The Sweet Memories

Mom's 80th Birthday Party

Mom with grandchildren & her aunt Sallie

I miss having a mother.  I missed having a mother for much of my adult life when she was alive, although I knew my mom cared about me.  I was going to write those stories about how we didn't get along, but I've decided not to for now, just the sweet memories.

Shopping with my mother is a pervasive memory.  Shopping at Lee's Children's Store on Central, Fedway downtown, Lynn's at Coronado.  I remember going to the store where she had her hats made.  There were also trips to Henry Hillson's wholesale store, where we picked up cheap dresses and clothing.  When I was older, she took me to her store- CarLin's, the expensive women's store.

There were trips to Vicker's Toy Store, buying Nancy Drew books at the office store at Nob Hill, grocery shopping. 

I remember one Valentine's Day present in particular-- a little brass doll bed with a red and gold bedspread and cylinder shaped bolster.

I remember drives to Four Hills Country Club for swimming, my mother taking us to swimming lessons at Menaul Club and the Tennis Club, as well.

Her cooking and baking- especially golden brownies and surprise cookies.  Her "company juice"- grape juice blended with bananas.  Chopped liver, knishes, packaged scalloped potatoes, and, strangely enough, broiled liver, although not a favorite.  Her special meal, for some birthdays, especially Richard's, was shish kabobs.

When she was younger, mom liked to entertain.  I learned organizing for entertaining from her.  She laid out the serving plate she would use.  I vaguely remember a neighborhood Channukah party when I was young.  Knowing now how hard it is to turn out lots and lots of latkes, I really appreciate that.

I remember my parents coming back from their annual New Year's trip to Las Vegas with Doris and Jack.  My mom didn't gamble, but was proud of the Lalique party favors she brought back.

I rarely give my mother credit for anything, but she gave me my love of reading. My mom liked magazines.  I remember Life, Look, Good Housekeeping, Ladies' Home Journal and McCall's coming every month.  Mom enjoyed seeing that I got the Betsy McCall paper dolls from each magazine.  When I was old enough to read, she saw that I got Humpty Dumpty Magazine, Children's Digest, Highlights, Jack and Jill, American Girl.  She took us to the library, both the Ernie Pyle branch not far from our house and the downtown library.  As I mentioned, she supported my Nancy Drew habit.

Although my mother wasn't very demonstrative with love and affection, I know she was proud of her children and wanted the best for us.  You know, writing this has made me smile, remembering my mother.  That's a good thing.

Taking Care...or Not?

My father died in 2001, and we took care of my mother for five years.  She was an unhealthy diabetic who didn't care well for herself.  It was easier for us than most, we were able to hire people to be at her house-- at first during part of the day and the night until she went to bed.  Later we had someone in the house with her at all times.  For awhile, we had two major caretakers, Erin, the young, talkative woman who came during the day, and Mary, the calm, kind, dependable woman, who came in the evening. 

Erin wasn't the brightest bulb, as I especially noticed when she brought my mother Crispy Creme doughnuts so she wouldn't "need" her insulin.  Erin, I think, really liked being with my mother and treated her like friend, of sorts.  She brought her things and talked to her a lot.  She drove me crazy-- she pretty much did what she wanted-- bought a lot of junk food, and didn't always follow the rules.  In some ways, that was good for us.  She helped my mother take her insulin injections when she really shouldn't have.  At any rate, at some point I felt Erin was getting overinvoved and not doing a good job, so I asked that she not come back.

After a string of temporary people, we found an agency who had someone who would live in the house with mom, with someone covering her on her days off.  I don't remember her name, but she was a small, gruff person.  It was hard to like her, and her demeanor with my mom was much different than Erin's.  At the time, I thought this was better.  This lady turned out to be kind of lazy and not at all to mom's liking, and, was, in the end, the cause of her death.

My mother had several falls at night, both with Erin and the new lady.  My question was always, "Why didn't they hear my mom get up?"  She couldn't have done it quietly.  One winter morning my mother, who could barely walk around or do anything on her own, in her nightgown, unlocked the front door, pushed open the heavy screen door, went down the step she usually had trouble with, and ended up falling in the driveway, where some passerby found her and brought her in.  Where was her caregiver all of that time?

