Help, Help, and Help.

Diana is a helper. I’m not talking about me, Diana, but the other Diana. We call her Diana, and I answer to Di. She has been our housemate for almost a year. I have permission to write this story.

We tell people Diana’s our Resident Aging Consultant or the Adult Caregiver, and sometimes, well, just our friend. She’s nestled in our house’s lower level (walk-out basement). She shares the space with many plants and my corner office-of-sorts, still in disarray from moving to this house over a year ago. She agrees that we are making progress, though.

When her daughter became ill and was hospitalized after Baby James arrived, Diana was away for several weeks. We missed her, but we knew she was perfect to stand in for Mama and help Daddy.

James is her first grandbaby, and she has poured out all her love.

Now she’s here. She misses that baby but says she is ready to be home. She’s baked muffins, re-potted plants, and helped with my messy corner. She also maintains the hot tub and takes me on shopping runs, even taking my Amazon returns to the UPS store. She has always done dishes and cleaned in the kitchen. She even cooked most of my son’s birthday dinner last night. I did put those artichokes in the Crockpot, which is the very best way to cook them, in case you didn’t know. I also chose the recipes Baked Orzo with Seafood and Ricotta Cake with raspberries.

It’s uncanny how Diana can simultaneously side with Dave and me in a discussion, and it’s delightful that the three of us laugh about that and almost everything else.

Our sweet friend downstairs is a recovering alcoholic. She is learning to live a good life with integrity and grace, but aren’t we all? Perhaps her background gives her a one-up in caregiving. The job she took leave to care for James (I really want to call him Jack) is CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) in a memory care ward at the assisted living facility just a half-mile down the road.

Her time with us is anything but boring and, most of the time, a lot of fun, and I know that the days and nights she spent with her grandson are etched on her heart with gratitude.

But now, her most interesting, rewarding, and funny moments must be those at the Cloverland Assisted Living Community memory care level. She said I could share her stories if I changed the names, something about HIPAA. (If you don’t know HIPAA, you haven’t visited a doctor’s office in several years.) I’ll use nicknames, and I’ll choose ones close to what the staff calls them.

The first patient I heard about was Tootie-two-step, the last two words describing how she walks. She’s a practiced thief, picking up anything loose and sometimes moving it to unsuspected places. If it’s food, she eats it. Sometimes, she even eats something that is not food. Someone on staff always calls after her, “Tootie, Tootie, you give that to me!”

Sheila never knows what she wants. She might yell, “Help! I want popcorn,” and then not eat a bite. She might ask to go to bed, but when Diana starts to help her into nightclothes, she cries and says, “I don’t want to go to bed.” When she asks for water, she frequently dumps it on the floor.

Nancy Ann is sinister and only talks mean. Diana thinks she picked up a malevolent spirit as a nurse with Doctors Without Borders. Nancy Ann’s mother lives upstairs in the assisted living section. She is not mean at all, and she frequently visits and brings pastries.

One resident’s husband visits daily and neatly arranges his wife’s room, even color-coding her clothes. He’s vocal and picky about everything. No one is fond of him, but he seems not to worry when Diana’s working. It’s like he says, “Diana’s got this.”

Kitty is teensy-tiny with an acerbic sense of humor. When her assistant helps her dress, she says, “Oh boy, now we’re having fun.” One day, Diana told her, “I like your bird shirt.” Kitty answered, “Yeah, we’re all gonna fly away.”

Mr. Bernardi was a restaurateur. His daughter is often belligerent and hostile when she visits and doesn’t believe that he gets sexual with the staff and other residents.

Napoleon is always pissed off, maybe because he’s tiny? Guitar Joe can’t remember what he can sing or play. The Keebler Elf’s husband visits every day. His nickname is Grumpy, but he and his wife are not demanding. Mrs. Elf gives hugs.

Ron, the Chicago cop, will take his tray, put it on the rolling cart in the hall, and then say he did not get dinner. He often gets another plate. He also asks questions like “Where is my checkbook? What is this place? Why am I here?” and tells whoever is close, “Listen, that person [he points] told me I could go across the street any time I want, so I’ll be leaving here tomorrow.”

If he did get loose to go across the street, he’d be in John and Vicky’s (son and daughter-in-law) driveway. It wouldn’t be the first time a resident has appeared in front of their house since the center was built a couple of years ago.

I’ve told my sons I do not want to live with them and that if I can’t care for myself, they should just install me at Cloverland Park. I mean, it’s right across the street from John and Vicky’s house. Jade and Anjie, Darrin and Dana, and the others could make a brief stop when they come this way. All the kids could meet up at John and Vicky’s and discuss Grammingo before visiting!

Diana, the provider of help, help, and help, says there’s no way I will live at Cloverland Park.

-0-

Denny and Me

My brother Denny died Monday, December 4. We had a good conversation on the Friday before. It was the day following my gallbladder surgery, which was, by the way, a cakewalk.

He said, “I’m home, so what are you doing?”

I answered, “I’m home, too, and lying on this bed right now.”

“What’s this about gallbladder surgery? Why didn’t I know about this, and when did you have it?”

“Yesterday,” I said.

“You didn’t stay in the hospital?”

“No,” I said. “They don’t do that anymore.” I had told him about the upcoming procedure earlier, but he didn’t remember. “So you came home yesterday, and hospice has you all squared away?”

“Yeah. I have a hospital bed and a stockpile of medicine. Well, how are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m feeling pretty good. This is not a big deal.”

“You always were a tough old broad. You should have been a Marine.”

“I do remember what you used to call the women Marines,” I said.

He chuckled. “Yeah, that was back in the day. You could get away with that kind of stuff then.” (It was BAMs, for “broad-assed Marines.”)

We chatted on a bit about the weather, the sky, and my trees and leaves.

