Summer is going by so quickly and before I know it, it will be back to school time. Next week to be precise. This summer I was able to go to Minnesota to see my in-laws because my mother-in-law was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, which is a type of blood cancer. I went with Sarah and baby Joshua and we met up with Rachael who had flown there from San Francisco. We only stayed about 4 days, but it was long enough for a nice visit and to catch up with everyone and see that my mother in law was doing well in spite of it all.
Isn't it funny that women usually end up holding up their partners emotionally and not the other way around? My in-laws have been married for 61 years and have raised 6 sons and been through good times and hard times. Somehow though, my father in law has not learned to take care of himself. His wife has been cooking, cleaning and literally dressing him, or at least putting out his clothes when she wants him dressed properly, for all these years. Therefore, he is an emotional wreck at this point. He wants to take charge and tell my MIL to take it easy and not to strain herself, but in the mean time, he doesn't have a clue in the kitchen much past boiling water. He tends to overreact to everyone and everything. Joan, my MIL, has times when she feels weaker, especially after her infusions, and times that she feels pretty good. Don, my FIL, has a really hard time distinguishing between the good times and the bad, so he overreacts by yelling at Joan and everyone else. He wants her to sit down, to not get up and go to the kitchen, to rest, to relax, but how can you rest when someone is yelling at you? On Joan's part, she simply wants to be allowed to do what she has always done, which is to determine for herself what she can and will do. I tried to have a little conversation with Don about backing off when she is feeling better, but I don't know if he can hear that right now.
I returned from Minnesota and a few days later I was off to San Francisco for 11 days to spend some time with Rachael and her husband Misha. Rachael was in the throws of fertility treatment, which I knew little about. It was very advanced and high tech with many tests, injections and oral medications to be taken in preparation for the ultimate event which is the actual embryo transplant.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Finishing up the year.
As any teacher can tell you, the last week of school before the holidays is the home stretch. There is so much to do to wrap up the semester, but then there are a host of expectations that you have for yourself. Some of these might include: Do I get a gift for everyone I work with and if so what will it be this year, Do I plan some special activities with my braille students and this one gets a resounding YES. I went to Target today and looked around for awhile to see what might inspire me. I'm thinking of buying gingerbread boys at the panaderia and getting frosting and sprinkles to decorate them with the kids. This has been a favorite activity in the past, although the kids don't seem to love eating the gingerbread. Maybe the taste is too strong.
On the grandbaby front, Joshua is 6 weeks old now and getting cuter by the day. His little social smiles are starting to come more frequently and he is getting more alert to things like Christmas lights. We went to the park tonight; Joshua's mom Sarah, Joshua and me. The park has holiday miniature houses which have different themes like a bank, a school house, a church, a library etc. It was fun to walk around with Joshua and it seemed that he was getting glimpses of Christmas lights and music.
After several health scares and numerous tests, all is either well or inconclusive. I'm continuing to struggle with neuropathy , which basically means that my legs and arms usually feel tingly, numb or like they're on fire. Walking is difficult, but I do the best I can because I want to continue working for as long as I can. I still don't know the cause of it, and I may never know. I've certainly expended time, energy and money looking for a cause and hopefully a treatment, but its been elusive. Well meaning friends will often say "aren't you glad its not....(name the disease)? But somehow, I dont feel so glad that I have a mystery disease that is sapping my strength and ability to walk. To me, no diagnosis equals no treatment.
This Christmas my older son and daughter will be here for the first time since they were married. They're bringing their little pug Pistachio and will be staying in a hotel because we weren't sure how the dogs would behave with a new dog in the house. Nolan, our 11 year old Miniature schnauzer is very territorial. In fact, when Sarah came over to the house with baby Joshua, Nolan was not happy and started bark with a strange high pitched bark. My in-laws are also coming down from Minnesota right after Christmas so it should be a festive time. Everyone is excited to meet and get to know baby Joshua.
On the grandbaby front, Joshua is 6 weeks old now and getting cuter by the day. His little social smiles are starting to come more frequently and he is getting more alert to things like Christmas lights. We went to the park tonight; Joshua's mom Sarah, Joshua and me. The park has holiday miniature houses which have different themes like a bank, a school house, a church, a library etc. It was fun to walk around with Joshua and it seemed that he was getting glimpses of Christmas lights and music.