This incident put her in the hospital, and was, what I believe was responsible for her life ending.  She was never comfortable after that.  I blame her caregiver, and, to some extent, myself.  In retrospect, I think I may have deprived my mother of the one friend she had, the one who kept things light and interesting for her.  Perhaps I was jealous that she had more of a link with my mother than I had.  For some reason I thought my mother needed "tough love," rather than enjoyment and flexibility. 

I carry guilt-- for not loving her enough, for not having a close relationship with her, for perhaps precipitating the events that led to her death.  I think she was ready to go.  She sometimes talked of seeing my father.  She didn't have much, if any, enjoyment of life.  I don't know if I said goodbye.  Goodbye, mom.

The End of a Life/ The Beginning of a Story

Four years ago today my mother died. I wasn't sure about the exact date and had to call my brother to ask. Besides the reminder that she died right before Christmas, I thought of her because my friend's father died yesterday.

My brother, Richard, nephew, Nathan, and I were sitting in my mother's kitchen. Richard and Nathan, I think, were watching a movie on someone's laptop. My mother was sleeping under the influence of morphine in her hospital bed in the den. We knew the end had to come sometime. I went into the den to check on her. She was still, but breathing, I thought. Richard came in to check, and informed me that she wasn't breathing. She had gone sometime while we were socializing in the kitchen. There were tears, even though we were expecting this. I called Hospice,  and, I assume, my sister in Tucson. From there on I vaguely remember the sequence of things, but few details.

I was not overly emotional. We had had a long, hard haul with our mother, and her passing was somewhat of a relief for us and a release for her. Now I am recalling the feelings of the experience of her illness and her passing. Regret. Guilt. Very little obvious, overt love, although there is some love for my mother, some sweet memories and tenderness. Now, after four years, with the availability of this often blank blog, I feel the need to tell our story--my mother's and mine, or at least part of it.

Production

I just finished the ten books I'm bringing as gifts to my book group Christmas get together.  I probably wasn't as careful with them as I was with the batch of BCD books I made, but they're passable, bordering on nice.  It makes me think about perfection .  My initial thought is that mass production excludes perfection.  This isn't what I've been taught.  The assembly line provides, in a sense, mastery, at each stage.  So, then, was it because my project involved so many jobs that I did none of them with precision?  Multiplicity in tasks produces boredom, followed by disinterest, followed by deterioration of the product?

Finally!

I've thought about blogging this past three months--had ideas, experiences--even wrote some while Michael was in the hospital. I've had the interest, just not the discipline. Maybe tonight I have it all.

Today I took Caprice to an animal communicator. I didn't have a pressing need. I saw an ad at the pet store and thought I'd try it and maybe find out how Caprice was feeling and if anything hurt her. I don't know if I've ever believed in this, but it couldn't hurt. The woman started out by saying Caprice had lots of questions. Why was she here?

The communicator knew I had Canon and the ages of my dogs, so it was no surprise that she told me Caprice was annoyed with Canon. Why did I get him? She didn't like him sleeping on the bed. He took her toys. She wanted more walks. There were surprises. Caprice "said" She didn't play with toys anymore because of Canon. She had a pain in her rear area-- spine or leg, perhaps. This is something I've been worrying about, but hadn't mentioned. Her "daddy" doted more on Canon. Near closing she mentioned that there are lots of angels around Caprice. I wonder...

Real communication or not, there were some real reminders about what my dogs need--individual attention, more exercise and play. I'm glad to oblige...

Sunday Morning Here and There

Sunday morning started at 6:30 when Canon and I went for a walk with Roxy, Jasper and Nancy in our old neighborhood.  We walked by those landmarks Caprice and Rondo were familiar with- along the arroyo backing the old neighborhood, to the little strip of park and  play equipment, past 5913 Canyon Vista (where, by the way, our self-landscaping in the front looks great), past familiar houses and garderns, and then back to Nancy's house.  Since I had felt that Canon wasn't quite with it on the teeter in agility class, we practiced the teeter with cheese sprayed on it.  Canon was so busy licking up the cheese, that he didn't even notice the bump when the teeter hit the ground.  Cheese conquers all! 

Caprice got her walk after we got home, with Canon howling in the background.

Then on to Santa Fe for Michael to buy a printer from a photographer who was moving to Mexico after a caretaking gig at a house in the mountains with an absolutely gorgeous view.  The property was for sale for a mere $750,000 for someone who didn't mind riding on a washboard road to a  house in less than perfect condition.  Brunch, then, at nearby Harry's Roadhouse.  Good food, lovely garden.  Not our usual Frontier Sunday, but a nice change.