He changed the subject. “I’ve told you most of what’s going to be in my service, haven’t I?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer when he reminded me, “Now there will be two flags presented. I want one for Christine, too. After all, she was with me when I was in service.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I said. “Beverly doesn’t mind.” (A statement, not a question.)

“Heavens, no. And Alyssa is going to play Taps,” he said. Alyssa is the daughter of Denny’s older daughter, Angela.

“Really?” I said. “That is so wonderful.”

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I’m thinking about getting a haircut, or maybe I’ll just lie here on this bed.”

“You better just rest. That’s what I’m doing. They have all these medications stacked up here. Lots of morphine. All those things we weren’t supposed to get into, now they’re giving me all I want. I say, ‘Bring it on!'”

“Are you in pain?” I asked.

“No, but they’re going to give me a shot anyway.” We both laughed. “I think it’s about that time.”

I knew what he was telling me.

Somewhere, I got scenes from the past. That time when he was ten and I was eight. He was riding me home from McClain School on his bike. (I could never ride a bike very well, and I didn’t want one the Christmas he got one.)

We passed the Dairy Dip. A cone of twirled lime and vanilla ice cream was just a nickel. We bought one, and I’d reach around him occasionally to give him a lick. I don’t remember the reason, but we had this sudden stop. I lurched forward and plowed the ice cream into the back of his flat-top.

With his feet on the ground, he turned around and asked, “What did you do that for?”

I said the only thing a little sister could say in such a predicament. “Well, I didn’t mean to.”

He forgot to say, “I’ll get you back for that.”

He just said, “Darn, that’s cold.”

I remember we pushed most of the ice cream back into the cone. It didn’t look as good as it did when the Dairy Dip girl twirled it, but it was still good. I cleaned his head with the arm of my coat. Mom had told me earlier it was more washable than his. He pedaled on toward Easy Street in Lebanon, Tennessee. He might have had two more good licks.

The boot camp picture came to my mind. He had no hair to speak of under that big Marine cap, and his eyes glared mean and hard. And that was before he went to Vietnam.

Then I got a scene from Montana. Was he home from the service? I can’t remember, but he was fishing near Forsythe wearing a yellow sweatshirt. He was so happy in those pictures, holding up a long string of fish he’d brought in for Mom to fry.

Sometime after he got home from Vietnam, Denny and Chris welcomed my niece Angela. Not too long after that, they divorced. We all agreed later that theirs was a bad fit from the start.

I saw him singing with his guitar after he’d come home. He was popular in several places on the coast of Central California. I’ve always said Denny was the best male singer I’ve ever heard. There was a natural Elvis quality to his voice. It’s a shame he didn’t get to share his talent with a larger audience.

He was also drunk, the condition a whole lot of soldiers find themselves in when they return from battle. Vietnam was particularly devastating because of the lack of honor and respect these young men deserved. It seemed that even those who supported the war were shy of them, and those who didn’t often vilified them. The U.S. Government was slow to acknowledge the injuries and offer the treatment their minds and bodies required.

However, Denny had found a jewel in Beverly, his second wife. She called him out on his drinking, and he was decidedly more interested in Bev than a vodka soda. Bev came with Jim Tishlarich, a sweet four-year-old. She also took Denny back to his roots and his faith. Angie was often present in their home, and then they had a baby girl, Jena Dennelle. They had a happy home on a small ranch in Brentwood, California, and worked in real estate. They kept horses.

Denny was Agent Orange poisoned. He had one hundred or more tumors in his back, none testing positive, but nevertheless, pressing on all nerves. He had one kidney, and it had failed, so he’d been on dialysis for years and years. There were more and more maladies. Most of them I can’t list. He told me he checked in with a psychiatrist about once a year. I know that I don’t know the extent of the harm done to this man’s body and soul.

We only had serious conversations about Vietnam one time. I only remember two things about that talk. 1. There was a little girl he wanted to bring home, and 2. He asked me, “Can you imagine being so scared that you literally crawled into your helmet?”

I don’t want to remember the rest of that gut-wrenching face-to-face, heart-to-heart. I could not hold it in my mind. I still don’t want to.

Any other times we talked about in the Marines were all about funny pranks and fun times.

When we both went silent on the first day of December, Denny said, “So, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Sissy-bug.”

I called on Saturday, but no one answered. Sunday, I was feeling well enough that I headed down to Great Clips, half a mile from home. I just needed a trim and knew this was the quickest way to get one. I checked in online and was second in line. Several other customers were waiting.

Some who had not checked in online had words regarding their place in line. There were two ethnicities involved, and I didn’t understand a word.

The young woman who invited me to her station (later)spoke to one of the couples in a loud and firm voice. They sat down. The other two girls waiting left.

The stylist and I had language problems; she thought I wanted to leave an inch on,” while I only wanted her to take one inch off. I realized our differing intentions too late.

My style had an undercut, so I didn’t mind when she went around my neck and the first inch–or so–of my hair. It felt good. She finished, and then, SWOOSH, before I could catch her, up the back of my head!

I said, “Wait, wait,” but it was too late. My sort-of stylist had changed the clipper guide and proceeded to the top. It looked more like Denny’s fifth-grade flattop.

Her reply was, “No, no, it’s all okay. It’s fine. I show you in a minute.”

I zoned out and let her finish with scissors around my face and on the top. When she said she would cut out the cowlick on the left side of my face, I almost yelled, “No, it doesn’t need anything. Don’t cut more.”

I paid, said “Happy Holidays,” and left the shop.

I called Dave from the van. “Hey, I’m finished with the hair, but I need to run over to Michael’s (the craft store).” I told him my hair was very, very short.

He said, “Hair grows.”

When I got to Michael’s, I called Bev. 