After several health scares and numerous tests, all is either well or inconclusive. I'm continuing to struggle with neuropathy , which basically means that my legs and arms usually feel tingly, numb or like they're on fire. Walking is difficult, but I do the best I can because I want to continue working for as long as I can. I still don't know the cause of it, and I may never know. I've certainly expended time, energy and money looking for a cause and hopefully a treatment, but its been elusive. Well meaning friends will often say "aren't you glad its not....(name the disease)? But somehow, I dont feel so glad that I have a mystery disease that is sapping my strength and ability to walk. To me, no diagnosis equals no treatment.
This Christmas my older son and daughter will be here for the first time since they were married. They're bringing their little pug Pistachio and will be staying in a hotel because we weren't sure how the dogs would behave with a new dog in the house. Nolan, our 11 year old Miniature schnauzer is very territorial. In fact, when Sarah came over to the house with baby Joshua, Nolan was not happy and started bark with a strange high pitched bark. My in-laws are also coming down from Minnesota right after Christmas so it should be a festive time. Everyone is excited to meet and get to know baby Joshua.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Older and Wiser
It's an exciting time in my life. My newest grandchild is due in two short weeks. I'm really excited about the impending birth because my daughter actually lives in my town. She's asked me to come with her to the hospital when she's in labor and I'll actually see my grandson being born.
Ive been thinking about retirement lately, not as in permanently never work again, but more like a change of venue. My daughter is going to be staying home for a while to take care of her newborn son, but after she goes back to work, I may take care of Joshua. I'm excited to be able to do it and kind of sad at the same time because I didn't get to stay home with my own kids at that age. I was too caught up in the "got to work to pay the bills" cycle.
On the health front, things have been a bit crazy for me lately. I had lumbar fusion surgery last December 2012, and have been healing well from that. I've had much less back pain lately and can actually bend down to pick something up. So I thought that it was going to be all uphill from there, recovery and then back to my normal life, if there is any such thing. But no, there wasn't to be any easy recovery for me. It started with abdominal pain in the spring, continued with numbness and weakness in my arms and legs and has continued with many odd symptoms which don't seem to add up to anything, according to the many tests I have had. It's really frustrating to be in the this limbo of testing and not knowing what's next. Sometimes, as it happens to other people, one test leads to a completely different set of tests unrelated to what you thought you were looking for. So I'm not sure that I'm any closer to a diagnosis than I was three months ago, but I've spent a lot of money looking. I'd like to get off this testing wagon, but pain and numbness have a way of keeping you seeking relief. It just doesn't quit!
Sometimes I get really sad and feel like I won't be able to do all the things in my bucket list. While you work, you dream of the time you retire as a kind of Disneyland where all your dreams will come true. I'm grateful that I've been able to travel throughout the years, both in the US and outside in other countries. I think about the trips I took with my mom;Mexico, Guatemala, Ghana, and I wonder whether I'll be able to travel with any of my kids. I did get to go to San Miguel de Allende with one of my daughters and I went to Ireland with another daughter. My older son and I went to Ghana with my mom through Global Volunteers when he was only 13 years old. I'm so glad we did it.
I've got to keep up the positive attitude in order to face each day. Going to work actually helps with that, because I have responsibilities that have to be met no matter how I feel. I have to put on a sunny face and go do my job.. The kids bring me joy and a sense of pride in their accomplishments anyway. People will often say to me in amazement that they've never seen a child read in braille or that they didn't know a blind child could be so independent. I'm amazed too sometimes, because of their progress, and I know that I had a big part in making that progress possible. It's a sense of pride that all teachers share.
Ive been thinking about retirement lately, not as in permanently never work again, but more like a change of venue. My daughter is going to be staying home for a while to take care of her newborn son, but after she goes back to work, I may take care of Joshua. I'm excited to be able to do it and kind of sad at the same time because I didn't get to stay home with my own kids at that age. I was too caught up in the "got to work to pay the bills" cycle.
On the health front, things have been a bit crazy for me lately. I had lumbar fusion surgery last December 2012, and have been healing well from that. I've had much less back pain lately and can actually bend down to pick something up. So I thought that it was going to be all uphill from there, recovery and then back to my normal life, if there is any such thing. But no, there wasn't to be any easy recovery for me. It started with abdominal pain in the spring, continued with numbness and weakness in my arms and legs and has continued with many odd symptoms which don't seem to add up to anything, according to the many tests I have had. It's really frustrating to be in the this limbo of testing and not knowing what's next. Sometimes, as it happens to other people, one test leads to a completely different set of tests unrelated to what you thought you were looking for. So I'm not sure that I'm any closer to a diagnosis than I was three months ago, but I've spent a lot of money looking. I'd like to get off this testing wagon, but pain and numbness have a way of keeping you seeking relief. It just doesn't quit!
