June is fireflies.
June is chirping crickets.
June is rocking slowly on the front porch.
June is watching dusk transform to evening to pitch black night.
June is magic.
2 comments on June
Category: Asheville Living
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So many questions, usually answered with tears.
- Did I make the right decision?
- Did I make the wrong decision?
- Did I act too hastily?
- Should I have been more patient?
- Was it a mistake to move in together for a year and a half? Did that make this current move even harder on her?
- Will Mom ever believe that her current living situation is her home?
- Will she ever forgive me for moving her “into an old folks’ home”?
- Will we ever have a visit where it doesn’t end with her begging me to take her home, crying, promising that she’ll be good, and me trying to hold back sobs until I exit the building?
- Am I seeing my future?
There are moments she seems so lucid, when she tells me she is *not* going to continue living where she is. And there are moments when she cannot string words together in a coherent thought. And most heartbreaking, the frequent moments when she asks me if we can go look for Dad, because she hasn’t seen him for a while, and she’s worried about him. And then she’s angry, so angry, that he’s deserted her. There are no words to comfort her.
Last year, I bought this larger house so that she could surround herself with her furniture, her things, hoping that would make her feel more comfortable. And now those things, those artifacts from her and Dad’s life, mock me when I walk in the door, reminding me that I quickly lost one person I cared for so deeply, and am now slowly losing another.
There are days I want to give it all away, not have the visual reminders. And other days I regret the hastily discarded things after Dad’s death. I’ve been cautioned not to make any major decisions right now, to give myself time to feel the feels and let emotions run their course. More than May flowers, I hope all of these April showers bring some sense of peace when I ponder these questions.
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I generally avoid taking Mom to stores in person. There’s the whole COVID thing, but even more importantly, it generally ends in tantrums and fits, which I haven’t figured out how to handle. And this weekend, she wore me down. She was incessant. “Why can’t we buy something?” “Let’s go to the places where they sell things.” “Can we do the thing where we get all the things?”
I needed a dryer clamp to re-attach the vent to the dryer. “Would you like to come to Ace Hardware with me, Mom?” “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed excitedly. She dutifully carried the shopping basket as I browsed dryer clamps. She was intoxicated by the selection of all the things. She ran her hand gingerly over the vents, and pipes, and tapes, mesmerized. After selecting the proper clamp, I indulged her by walking up and down each aisle, even though we didn’t need anything else. She asked if we could buy a couple of plants, one with pink blossoms, another with white. We added them to our basket and checked out.
In the car, she asked where we were going next. I told her home, and she burst into tears. “You promised me colors!” she sobbed. I had no idea what’s she was talking about. “You got some colors. You have pink, and white, and green,” I say, pointing to the plant she’s holding. “Noooooooooo! The purple, and the blue!” I’m flummoxed. “Mom, I don’t understand. Tell me what you mean.” She wails, “I’m so stupid!” “No, Mom, you’re not stupid. Tell me once more what you’d like so that we can go to the right place to get it.” “SHUT UP!”
I have patience. Until I don’t.
“I’m sorry. Did you just tell me to shut up?” She sobs quietly. She eventually tells me she wants to buy clothes.
We enter Target, and she pushes the buggy. We walk up and down aisles. She gazes longingly at the items. We are in the children’s section, and she picks up a sweater set, size 24 months. “So beautiful…” “It is pretty, Mom.” “I want to buy it.” “For who, Mom?” “LORI!” she shouts exasperated. “For me!” “Mom, this is children’s clothing. This won’t fit you. Let’s head over to the adult section.” “LORI! You don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course this will fit.” I place the sweater set back on the rack and we make our way to the adult clothing section. She pouts and sullenly follows me to the women’s clothing section.
“Oh! I like this one! Can I have it? Do we have any money?” “Yes, we have money. That’s really pretty.” I hold it up to her to make sure it will fit. “It looks like it will fit. If you’d like it, you can have it.” “I need three, or four.” “Why don’t you pick out three for today?” We walk through the department, and she lovingly caresses each sweater, exclaiming how beautiful each one is. She chooses three, and I tell her good job, and we’ll check out now. “NOOOOOOOOOO!” she yells and starts crying. People turn their heads and stare. “Mom, you’ve got some beautiful sweaters; let’s pay for them and go home.” This is my first mistake. Thinking that logic will resonate. Still sobbing, she blubbers, “You don’t let me have anything.” Again, I try logic. “Mom, you have three beautiful sweaters. Let’s walk towards the check-out.” “I hate you!” and she stomps her foot.
I want, so badly, to grab her by the arm and drag her to the check-out. And I’m overcome by a sense of deja vu.