“Hey,” I said, “I called Denny’s number and didn’t get an answer. Is he…”

“Yes, he’s started the sleeping all the time. He won’t be talking to us again. Just lies there. Every once in a while a grin crosses his face.”

“Oh, Bev, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Linna [Bev’s best friend] is here, and Jim [her son] is in town. I’ll be okay.” She sounded like she was talking to herself.

Then, “Right now, Linna and I are headed over to talk to the man at the cemetery.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I’m thinking of you.”

“Thank you, Sweetheart. I’ll be fine.”

There was no need to mail the funny card in the seat beside me. It told him on the outside that not everyone can have a smart, clever, and good-looking sibling, and then you open the card, and it says, “I guess it’s a good thing you have me.” I had written my usual “Hahahahahhahaahah,” and signed it with a D.

I wouldn’t get to tell him about my BAM haircut or remind him of that time when I was in third grade, and he was in fifth when I smashed a vanilla lime twist into the back of his flattop.

Maybe I heard him saying, “I got you back!”

We both laughed.

***

New Life?

Last Tuesday, when I was having my morning coffee, a wave of relief washed over me like Gulf water easing white sand around a buried shell. I felt somehow cleansed.

I said to myself, “I am now really retired. What will I do?”

A line from Mary Oliver’s poem came to mind. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” 

When the awareness of retirement really hit, my mind recouped the last fourteen years. For twelve of those, we cared for my parents. The last one-and-a-half began with Mom’s death at the end of June 2022 and questions about our next move. Actually, the possibility of moving began much earlier. Mom was in favor of downsizing, too. We were no longer able to care for The Compound as we wanted and as needed, and hiring enough help was prohibitive and highly unlikely. It was not a difficult decision.

So we started getting ready. We thought we’d list the place in Spring 2023, in time for a new family to find our lovely spot and get moved in before school started. I admit I procrastinated, but my dear friend Cathy and I cleaned out garages large enough to house eight vehicles with room left over. We sold some and gave away more, passing down furniture and ancestral pieces to our children, my brother, and his family. Our estate sale left us in worse shape than before the sale! I can’t tell you who manages a good estate sale, but I can quickly let you know which company not to choose. Seriously, just ask me.

We browsed realty listings in anticipation, and one house kept catching my eye. It went off the market, and we thought, oh well, we missed that one. Mysteriously, it came back a month later at a much lower price. When two of our children saw the same listing for The Cottage (it seems they were looking, too), they each said, in so many words, “This is your house.” We fiddled, diddled, and bought a house before listing The Compound. Our dear realtor friend Karen was with us every step of the way. We closed on The Cottage on September 22, 2022, and began the relocation process, leaving a few pieces of furniture and decor for staging and passing down more antiques to our children and cousins.

I can confirm that two homes build a recipe for stress, and our two-properties situation lasted almost a year. For three seasons, I cleaned, mowed, and weeded. Dave knocked down weeds and cleaned up the edges of driveways, sidewalks, and flower beds. He watered, thanking the Universe when the rain came. The brutal winter meant ensuring we had no busted pipes at either place.

Karen listed the house in November 2022. There was plenty of activity at The Compound, but no takers. We knew it would take the right buyer for the place. There was that persistent possibility of eight bedrooms, three kitchens, six bathrooms, and three (maybe four) living areas. Not everybody could fit into that situation.

We dropped the price a few times, realizing that the market had slowed, and it still seemed that the people who needed it most could not afford it. Investors, of course, wanted to lowball.

We both watched finances. There was no scraping by, but the upkeep on The Compound was expensive. There were improvements we wanted to make at the new house that we had lovingly named The Cottage. They had to wait for the sale.

Dave, my steady partner, kept us on the right path. Unpacking the basement waited like a stalking bobcat, but necessity called for the consistent care of The Compound, all the while trying to be a good wife and feeling the weight of Mom’s death underneath all the hoo-roar.

We came near to closing with a family wishing for space for an au pair and frequent visits by family from Japan, only to have the deal fall through a couple weeks before signing. Our hearts fell for a while, but along came a woman who said she wanted to house parents, in-laws, and her best friend’s grandmother, providing caregivers 24/7 when needed. She planned significant renovations, she said, including adding gas-powered whole-house generators. She loved the grounds, especially the muscadine vines, blackberries, and strawberries. She told me to leave the wildflower garden to seed for next year’s spring. She bought the staging furniture and decor. It all felt right.

So, how do we fill our time now? Well, currently, we blow and pick up leaves every day. The cottage is in a woodland setting in the middle of a 1980s planned development. No one would imagine the number of leaves we manage. Looking at the front of the house, you wouldn’t suspect the designated wildlife area that is our backyard. There are trees at least one hundred years old, and they shed their leaves in fall and winter. It seems they never stop.

I spend more time with Dixie, my spoiled Shihtzu/Poodle mix. She is a Shi-poo. I cook dinner most days, enough for lunch leftovers, and breakfast a few times. I check and post on Facebook. I’m trying to get comfortable with Instagram.

It seems Dave and I see more physicians these days. It’s not abnormal. I mean, we are eighty-one (next week) and seventy-four. We have at least one or two appointments each week, and each one can shoot the whole day. Then, there are the maintenance people for the HVAC, irrigation, plumbing, and other household fixers.

My routine is not yet stable. I plan to plan.

Every once in a while, I drive by The Compound. It looks ragged and a bit abandoned. No one lives there. No improvements have begun. Nobody cuts the grass until it’s hard to mow.

I don’t feel sad. I’m surprised that I don’t. I just feel such deep love and respect for that glorious setting. The Compound not only housed more than a few bodies, but also fed the souls of those who passed through the doors. The memories will last forever.