Sometimes I get really sad and feel like I won't be able to do all the things in my bucket list. While you work, you dream of the time you retire as a kind of Disneyland where all your dreams will come true. I'm grateful that I've been able to travel throughout the years, both in the US and outside in other countries. I think about the trips I took with my mom;Mexico, Guatemala, Ghana, and I wonder whether I'll be able to travel with any of my kids. I did get to go to San Miguel de Allende with one of my daughters and I went to Ireland with another daughter. My older son and I went to Ghana with my mom through Global Volunteers when he was only 13 years old. I'm so glad we did it.
I've got to keep up the positive attitude in order to face each day. Going to work actually helps with that, because I have responsibilities that have to be met no matter how I feel. I have to put on a sunny face and go do my job.. The kids bring me joy and a sense of pride in their accomplishments anyway. People will often say to me in amazement that they've never seen a child read in braille or that they didn't know a blind child could be so independent. I'm amazed too sometimes, because of their progress, and I know that I had a big part in making that progress possible. It's a sense of pride that all teachers share.
Friday, March 16, 2012
It Gets Better
I just watched a video Cesar Milan made for the It Gets Better project. I so related to a lot of what he expressed in his video. But I have not become a media super star, have not become someone who can easily share information that might be shocking to some people. So mostly I just think to myself.
I was bullied miserably from about 3rd grade on, that I can actually remember. Most of it came from one main reason- that I lived on a farm in a time and place where farm kids were not the norm and that I smelled like a farm when I went to school. For the longest time, throughout my childhood and adolescence I simply thought that getting ridiculed for smelling like the farm was one more lie they told about me. It was only later, when I returned to the farm after having been gone for a while, that I realized that my clothes really did smell bad. It was a mixture of scents that filled my house; manure, urine and wood smoke. These smells combined for a scent that wouldn't quit.
I remember a time with my mom when she got so hurt by her father because she was attending a funeral of an old family member in newly purchased clothes, and he told her that she smelled like cows. She just couldn't believe or accept that there might be some truth to that, so she internalized it as one more hurtful thing her father said to her.
During my high school years, I rode the private school bus with students from various private schools in the Capitol District. Those students were particularly loathsome to me, and made every effort to ridicule me on the bus, even resorting to using a little sister to come from behind me and slap my face. Of course if I said anything, I was labeled a bully because after all, she was only in 3rd grade and I in was a high schooler. Even the bus driver was complicit in this, ignoring what they did to me and reprimanding me if I said anything to the little girl. And so it went on and on. I would always sit by myself and often just put my head against the window to pass the time.
It wasn't until I got to college that bullying really stopped. I was still shy and had difficulty making friends because of my years of being isolated, but no one knew about the farm and I didn't tell them.
I was bullied miserably from about 3rd grade on, that I can actually remember. Most of it came from one main reason- that I lived on a farm in a time and place where farm kids were not the norm and that I smelled like a farm when I went to school. For the longest time, throughout my childhood and adolescence I simply thought that getting ridiculed for smelling like the farm was one more lie they told about me. It was only later, when I returned to the farm after having been gone for a while, that I realized that my clothes really did smell bad. It was a mixture of scents that filled my house; manure, urine and wood smoke. These smells combined for a scent that wouldn't quit.
I remember a time with my mom when she got so hurt by her father because she was attending a funeral of an old family member in newly purchased clothes, and he told her that she smelled like cows. She just couldn't believe or accept that there might be some truth to that, so she internalized it as one more hurtful thing her father said to her.
During my high school years, I rode the private school bus with students from various private schools in the Capitol District. Those students were particularly loathsome to me, and made every effort to ridicule me on the bus, even resorting to using a little sister to come from behind me and slap my face. Of course if I said anything, I was labeled a bully because after all, she was only in 3rd grade and I in was a high schooler. Even the bus driver was complicit in this, ignoring what they did to me and reprimanding me if I said anything to the little girl. And so it went on and on. I would always sit by myself and often just put my head against the window to pass the time.