I’m four years old, and we’re shopping at the downtown Sears. I’m not sure what I’ve done, but Mom is not happy with me. She grabs my arm, by my teeny tiny bicep, hard, and yanks me through the store. I remember her yelling at me, saying that she would never take me out in public again.
Back in present day, I sigh. I hug Mom and she pushes me away. I start walking towards the front of the store, and she walks a few steps behind me, stopping every so often to look at something. She’ll catch up with me and add something to the cart. When she stops to look at something else, I take it out of the cart and hang it, in the wrong place, in the wrong department, saying a silent apology to the team members working that day. Occasionally, I turn to look and she’s not there, so I backtrack, wondering which department she’s snuck into. After a half hour of this, we make it to the check-out and are on our way home.
We pull up in front of our house and before I can turn off the car, she turns to me, “Can we go shopping?”
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Today’s Bloganuary prompt:
Where do you go when you need solitude?
If I have the luxury of time, I head to the mountains. One of my favorite things to do is hike without the consideration of time. Wandering up hills, down paths, staring at the sky, sitting still on a rock or hillside, embracing the quiet. It’s my time to think about hard things, or nothing at all.
If I don’t have the luxury of time, I head to my back deck. Our house is built on a hill, so even though the deck is off the main floor, it’s among the treetops. In the summer, I’m surrounded by a canopy of hemlocks and maples, green all around. In the winter, it’s more stark, but still offers me a quiet escape, even if only for a few minutes.
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Early in the morning, Mom crept into my bedroom and crawled into bed beside me.
“Did you look outside?”
“I did, Mom. It’s really pretty out there, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Silence.
“Let’s go back to my room. It’s prettier in there.”
“Your eyes are closed. How do you know it’s prettier?”
She tugged me out of bed.
In her room, we sat in her bed, propped up against her headboard, looking out over the front yard, the street, the majestical trees, all covered with snow, and soft, clumpy flakes continuing to fall from the sky.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is, Mom. It is.”
There are hard moments. And there are magical moments like this.
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With so much fresh, powdery snow, we couldn’t miss the opportunity to make snow cream. It’s part of the magic of snow days in the south. You take what has fallen from the sky and turn it into the most delectable sweet treat ever made.
Secretly, longingly, I hoped that making snow cream would trigger memories for Mom. We had made snow cream during the few big storms of my childhood. Would that be far enough back that she might remember?
As we finished our chicken noodle soup, I asked her if she’d like to do something special. She stared at me, not really comprehending what I was asking. “We’re going to make snow cream!” She continued to stare. “Like ice cream! Sweet and cold!” When she heard “ice cream” she got up. I pointed to her bedroom slippers. “You’ll need to put on shoes that cover all your feet.” She said, “Oh, yes,” and walked into the living room. “They’re by the stairs, Mom.” She started towards the fireplace. I followed her and gently touched her arm. “This way, Mom.” “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
In the kitchen, I set out what we’d need: a large bowl, a wooden spoon, vanilla, and a can of sweetened condensed milk.
Getting ready to make snow cream On the back porch we knocked the icy top off of the mound of snow, then began scooping the powdery fluff into a bowl. Always better to have too much than not enough, so I filled it full.
Fresh snow! Back in the kitchen, we sprinkled vanilla over the top, then began pouring sweetened condensed milk over the mound of snow.
Adding vanilla and sweetened condensed milk Then we stirred, and stirred, and stirred.
Stirring and stirring and stirring And then the finished product! Perfection!
A bowl of fresh snow cream 
Yum, yum, yum! Sadly, this didn’t dislodge distant memories for Mom. She kept saying, “This is so good. I’ve never had this before!” And as soon as I washed the bowls, she came into the kitchen, asking for some more of the cold white stuff. All in all, a win.
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Today’s Bloganuary prompt:
What is a cause you’re passionate about and why?
There are a few.
Ending mass incarceration in the United States.
Eliminating food insecurity.
And one that I’ve thought about more and more over the past few years: systems to support the aging population in the US. This wasn’t top of mind until I became my Mom’s guardian. And as I have navigated everything on her behalf, I have to wonder how people (especially aging persons with dementia) address this if they don’t have an advocate. I am incredibly grateful that we have resources to make this easier. Before I became her guardian, I was living close by. My father had the foresight to procure long term care insurance that mitigates the financial burden of care. I live in a city with a large retired population which has incredible healthcare resources. And as I’ve navigated this, I’ve noticed that caretaking generally falls to a child or another family member. What happens if there isn’t a child or family member?