There are a bunch of videos online of people fighting through tangled vines and groin-high weeds to find a lawn and, usually, a house. Sometimes, they work on public property, mowing around poles, signs, and speed bumps and humps. Sometimes, they’re even working for nothing! The videos are delightful and somewhat therapeutic.

I probably spend too much of my time watching YouTube.

A Quart of Tomatoes & A Pint of Jam

Monday, September 25.

I’ve been to Nevada to visit my brother, Denny, one of the most bad-ass wounded Vietnam Marines the U.S.A. ever produced. I think this man’s spirit animal might be a horse. Denny has always had a bond with horses. He misses his horses from years back, especially Harry. The internet says that having a horse for a spirit animal means he should tap into one’s own strength and abilities to fight whatever he faces.

Denny and Harry ~ A few years back.

They got that right, and so has Denny. He’s mustered up the force and capacity to fight Agent Orange and kidney disease for some fifty-five years now. All the while, the Veterans Administration only this year afforded him 100% disability. The VA is a necessary piece of our government, but it’s slow and cumbersome, hard to understand, and extremely difficult to navigate. This is the arm of the Federal Government supposed to take care of our ex-military, each man or woman having pledged their lives on behalf of you and me and every other American.

Every veteran needs an advocate to get what they deserve from the Veteran’s Administration.

I have a hard time talking about the VA without falling into a rant. And yet, I do know the VA has served my brother many times. Now that he’s 100%, he gets a new converted van, changes to the house to make it more accessible, and more financial support.

Denny and I texted each other at the same time today, expressing our joy over our time together. He said, “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your visit.” I said, “It was so good to see you.” I am resolved to be on Facetime with Denny at least once a week.

On Tuesday, we took Denny to his long-term care facility in Fallon from Renown Regional Hospital in Reno. He’d dodged yet another bullet, or several, including two GI bleeds, a blood clot in his leg, and procedures to insert mesh in his arteries to prevent blood clots from reaching his brain and chest. He has seen death’s door so many times it’s tempting to call him the cat with nine lives, except that would be an understatement as Denny was way past nine many years ago.

On the way “home” to Fallon, we had to “stop by” the Apple Store in Reno. It seems a nurse at the rehab facility dropped Denny’s iPad on its corner, and it shattered. There was no time to waste–he had to have a new one that very day. We were with Apple for several hours. Most of the associates were preparing for a new iPhone release the next day, and since we had no appointment, we had to wait until the last scheduled client had been served. The lone late/afternoon agent started our conversation well after closing time. When we left, eight or ten people were still getting the store ready for the latest iPhone launch.

I think Denny and Bev got the old one traded in on a purchase, but the store would have to order the new one, which means somebody has to go to the store again. Maybe making an appointment this time will help. The next day, Bev couldn’t find the old tablet to take to the store, but she said her receipt reflected the trade-in. I thought I saw the old one on one of the store’s desks, so I semi-convinced her that the store must have kept the broken iPad. She looked all through the van, and it wasn’t there. She said she would call the store today. (Update: She found it!)

On our way to the Apple Store!

Speaking of losing things. For days, we looked for Denny’s black satchel that he calls his dialysis bag. It contains a blanket, his phone, his diary, and another notebook containing all his passwords and phone numbers. He and Bev both said it was not in his room at Renown. In fact, we talked about that just before leaving for Fallon.

“I can’t do anything without that black bag,” Denny said.

“We’ll find it,” I said.

Bev and I started the search. Now, he went to the Fallon Hospital ER from his dialysis location and was transferred to Renown Regional, also by ambulance. So, did he leave the bag at the dialysis site? No. Might it be at the Fallon ER? They treated me as if they thought me a bit strange but finally said that the bag would have probably traveled to Renown on the gurney with Denny.

“So, what ambulance service do you use?” I asked. I thought the bag might be in the ambulance.

“Uh, we use our own vehicles. It’s not in our ambulance.”

Okay, so I called the Renown ER. They didn’t have it but connected me with Security, where a kind young woman asked, “And you’re sure it didn’t make it to the room?”

I answered, “Yes, I’m sure.”

Bev was telling Jena, Denny’s daughter, about the missing black bag.

“Mom,” Jena said, “it was on that gurney when they took him to his room. I saw it. Call the nurses’ station.”

Bev called the nurses’ station for the first floor and asked if they were sure it wasn’t in the room.

They called her back within minutes. “It was in the room in the closet.”

It wasn’t possible to see Denny every day. On the dialysis days, he is just about wiped out by the time he returns to his facility room. Beverly planned runarounds for the two of us–her and me–and on Wednesday, I got the best massage I’ve ever experienced at The Electric Sun from Mikey. It didn’t hurt that Mikey is about six foot two and looks like he could be on the cover of some romance novel or maybe a bodybuilder’s magazine. But the massage…If he’d looked like a purple ogre, I would still call his body-kneading the BOAT, the Best of All Time.

While Beverly drove Denny and me in his converted van, he and I sang together. We harmonized on Make the World Go Away, How Great Thou Art, Crazy, and I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. We both imagined Mom and Dad singing together. I hope Dad has sung Red River Valley to Mom. I wonder if he has a guitar.

When I told Denny I would open the last quart of Mom’s tomatoes when I got home, he smiled.

“Do you have any of her blackberry jam?” he asked.

I told him I used to have one, but a woman helping us move from The Compound to The Cottage dropped it, and the jar shattered. I enjoyed the scent while we cleaned up the glass-infused sweetness.

I imagined that there were only big pieces of broken jar, and I would… you know. I didn’t.

John and Vicky ferried me from the airport late afternoon yesterday. I flopped on my chair with a weak margarita and held Dixie until I got ready for bed, unpacking only chargers and my CPAP machine.