Dog Walk

Today's start was a fairly ordinary one.   I walked Caprice and Canon.  But it was a special day, too.  This morning we were walking as part of the Morris Foundation's K9 Cancer Walk, as virutal team member of the Bone Cancer Dogs team walking at Estes Park, CO.

I put on my tee shirt from 2 Dogs, 2000 Miles-- the one that has Rondo's name, as well as hundreds of other dogs stricken with the beast.  I also wore my tripawd necklace and the button with Rondo on it that I got at the BCD reunion last year.  As we walked out the gate, I told Caprice and Canon that this was for Rondo.  They weren't interested, but my eyes teared up.

It's hot here by 9 a.m., but it was important for us to walk when those others were walking.  We enjoyed our walk.  The poodles were fairly easy to control when they saw other dogs and I tried to keep them in shade as much as possible.  It was a lonely walk, but in spirit I was with so many others.

When we got home I took pictures of the dogs and my penstemon barbatus "Rondo."  The one that I planted in the courtyard sports two different colors of flowers, just like my two different colored poodles (OK, a bit smaltzy).  I sat down at the computer to upload the pictures and saw that my friend Nancy had donated to the Morris Foundation.  What a great end to our walk.  A sweet morning!

Everybody's Fine!

Just watched Everybody's Fine, a 2009 Robert De Niro movie about a widower who sets out to visit his four children who avoid visiting him, learning about his family, maybe for the first time.  Nobody is fine in his family, as all hide secrets and resentment from their father, who had  high expectations of his children, who settled for slightly lower than his standards.

To me the movie resonated, not because of settling, but more because of the lack of communication between father and children.  My own guilt trip, as I didn't communicate much with either parent, and didn't even know their expectations.  Most likely it was that I grow up happy and successful, but it was never discussed, nor were discussions of hopes, dreams, strengths, successes, or failures.  I'm actually not writing to lament , but because this set me to mulling about relationships, to wondering how others would see this movie, and their family lives in it.  A short mull, however, I'm ready for bed!

Guest Blog by Michael Vann

I am very pleased to be a guest blogger. When you first see the no W symbol your first thought may be no George W. Bush. That is not the gist of this article. What we are working with today is to reduce the English alphabet to a good round number like 5 squared. I will tell you some of my background involving this issue.

When I was a young lad in the first grade I was struggling with my teacher on a number of topics. One such issue was the alphabet. When I got to reciting the last part of the alphabet, T U V W X Y Z, my response was always “tee u vee double vee x y z”. My teacher would say, " No, no it is double u."  I would look at the alphabet and it surely looked like a double v to me. My reply would be,  "This is my final answer," since she would not let me call a friend for the correct answer. This resulted in my spending an extra year in the first grade.

Lo and behold, same thing happened for the next two years. Finally, the schools learned about social promotion and I exited my first grade encounter. To this day, when people ask me who was my first grade teacher, my reply, "Which one? I had three."   This started my public school challenge. When I was in high school, having reached the age of 22, allowing me legally to go drinking with my teachers, they finally said I should abandon my pursuit of a higher education and get a job roughnecking on an oil rig.  (So funny my girlfriend would not even agree to normal necking, more less on an oil rig).  To this day I still say the only thing that kept me out of college was high school.

An example of a sentence using u u instead of W (by the way is double u according to my teachers) is:

UUednesday, uuild UUee UUilly uueasel uuas uuriting uuonderful uuiggly uuords uuhich uuere uueird, uuhen uuishing uuise uuitch UUanda UUhite uuould uuelcome uuise uuhiplash UUally uuabbit (sic) uuith uuet uuater uuith uuhich uuould uuake uuhole uuorld uuide uueb.

Barbara's Note:  I had NO part in writing this!

Happy birthday, Canon!!!!!

We ended our family wedding weekend with a visit to the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History to see the From Turner to Cezanne exhibition and it really was quite lovely.  It is composed of a sample from the Davies Sisters Collection at the National Museum Wales.  It includes work by Manet, Monet, and Van Gogh,  Pissarro and Renoir.  I especially liked the meticulous, detailed watercolor work of Turner.  No picture of this small paintings can do them justice-the tiny strokes, the use of pencil, the layered color.