It wasn't until I got to college that bullying really stopped. I was still shy and had difficulty making friends because of my years of being isolated, but no one knew about the farm and I didn't tell them.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
To Be of Use
To Be of Use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
~Marge Piercey
This poem was read at my mom's memorial service by one of her granddaughters. I was reminded of it when I went to the Rio Grande Valley live stock show on Monday. I loved seeing the kids with their animals, whether they were feeding them, leading them, washing them or just hanging around them. It reminded me so much of my childhood days spent at the fair, that feeling of being one with your livestock. Its hard to explain the feeling to people who have never owned or shown animals. The closest chance many kids will get to that is reading Charlotte's Web, especially the part about going to the fair. Its not all about days gone by, because there are kids that still experience the joy of raising an animal and showing it at the fair.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Perhaps you knew Sheila
My Mom died a month ago. I wrote this the day of her memorial service. The theme kept coming to me every night after she died. I thought about all the different facets of her life and how, if you weren't part of her immediate family, you probably wouldn't understand all of her many parts. Even if you were part of her family, it was easy to forget that she had all these different sides of her that didn't necessarily go together and yet they did.
My daughter Sarah read the tribute at my mom's memorial service. I wanted to do it, but I didn't think I could get through it. It was really nice to have her speak anyway; to hear the strength of her voice and to know that she was there.
Mom was quirky. Mom was an enigma. Mom was eccentric in her own special way, although she didn't fit most people's definition of eccentric. I'll be thinking about Mom for the rest of my life.
Perhaps you knew Sheila- A tribute to our Mom, Granny
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a graduate of The Chapin School, Harvard University and Russell Sage College.These were the educational institutions that shaped her thinking and inspired her love of anthropology and education.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a teacher. She taught 2nd and 4th grade at Waterford-Halfmoon Elementary for 31 years. Her love of education and her love of children merged there and she taught and inspired many children to love reading and writing. She was immensely proud of the many students who came to her, telling stories of how she had influenced the paths they had taken.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a member of Grace Episcopal Church, as a person of faith. Sheila's faith was not easily defined for she found God in relationships with people and animals. She found joy in a newborn grandchild, peace in a lamb that had recovered from the effects of cold weather and hope in waiting for the arrival of grandchildren adopted from Korea, Haiti and Honduras.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a farmer. Her love of the land and farm animals took her far from the path of her own siblings. Sheila was a person who marched to the beat of her own drummer. When she decided to leave Troy and buy a farm in Melrose with Anthony, there would be no dissuading her from purchasing cattle, sheep and goats so that all five of her children could be involved in the farm. Hayfield's farm would be no gentleman's farm, but rather a full blown family farm with a herd of milking cattle, dairy goats and over 600 sheep at its peak. Every child had their own breed of cattle and sheep and all were involved in 4-H throughout their childhoods.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a world traveler. She began traveling with her own father when he was in his 80's and continued traveling the world with organizations which would allow her to be a participant in the lives of the people she visited. She fought for human rights through Witness for Peace, helped educate teachers and students through Global Volunteers and worked with underprivileged people throughout the world with Elderhostel programs.
Perhaps you knew Sheila in the final years of her life. Her strength of character and determination to be independent allowed her to rebound from a brain injury in 2004 caused by a fall on ice. She returned to her farm after some time in rehab and resumed her life on the farm, with assistance from her children . After a fall and broken hip in August 2009, she could not return to her beloved farm and resided in the Eddy Village Green until her death. The nurses and caretakers there continued to enjoy her stories of children and travel and the farm for the duration of her life there.
Sheila was a caring, giving person who loved learning and sharing anything she could with those who needed it most. We will miss her and and will forever remember the beauty she brought to our lives.
Sheila Forster Morris
May 9, 1928-December 16th, 2011
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a teacher. She taught 2nd and 4th grade at Waterford-Halfmoon Elementary for 31 years. Her love of education and her love of children merged there and she taught and inspired many children to love reading and writing. She was immensely proud of the many students who came to her, telling stories of how she had influenced the paths they had taken.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a member of Grace Episcopal Church, as a person of faith. Sheila's faith was not easily defined for she found God in relationships with people and animals. She found joy in a newborn grandchild, peace in a lamb that had recovered from the effects of cold weather and hope in waiting for the arrival of grandchildren adopted from Korea, Haiti and Honduras.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a farmer. Her love of the land and farm animals took her far from the path of her own siblings. Sheila was a person who marched to the beat of her own drummer. When she decided to leave Troy and buy a farm in Melrose with Anthony, there would be no dissuading her from purchasing cattle, sheep and goats so that all five of her children could be involved in the farm. Hayfield's farm would be no gentleman's farm, but rather a full blown family farm with a herd of milking cattle, dairy goats and over 600 sheep at its peak. Every child had their own breed of cattle and sheep and all were involved in 4-H throughout their childhoods.