After sleeping for twelve hours, Dixie and my chair called to me again. I made coffee, and my little dog shifted from one side of me to the other, lying closer and closer with each move. There were several kisses, too. After The Price Is Right came on TV, I told her I had to make a list of things to do today and actually wrote it down on a page in my notebook:

Put smothered pork chops in the slow cooker for dinner. Unpack two suitcases. Wash clothes. Give Dixie a bath. Cut up a watermelon that has lingered in the refrigerator for two weeks. Write about the Nevada visit in my blog.

I’m currently working on one, finished two, and will get busy on the other three.

I poured the jar of Mom’s tomatoes over browned pork chops, but not before I stuck a spoon in the jar and ate four pieces, lingering on each bite. Dad liked Mom’s tomatoes even better than the blackberry jam. Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

Mom, I’d love to go to the Farmer’s Market again with you. Dad would ask what took us so long down there. You’d huff a little and say, “We had a lot to do.” We’d bring home lima beans, tomatoes, white peaches, and blackberries. We would freeze limas, can tomatoes in wide-mouth quart jars, and eat peaches. Then we’d make blackberry jam and bake Dad some biscuits which he’d layer with cold butter melting into the hot bread. For supper, he’d eat tomatoes and cornbread.

If I had some of Mama’s blackberry jam, I might not share it. I’d bake some frozen biscuits and eat my delight. Denny wouldn’t get enough to put on a biscuit. The whole thing would be gone before the next trip to Nevada.

Hate it for you, Denny.

Our Mama and Daddy ~They made us who we are. (I still have Dad’s favorite shirt.)

Trying to love two women…

Is like a ball and chain. Sing it with me,

Trying to love two women is like a ball and chain. Sometimes the pleasure ain’t worth the strain….

Lord, ain’t that the truth. What we’ve got right now is two houses, and sometimes the reason doesn’t seem to justify the strain of two old people trying to take care of two places.

Dad died. Mom died. Dave and I are getting older by the day. We knew we could not maintain The Compound with its possibility of eight bedrooms, three kitchens, or maybe two distinct households. Or perhaps three, and at one time, four, but here we are….

We were so close to closing on The Compound on the ravine. A young family wanted the property to afford space for an au pair and extended family for visits that sometimes last months. They were enamored with the grounds: the wildflower gardens where butterflies, bees, and birds feasted; the twenty-five varieties of daylilies and iris; the shade gardens of violets, trillium, and ginger; the formal foundation plantings of small, round nandina, Happy Returns lilies, and varieties of buttercups and tulips; the shade mounds of ferns and hostas. They made sure I would not destroy the charm of all these flowers.

It all seemed perfect until almost the last minute. There was a problem with financing that could not be overcome.

So now, in upper-90-degree highs, we are mowing, weeding, trimming, and cleaning all these beds and meadows. It’s so hot. We begin at 7:00 A.M. or so and work until it’s just too hot to do much more. This morning, we worked longer than we should have. Our friend who was helping us almost passed out. Dave was headed toward heat stroke. From now on, our friend will work inside. The house needs a good cleaning.

Trying to love two women, you can’t please yourself.

At best it’s only half good, you just can’t stock two shelves.

Yeah, well, one can try. We took inventory today of our cleaning products. Our cleaner prefers a special kind of mop. We got it. We also have every cleaning product known to man, much more than our cleaner can use. We’ll share them after the whole Compound is sparkling.

Trying to love two women Is tearing me apart. One has my money, the other has my heart.

My goal right now is to take pieces of my favorite plants to the new house. New, huh, we’ve been at the new place for almost ten months. The shade gardens here sometimes feel neglected. August is not the best time to plant, but it’s hard to kill iris or daylilies.

We knew selling the Compound would mean finding an extremely unique family to make that big old rambling place their own. We also knew we’d have to maintain it until those people came our way. Our realtor continues to work it daily.

Several people pray over it every day. God love them.

You know, I knew a man once who tried to love two women. It didn’t work for him. (Actually, my numbers could be wrong. There may have been more than two, but who’s counting?) I know I’m glad Dave and I only have two houses.

Trying to love two women Is like a ball and chain, Trying to love two women is like a ball and chain,

Sometimes the pleasure ain’t worth the pain. It’s a long, hard grind, and it tires your mind.

Grief Goes to Granville

Mama died in her sleep a year and four days ago. June 24 is the date. I had not cried except when I was lying on the couch with the flu this spring and heard Bocelli singing Amazing Grace in front of the Vatican. The weeping was over when the music stopped, and I returned to my coughing, headache, and sore joints.

I knew the trip to Granville’s Heritage Days on Memorial Day weekend would come near to killing me. Tears welled up when I opened the invitation to the annual memorial service for all the people who were attached to Granville in some way. All these people passed away since the last Heritage Days service. She was fourth on the list, Ethel Blair, just below Barlow, Barrett, and Birdwell. There was also a handwritten note in the bottom corner announcing that a brick would be dedicated in Mom’s honor on the museum’s Memory Lane.

It hit me that Mom was no longer real. She had spun herself into a memory. Had she floated away from my reality? I was about to face the place where Mom and Dad served a community in their older years. Dad was the pastor there, and Mom played the piano.

Since last June, grief hasn’t been hidden, but we’ve been trying to sell our beloved Compound On the Ravine, a place that requires a particular buyer with a situation similar to ours.

We bought a new home, The Cottage, and the moving and the paring down proved unmerciful. We fell for the idea of an estate sale, a disastrous experience that left us with more of a mess than we started with. One friend and I emptied garages that could fit six, maybe eight, vehicles.

The upkeep of The Compound has taken a lot of time and energy. We contracted Covid, then the flu came for a long seven-day visit. In winter, spring, and summer, we’ve made almost daily trips to The Compound. It hasn’t sold yet. Besides that, we have been trying to make The Cottage our new home.