I've seen works by these artists in other museums, but this small collection was especially nice to see in Albuquerque.  How about these recognizable styles?

What is remarkable to me is the story of the Davies sisters who compiled this art collection mostly during the nineteen centeruy.  What a wonderful legacy, to be able to purchase these works of art and leave them for others to enjoy.  These women were community oriented, putting their collecting on hold during World War I to do their part to help.  I'm fascinated by these women.  The video about them was as interesting as the paintings!

Bad Boy!!!

An internet friend published a blog today titled "Hare Core Chewing"  with pictures of her dogs chewing on bones.  I thought she was talking about Canon, who today tore apart my sister's $200 sandal, chewed on the toe of my brother-in-law's dress shoe, and scattered a bad of Goldfish around the living room (mostly uneater).

Enough said.  Canon may get neutered for his birthday after all!

Neverending Story...

I checked previous blog entries before beginning to write this, not wanting to duplicate.  That in itself would be appropriate, for my story is of pulling weeds...again...and again...and again.

I'd put off pulling the majority of weeds in our front yard (we won't even discuss the back!).  It was too hot, or too dry, or I was too tired, or my back hurt.  My excuses were also neverending.  The looks of the yard even embarrassed me-- obviously not enough, though.  Michael kept saying he'd put week killer on the section near the street, and actually did once, but it didn't put a dent in the unwelcome little green visitors.  So, for the past two evenings I've been out pulling weeds from between the rocks and our "weed protection" layer.  Last night when I went in at dusk, I thought I was almost done-- could only see a few of the tall weedss.  There were just as many waiting for me this evening.  Did you ever notice when you see one and go to pull it, suddenly there are other little suckers around it?  You clean an area and walk by it the next morning and there are more?  I am not fond of the green invaders.  Aliens would be more welcome--especially if they eat weeds!

Warm Fuzzy Feelings

I've often envied my sister and siter-in-law, who have made so many friends in the process of raising their children.  They have a comeraderie based on common experiences.  One of the things that makes me feel good is that I do have that comeraderie from different experiences.  Today, after a poodle birthday party for Canon, Roxy, and Mr. B, I took time to appreciate that.

During my teaching career of 34 years, most of my friends have come from the people I work with.   Then, there's my book group, started by a couple of women who were parents of my students. We have come to share more than the stories of others.

My dogs have led me to other friends-- poodle groups, of course, made on the Internet and in real life.  People I have never met face to face have supported me and given me advice.  Through the Standard Poodle Yahoo group, I met Karen, who's the breeder of my Canon, who in turn, led me to my friends, Nancy and Jeremy, who belong to Roxy and Jasper.  Canon (and Nancy) led me to obedience and agility classes, and the Poodle club.

Rondo led me to the Bone Cancer Dogs group.  With these people I share a common, if tragic experience, but one that has led me to grow more than I thought possible at this age. 

I talk about dogs, mostly, books, people.  We make bonds with people with whom we share commonalities.  I have that, too. 

Grief and Anger

Another positive title, huh?

I'm disturbed that Caprice's orbital cellulitis is something that has to be approached through surgery.  I've been troubled lately by the dogs who have had to be released.  I'm worried about my friend, Julie, who is undergoing radiation now for her breast cancer, and my friend Carol's husband who has so many problems right now.  I am angered by THE oil spill, a sink hole in Guatemala, lives lost needlessly every day.

I sit at my computer and cry.  Thinking of some training twenty or so years back, I think of Kubler-Ross's stages of grieving and google it.  Grief NOW has 7 stages!  Why is grief even more intricate now?  When I look at the stages, what has been added is more resolution, working through the grief.  I return to anger- the way the world and my world seem to be crumbling.  Or maybe the drepression, loneliness stage.

This is life.  Mostly we live with it.  We show denial, guilt, anger, loneliness, and perhaps, most of all acceptance.  There is so little we can change.  Are we helpless?  I honestly don't know.  And here I am, back to anger, and lacking clarity and comphrehensibility, above all.

Worries, worries, worries, worries...

I really don't worry about a lot of things, but my furry children are an exception.  Since the poodles can't tell me when something is bothering them, I have to figure it out.  I'm often right, like when Rondo started limping or when I insisted something was wrong with Caprice even though my beloved vet told me it was the heat.