It’s not just logistics. What about quality of life? Making sure that there’s a place they can call home. That is safe. That is stimulating. With healthy food. That may have been what assisted living facilities set out to provide when they were conceived. And COVID exposed the limitations of those facilities. One of the most dehabilitating factors for someone with dementia is isolation. And that’s what COVID forced upon folks in assisted living facilities. So. Much. Isolation. I understand they were doing the best they could with the information at hand. The isolation, though, was one of, if not the main, reason I decided to move Mom in with me. And had I known at the time how difficult it would be, I may have thought twice about that decision. But it makes me wonder what will happen when I reach that stage. And what options will be available.
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The big news is that Izzy is coming to town. Over the past few days we’ve heard we’d get a dusting of snow, 3 – 6 inches, 12 – 18 inches, or even 24 inches. That’s a pretty wide range. It honestly doesn’t matter. Regardless of how much we get, things will essentially shut down. And I’m kind of looking forward to it.
There’s something magical about a snow day. About waking up, looking outside, and seeing everything transformed, covered in a blanket of white. Quiet. As if the covering of snow dampens sounds, a hush encompassing the world.
Snow days as a child were an adventure. We didn’t have many, but the ones that we had were doozies. We often lost power during snow storms. When I was maybe seven or eight, there was one storm where the power was out for a week. And I loved it. We huddled in our den, the room closed off to the rest of the house to conserve heat, wood stove burning. We each had multiple quilts and blankets that we snuggled under, the weight of the blankets providing comfort. We cooked our meals in a dutch oven in the wood burning stove. Soup and bread. With snow cream for dessert. Snow, vanilla, and sweetened condensed milk. And the belief that snow could be transformed into the most delicious treat ever with a few stirs. We read during the day and talked at night or played board games by candlelight. I was sad when the electricity returned. I loved being together in our cocoon.
We’re ready as we can be for the weather this weekend. The pantry is stocked, there are flashlights (with new batteries) and candles in each room, the gas fireplace is working, blankets are easily accessible, all devices are charged.
And there’s a large bowl ready to put out on the back deck, ready to catch a fresh bowl of snow for snow cream, if we should be so lucky.
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Today’s Bloganuary prompt:
What does your ideal day look like?
The day starts by waking up naturally and well-rested. I love having visitors, so the house will be full of friends. We’ll drink tea and coffee in our pajamas and talk, lounging about. Someone suggests breakfast (though by this time it’s likely brunch), and several of us will head to the kitchen to make waffles, eggs, bacon, toast, and a fruit salad with fresh mint from the herb garden. We’ll eat on the deck, warmed by the sun, conversation flowing easily and lots of laughter. So much laughter. Afterwards, we’ll get ourselves together, and head to the mountains for a hike, marveling at the blue in the Blue Ridge Mountains and enjoying a waterfall or two. We’ll come back home, order in some barbecue (likely Luella’s), share a nice bottle of wine, then sit on the front porch, chatting and watching the fireflies light up. We’ll stay there til we can’t keep our eyes open, then head to bed, ready to enjoy another perfect day in the morning.
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Today’s Bloganuary prompt:
What are 5 things you’re grateful for today?
- The first paperwhite bloom. I bought 5 paperwhite bulbs as an impulse purchase in the checkout line at Ace Hardware. They were piled in a cardboard box and I thought, “how difficult could it be to grow these?” I brought them home and placed them in a shallow dish of water. A week later I transferred them to a pot with rocks and dirt. Each day the stems grew a little bit taller, a little bit wider. And today the first blooms opened. I inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the sweet scent.
- Laughter. Mom and I held hands as she prepared to say the blessing. “Oh, lawd,” she began. We both giggled, which turned into all out laughter before she continued, “Lord, it’s a good day. That’s all.”
- Radiant heat. The weather has been hovering around freezing the past few days. Our house has radiators as the heating source. When I first saw them during the house tour, I thought, “Oh, noooo….” The only experience I had previously had with radiators were in old apartment buildings in San Francisco. Radiators were either on, clanking loudly and emitting extraordinary heat, or off. These radiators are different. They’re silent. They quietly heat the house, emitting a cozy, encompassing heat.
- A welcoming kitchen. Cooking is one of my favorite things to do. Especially preparing meals for others. I love the counter space in my current kitchen to prep all the ingredients, and a gas stove to cook on. And a spice drawer where I can keep ALL my spices organized alphabetically. Heaven.
- Friends. My goodness I’ve been blessed in this category. I’m not quite so sure how I got so lucky, but I am surrounded by incredible people, near and far.
And bonus – the USPS. I love mail, sending and receiving. I’m amazed at how efficient the service is; I can send a package from a small town in North Carolina and it reaches its destination in two days. Such a way to spread joy!
LoriLoo 