Grief is adaptable. If it couldn’t move in with me, it would devastate others around me. While I was busy with Mom’s last days, my cousin Reba lost her husband Lewis. What a sweet couple. My Aunt Bessie died March 23, nine months to the day after Mom. Her kids say she just wasn’t the same after Mom died. Ethel and Bessie talked every Saturday, sometimes for two or three hours. My cousin Brenda Gail died within a month. Her mother was Aunt Elois, my dad’s oldest sister, long gone now. My writing group friend Debbie’s sister passed away in Alabama, and just a few days later, Bonnie, another of our group of 5 Ladies in Writing, suddenly lost her husband. I’d visited her at the St. Thomas Hospital cafeteria just days before. After that, the husband of my dear ex-sister-in-law Vickie in Montana surrendered abruptly to just-discovered cancer.

And then, one day, about two weeks into May, the servicemen came to check out our HVAC at The Cottage, just as they had always done at The Compound twice a year. George finished before his partner and was leaning against the white truck when I came out the front door. I don’t remember where I was going nor who came with George that day.

George might be sixty or maybe a little over. I said, “How’re you doing, George?”

He said, “Fine,” and quickly added, “Probably as fine as I’ll ever get.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, I lost my wife in a car accident a month ago.”

“Oh, George, I am so sorry,” I said.

“It was a one-car accident,” he said. “Day before her birthday. She’d gone to get her toes done. It was her birthday present. I guess she just lost control of the car. She would have been home in less than ten minutes.”

“Where did that happen?” I asked.

“Tater Peeler Road, out from Lebanon. Kinda out in the country is where we live.”

“I know Tater Peeler Road. I lived in Lebanon for several years. And we had a farm before that in Norene.”

“Well, we was close neighbors. I’m towards the end of the road there at Cedars of Lebanon. She was a wonderful person, always helping somebody. She loved flowers, gardening, you know. She had back surgery one time. We went to the grocery store, couldn’t have been more than a week after, and she was waiting in the car for me to get everything. I got in the car and she saw this elderly couple having trouble loading their groceries, and she got out of that car and went and helped them. Always doing something like that. Yeah, she was getting her toes done. She loved to dress up and keep herself pretty. Loved jewelry. I was always getting her some jewelry of some kind.”

I smiled and he went on. “I don’t stay at the house. I go there to sleep and then I get up and go to work. Put myself on call every weekend so I work every day.”

“So you eat out?”I asked. “You just don’t want to be there.”

He shook his head. “Naw. She was a good cook. Sometimes we ate out. It was always for something special.”

The other serviceman came around the corner of the house.

George lifted his ballcap and put it back on. “I guess we’re ready to go,” he said.

“George, I’ll remember you in my prayers. What was your wife’s name?”

“Diane. Her name was Diane.”

I was so moved that I wanted to see a photo. I looked at the obituaries for Lebanon, Tennessee, and found a picture. I imagined what it was like for George to lose his Diane.

***

Spring hit and there have been several lookers at our old house and a few offers, but no sale. The gardens grew at both homes, but I took a break to make that trip to Granville for the memorial service and the dedication of the brick. Dave remained at home with Dixie, and my friend D went with me.

We had plenty of time but arrived in Granville with only a few minutes to spare before the brick dedication. D dropped me off and went to find a parking spot. The dedication was brief. I walked down the street to Granville United Methodist Church, and, instead of taking the steep steps to the double doors, I made my way up the ramp on the side of the church through the pastor’s office to the choir room and restrooms.

I sat on the end of the pew with the large aisle from the choir room. There was the familiar cube of tissues. I knew I’d need them. A woman from the middle of the seat leaned over to tell me she had family coming to sit there.

No bother. I moved forward to the center aisle seat on the second pew, checked for Kleenex, and grabbed a handful.

Something swirled in the center of my body. It spread to the very edge of my neck, shoulders, and legs. All that I could relate to were arms and legs. The twisting in my middle had created a large hole, empty except for the rotating air. I started to cry. Not just a little, but sobbing, and holding two or three tissues to my mouth.

D will be here soon, I thought, but as the pastor started the service, I sat alone in that respectful silence and felt the stark nothingness of grief. I must have walked on someone else’s wobbling legs to the altar and lit a candle when Mom’s name was called.

Of Turkeys and Trucks

Dixie and I have been walking a little further into the neighborhood every day. Now, Dixie is a complete fraidy cat and she balks at the presence of not only garbage haulers and trailers with lawnmowers. Sometimes, she runs from oversized pickups. If it’s dusk, she’ll bark at a new shadow on the street.

A few days ago, just as we were about to reach the large gazebo next to the tennis court about the distance of three city blocks, our resident Tom Turkey gobbled from a patch of trees on a small rise. Dixie wanted nothing to do with that kind of noise. She strained on the leash to get back home.

Oh, no, you won’t!

A couple of days after that, we encountered the sizeable fellow down the hill from the walking trail. I stopped to take pictures. Dixie stared at the big bird, giving him ‘the look.’ She yanked me back to the trail.

This big guy has been here for months now, and we often see the rest of the flock, but he seems to wander around without the other birds. My daughter-in-law informs me that he’s hanging out all over our Nippers Corner area. She and my son live just a half-mile down the road and she’s quite familiar with him, she says.

VB, our closest neighbor, has had more than one visitation to her backyard by the whole flock. She’s taken photos and texted them to me.

I suppose someone has named him already but I figure it was something mundane like Tommy or Gobbler. There are people in our neighborhood, though, who might choose something more stately, say, Turner. When VB heard the story about Dixie being a bit wary of the gobbles, she said, “That poor old thing is looking for a mate.” I told her we could call him Harry the Horny. (I’d heard that title before but didn’t know when or where.)