When Persi was a puppy and I had brough her into the vet, he reminded me that "Most puppies grow up to be adults."  I think of that every time something is wrong with one of my dogs, but I still worry.

Most of the time it's upset stomaches, as evidenced by noisy abdomens or less than perfect stools.  Yesterday it was Canon being unusually quiet.  Today Caprice has scared me.  She wheezed a bit on our walk this morning and seemed a bit off, so we came back early.  I didn't think much of it.  Both dogs ate their breakfast, laced with a lamb dinner patty.  An hour later I opened (or tried to open) Caprice's mouth to give her a prednisone.  Usually this is an easy task.  Today she cried and ran away from me-- wouldn't let me get near her, hiding under a rose bush.  PANIC!!!!  I tried to look in her mouth.  She kept her teeth clamped.

Emergency vet?  First stop the Internet to my poodle groups.  OK, vet.  When I got her collar, she perked up, picked up that tucked tail.  We went on a little walk around the block, tail wagging, tongue hanging out of her mouth, as usual.  When we came back, Canon greeted her, she tucked her tail and wouldn't come in.  She was afraid of me again.  What happened?

I've been fighting my "Get to the doctor" instincts.  She ate a little bit of cheese, drank a tiny bit, and is now resting.  Am I worried?  Hell, yes!

Can a Pessimist Believe?

I think I've always been a glass-half-empty kind of girl.  I call it pragmatism or realism, not having expectations that would not be met.  Would a pessimist believe in an afterlife? Heaven?  Would a pessimist pray?  Would a pessimist believe?

I get mad at myself for my pessimism.  In the Bone Cancer Dogs group, I am wary of people's hopes that their dogs will beat the odds which are so damn against them.  Yet, there was the hope that Rondo would be one of those.  How could I not believe?

My friend is fighting breast cancer right now.  I should believe that the mastectomy (and one to come) and the chemo and the radiation she is currently undergoing will take care of it.  There is a part of me that wonders how long she will be here.  Am I staring a fear?  Lack of belief?

A couple of years ago two teachers were discussing the tragedy of our principal losing her son when he disappeared in the mountains in a blizzard.  They said they couldn't get through this without their religion and belief in God.  It may be God.  It may be hope.  It is Belief.

Do I believe?  I don't know.  But I do hope.

If I had only known...

...my last moments with loved ones were last moments, would they have been different?  Would I share the love and joy of being with them or would I grieve before it was time?

I'm crying now over I dog I never knew, owned by a person I'll never know.  I'm crying for them, and I'm crying for me.  If only those moments were different...If only they weren't the last...

There may be such a thing as karma, or an afterlife, but I don't think time rewinds.  A gift? If we are able to relive the "should have" dones would we be happier?  The endings may be the same.

Michael's Memory Drill

My mind is empty, however, Michael's just may be too full. He just told me about his latest mind experiment.  Whatever time he puts into the microwave, he thinks of the cable channel that corresponds-- 44 seconds- Bravo, 35 seconds- Weather Channel.  He's going to have trouble with baked potatoes!

Two Poodle Night/ Morning

It doesn't happen often, but it did last night and again this morning-- Caprice and Canon both slept with us on the bed.  I wish I could have taken a picture, but since I was in bed with them, that made it kind of hard.  When Canon first came to live with us, he slept in his crate, but it didn't seem long at all before he was making his bid for the bed.  Caprice would be on the bed, but when Canon came near it, she growled at him.  I reprimanded her and invited Canon up.  Eventually, Caprice would get up and on the loveseat.  Canon was wary of Caprice.  If he got off the bed in the middle of the night and Caprice was up, he walked back and forth between Michael and me, sticking his nose under the covers-- in our faces, our butts, whatever he found.  I had to get up, show him a clear path to the bed, and beg him to come up so he wouldn't be bothering us.

Things have changed now.  Canon has charge of the bed.  I haven't seen him growl at Caprice.  She just chooses to be away when he's on the bed, using the floor and loveseat, alternately, as her bed.  Last night, then, I was surprised when she jumped up after the lights were out and made herself comfortable lying next to Michael.  

Caprice will pop up on the bed sometimes in the morning, after she and Canon have been for a quick run outside.  Both pound on the bed and Caprice pushes to lie next to me while I pet them both.  That was the case this morning, too.

It sounds sillly, but one of my greatest joys in life is lying in bed with two poodles!