.
On the last day, I helped Mom climb into her packed car. We pulled down the driveway. She barely looked back. I gazed at the house I had grown up in, literally since birth, swallowed my tears, put on a good face for Mom and drove away.
The Ring Of Fire
I enjoy succumbing to the pull of a mountain lake. This morning, Monday, of Labor Day weekend, I sit on a porch overlooking the Great Sacandaga Lake, in upstate, New York. The air is cool and clear. The view of the blue water, changing to grey as the clouds float in front of the sun, is lovely. It is mid-morning and the boat motors sound like distant flies buzzing, as the crafts make their appearance on the lake.
Last night we celebrated the end of summer with the Ring of Fire. A celebration started around 1990 by locals who, after cleaning the brush from their properties, decided to build huge bonfires. The thought was to involve the community around the lake in camaraderie as neighbors were encouraged to join in and light the fires all at once. The Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend was chosen as bonfire night. The idea has blossomed and many families around the lake partake in this festival with cookouts and parties with friends and neighbors.
Sunday afte
rnoon we took a tour of the lake by boat and checked out the many bonfires that were being assembled along the shoreline. We soon discovered the competition was tough. We headed back to the dock. Once there, our team made the obligatory snacks and cocktails to come up with our plan of action. The assorted debris and trimmi
ng were ready and waiting on the beach. The men of the group assembled our bonfire, with the help of the young generation, the ones who grew up with this tradition. Because we had seen the other bonfires, more debris was sought out and piled high onto our lake offering, which in the end allowed for much praise and feelings of a job well done from the assembly crew. Now, we only had to wait until nightfall.
As we cooked and ate our end of the summer feast, steak, squash, corn, tomatoes, dusk began to fall and we watched as one by one bonfires began to illuminate the lake, some were as far as five miles away. Then, firewor
ks began to display their colors. An almost full, fiery, orange moon rose over the mountains, as if on cue. A true celebration of summer and all of its glory was under way.
We quickly finished our feast and headed to the beach. The fire was lit and slowly came to a roaring inferno with sparks flying high into the night sky. The sight was beautiful and we celebrated with “”oooos and ahhhs,” our contribution to the festival. Cameras were brought forth and pictures were taken to commemorate the evening. We all knew however, pictures or not, we would not forget such a delightful night. Soon, quiet descended on us as we watched the leaping flames slowly drop from the night sky into a intensely hot mound of burning logs and hot coals. Chairs were assembled and we spent many hours sitting by our offering talking, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. This, I believe, was the original intent for the Ring of 
Fire.
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.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 