This morning, Dixie got some early barking in when the truck came for the weekly garbage pickup. She parted the white cafe curtains to give it her best mezzo-soprano crescendo. I waited until she was sure she’d run off the noisy old vehicle before heading out on our morning walk.

Just as we made it to the bottom of our little hamlet to the main road of the development, Harry appeared in all his glory, strutting his stuff in the middle of the road. His tail fanned out and his body inflated like a hot-air balloon. Wobbling on those spindly legs, I imagined that he could float into the air. (Wild turkeys can fly: domestic ones, not so much.) Harry’s swollen hood almost blocked his eyes, and his eight-inch beard swung in the breeze. Two hens picked at the grass of the corner lot, ignoring their suitor just a few feet away.

He danced circles in the street and gobbled, repeating himself after each turn. Dixie pawed me to pick her up. When I heard vehicles coming, I stepped out into the road, my twelve-pound dog under my arm, to slow them down and point to Harry in the middle of the street. Two people rolled down their windows and thanked me. He pranced and gurgled as loud as he could, and the vehicles carefully took what was left of the pavement around His Majesty.

The minute I set Dixie down and said, “Okay, let’s go home,” Harry trotted toward me! Dixie growled and howled at the same time and was in my arms again before I could even yell at him. I broke into my fastest run. He was gaining on us when a car came down the street and honked. He turned toward the hill where the lady turkeys still blithely grazed.

I huffed and puffed, trying to recover from such an outburst of energy, and said, “Okay, Dixie, you are going to have to walk up this hill.” I set her down and that’s when the moving van appeared.

I lifted her again and she wrapped her legs around me. That dog never did pee or poop on that trip. When I got her home, I turned her loose in the part of the backyard I call the Dog Run to do her business. It’s a fenced area just right for a dog playground. I sat down on one of the old rusted lawn chairs to keep an eye on her. Our neighborhood owl could scoop her up–or maybe even one of the hawks we see perching on the fence.

I do love our morning walks. Sometimes I get a good workout. I sat down at my laptop and looked up Harry the Horny. I slammed it shut when something about Horny Harry Potter showed up.

The Rest of the Story

About that Covid stuff. You remember, I thought we were doing great on Day 2?

On Day 3 in Covid Compound, we were both in worse shape than the day before. Seriously worse. Dave was heavily congested and so was I. Neither of us could move around for too long. We tried to continue working. That was a failure. We were down. Stuck to either bed or recliner.

Friday morning, at about 2:00 A.M., I woke with the worst chest pain I’ve ever experienced and nausea that kept my head swimming and my body weaving. I drank half the largest size of Maalox and thought it helped for a while but it was only a short while. By daylight, I knew I should get to the ER. I called 911 and pulled on the first bra I could find and covered it with my pajama top.

I told Dave (can’t remember where we were), “Ambulance is coming.”

“You called 911?” he asked. “Yourself?” He followed close behind me through the house.

I think I might have said, “Fastest way.”

He tracked me to the front door. The ambulance had arrived and the responders roamed the street. (This was at The Compound, where everybody has trouble figuring out where to go, sometimes including the residents.) I staggered across the yard to the ambulance holding my chest with my cell phone and waving with the other.

As I serpentined toward the vehicle, Dave yelled from the front porch, “Call me and I’ll pick you up.”

“Chest pain,” I said as I pulled myself into the side door and up the three steps to what looked like a big reclining chair. I kept adding,”I have COVID.” Nothing exacerbated, but I was about to throw up. The attendant pushed me into the bed thing and handed me a big plastic cup with something that fit under my chin so that nobody would be splashed with vomit. I thought how efficient that little bowl was and wondered why I’d never seen one of those until then. She slapped some wires on me, took vitals, and off we went. Somebody was radioing all my problems. I heard, “Patient is ambulatory” and thought, She won’t be for long.

Poor Dave. No one paid a bit of attention to him. He could have passed out on the floor and no one would have noticed. I bet he didn’t even have his phone in his pocket.

***

When a person claims chest pain, they get a lot of attention at the hospital.

The cool, young, well-tatted doctor said, “Hello, Diana, I’m Stephen and I’m going to get you better.” I like this guy. He knows me. I saw him when I fell in the freezer and broke my ribs. I didn’t remind him. Stephen is his middle name. His first and last names have a whole bunch of consonants. I wondered if he might be from Iceland.

The nurse took vitals while we talked and hooked me up to the equipment that seems to keep tabs on everything–blood pressure, oxygen level, and more. She ran an EKG.

“So you’re not feeling too well,” he said. “Tell me about this pain in your chest.”

I gave him the rundown, whispering, while the pain in the center of my chest intensified. I let him know about my gallbladder issues. (It’s full of stones.)

“Let’s listen to your heart,” he said.

He asked if I was having trouble breathing.

“It’s pretty shallow,” I said, “but I don’t think breathing makes the pain any worse. I’m getting along. The breath only goes down so far. Asthma, you know.”

“Well, we’re going to run a couple of tests, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

He and the nurse stepped out.

The X-ray people were the first to come to the room. They were fast.

Dr. Stephen came back in with the nurse behind him.

“Your blood pressure is up. Do you take blood pressure medication?”

“Yes, losartan, amlodipine, and HCTZ.”

“Did you take it this morning?”

“Heavens, no, it was never a thought,” I answered.

“We’ll get you some,” he said, and left.

The sweet nurse came in and handed me a pill and a small cup of Maalox. I told her I’d dosed myself generously several times before I got there. “Stephen wants you to have it,” she said, “and I’m going to put some lidocaine in your IV.”

Her effort might have have helped some. But just some.

I think I dozed in between tests, tests, and more tests.

The doctor came into the room to feel me up again. None of the tests offered any diagnosis, he said. Even the gallstones were ruled out. Everywhere he prodded hurt, but my chest pain lingered. My heart was fine, he said. But the squeezing pain was still there. Maybe it just couldn’t get any worse.

“What did you eat for dinner last night?” he asked, pushing on my belly.

I answered, “Chicken, broccoli, potato.”

“I bet that chicken was fried,” he said.

“No,” I said, “as a matter of fact, it was baked in the oven with a few bread crumbs sprinkled on top and sprayed with olive oil. Now I did drink a skinny margarita.”

He chuckled. “Whoaaaa,” he said.”You’re my girl!”

I didn’t know quite what that meant, but I laughed, too.

“I think it was the margarita,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said. “This is not your regular heartburn.”

Well, huh. I had heard that alcohol and Covid do not mix well, but just didn’t think about it when I downed my sugar-free concoction. But I still felt that this was something more. It was like some sort of spasm under my breastbone, and it was still there, only a slight bit less than when I arrived at the ER.

Dr. Stephen released me with the instruction to see my regular doctor in a week.

“This will get better,” he said.

I left the cubicle wondering about the possibility.

I called Dave from the waiting room. When I got in the van, he asked if I was any better.

I shook my head.

***

Dr. Diana remembered that Dr. Ben Smith one time told her the best muscle relaxer in the world is Valium. Of course, no one prescribes it much because it’s so addictive. I was about to go on a hunt.

Mom was given a prescription for the generic by hospice, and there were a couple left over. I found it in the top layer of a box of her clothes on the bedroom floor and swallowed one in a hurry.

In thirty minutes, all pain was gone.

We got well over seven days. Actually, I don’t even remember how Dave was doing. I think he was over it before I was. The virus like me more than him. I wouldn’t wish ill for my sweet man, but I do think life just isn’t fair sometimes. I mean, he had a skinny margarita, too.


A Thanksgiving Story

This story is from my dear friend, Angie Klapuch. I think she wants me to share it.

*****

I was recently asked this question, “Did you ever want a sister?” My answer was that I never even thought about it. I’ve only had brothers. One older half-brother, one full brother, and one younger half-brother. I was the only girl and that was just the way it was.

For a few generations on my Dad’s side of the family, we were always told that we had a great-grandparent that was a full-blooded Cherokee. It certainly explained these high cheekbones. Also, verbal history said that the Hogue’s were of French descent.

In 2018, with curiosity high and the ballooning of DNA tests available, Dad and I decided we would do a DNA test to either confirm or dispute these oral histories that have been embedded into our family’s history.

The results came in and we are mostly Irish and Scottish.🤦🏻‍♀️🤣 No American Indian, no French. So, I don’t know where these cheekbones came from.

Since then, our DNA has just been lying out there without any other major revelations.

Fast forward to September 14, 2022. I received a message from a lady stating that she had recently received her DNA results which showed that I was her half-sister and that my dad was her father. Needless to say, I was floored.

I was then tasked with the decision to either tell my 83-year-old father or not tell him. I didn’t take the decision lightly. Could he handle it? But, he is the only one that could provide some clarity. Maybe. Ultimately, I told him. He may be 83 but he is still very competent, independent, and makes all of his own decisions.

Dad was equally floored by this new information. Dad assured me that he was never aware of this child. But, here we were wrapping our minds around me having a big sister and dad having another daughter. Strange.

Dad’s emotions were all over the place. Angry that the birth mother didn’t tell him. Guilt and sadness that he didn’t raise his own child. Embarrassment that he had to talk about this with me. I kept it positive and non-judgmental. We both agreed that whatever questions or curiosities that this person had deserved to be answered. We were about to pull up our bootstraps!

In 1959, Dad was fresh out of the military and was back in California where his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins lived. He was twenty.

He moved back to Louisiana in January 1960. This new daughter was born July 5, 1960. Dad turned 21 that same day. Yes, they share the same birthday!

She and I began exchanging pictures and histories. She was placed for adoption upon birth and was chosen by two loving parents and an older sister. Not only was I able to provide information about our family, but was also able to provide some information about her birth mother.

After a few weeks, I went out on a limb and invited her to our home for Thanksgiving. I really thought I was pressing my luck and was afraid I might have become too pushy. But, after a couple days, she responded back and accepted my invitation. She accepted an invitation to travel from Michigan to Tennessee to meet a bunch of strangers she knew very little about. All she knew was that we shared DNA and that was enough. She is brave and adventurous that is for certain. Maybe even a tad crazy…which just might be an inherited trait.😜

So now I had to tell my Dad that she was coming and ask if he wanted to be here as well. Without hesitation, he said he would be here one way or another. He had a new daughter and nothing was going to keep him from an opportunity to meet her.

We gathered awaiting her arrival. Eli was here from NY. Dad was here from Arkansas. Anxiety was high. What will she look like? Does she look like us? Will she like us? Does she want a relationship? Do we want a relationship? Heads swirling, hearts racing.

Let me just say, Thanksgiving could not have been better. This stranger, who is a stranger no more, is kind, smart, and intriguing. She is incredibly thankful for our willingness to open our hearts to her; and, vice versa.

My dad is a quiet man who internalizes pretty much everything. He has allowed himself to be vulnerable. The two of them talked non-stop for the five days she spent with us. They have talked on the phone multiple times since they’ve both been home. Dad keeps telling me that they have 62 years to catch up on. Yes, they do.

All of Dad’s anxieties have melted away and this experience has been nothing but positive for him. It’s as if a new breath of life has filled him, and I know I made the right decision telling him.

So, back to the question, “Did you ever want a sister?” The question she should have asked was, “Do you want a sister?”

Yes, Barbara Jan Rumple, I do want a sister and I am thankful it’s you.

I think Dad is happy, too! Angie on left, Barbara on right.