Perhaps you knew Sheila as a world traveler. She began traveling with her own father when he was in his 80's and continued traveling the world with organizations which would allow her to be a participant in the lives of the people she visited. She fought for human rights through Witness for Peace, helped educate teachers and students through Global Volunteers and worked with underprivileged people throughout the world with Elderhostel programs.
Perhaps you knew Sheila in the final years of her life. Her strength of character and determination to be independent allowed her to rebound from a brain injury in 2004 caused by a fall on ice. She returned to her farm after some time in rehab and resumed her life on the farm, with assistance from her children . After a fall and broken hip in August 2009, she could not return to her beloved farm and resided in the Eddy Village Green until her death. The nurses and caretakers there continued to enjoy her stories of children and travel and the farm for the duration of her life there.
Sheila was a caring, giving person who loved learning and sharing anything she could with those who needed it most. We will miss her and and will forever remember the beauty she brought to our lives.
Sheila Forster Morris
May 9, 1928-December 16th, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
And the walls came tumbling down
Daughter #1 arrived back in Texas rather unexpectedly. We had tried so hard to convince her that staying in California was the best thing for her to do, seeing that she wasn't going to be able to bring her daughter here. I guess we were trying the tough love approach, hoping that somehow it would sink in and have a positive effect on the rest of her life. We explained that she didn't need to go to school this semester, she could just work and get to know her daughter better. We explained that she could go to any one of a thousand schools in California, that they would welcome her and her GI bill money into their school.
What made the arrival even more shocking was that she had been here already for almost a week before she appeared at the door. There was no hi or hello, no apology or explanation, but just an "I'm here to pick up my stuff" kind of attitude. Really all she could say was that she had told "Daddy" that she was going to come. Of course she forgot the part where he told her that it wasn't a good idea and that we couldn't support her if she came.
So she's here, but not in communication with us. She's here and living with a neighbor's cousin. She's here, but it's as though she isn't here. Except that our granddaughter has lost her mother. Precious little girl knows that she has a mother, but her mother has never taken care of her, never taken her home, never been a 24/7, 365 days a year kind of mother. It goes against everything that I ever believed about having a child or being a mom. But then I have to face the music, that I am not in charge and my daughter is an adult who is making her own decisions. It hurts really badly when I think about it too much, so I have to lay it aside and think that Precious Girl's Nana( her other grandmother) loves her and takes care of her and supports her like a mom should and maybe that's OK.
What made the arrival even more shocking was that she had been here already for almost a week before she appeared at the door. There was no hi or hello, no apology or explanation, but just an "I'm here to pick up my stuff" kind of attitude. Really all she could say was that she had told "Daddy" that she was going to come. Of course she forgot the part where he told her that it wasn't a good idea and that we couldn't support her if she came.
So she's here, but not in communication with us. She's here and living with a neighbor's cousin. She's here, but it's as though she isn't here. Except that our granddaughter has lost her mother. Precious little girl knows that she has a mother, but her mother has never taken care of her, never taken her home, never been a 24/7, 365 days a year kind of mother. It goes against everything that I ever believed about having a child or being a mom. But then I have to face the music, that I am not in charge and my daughter is an adult who is making her own decisions. It hurts really badly when I think about it too much, so I have to lay it aside and think that Precious Girl's Nana( her other grandmother) loves her and takes care of her and supports her like a mom should and maybe that's OK.
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Fair
It's getting close to "back to school" time here in Texas. Not so in New York state, where I grew up. There , they have another month of summer vacation left. Soon enough the cooler winds will begin to blow and it will feel like autumn is really coming. Its been 25 years since the last time I attended the Schaghticoke fair, the fair of my childhood memories. Fair time signaled the end of summer and the beginning of the school year for me for all of my growing up years.
Fair time was freedom time for me, a time when my world centered on whatever livestock and exhibits I had taken to fair that year. Fair time meant seeing people you didn't see but once a year and doing things that you didn't get to do but once a year. It meant thinking you owned the fairgrounds and that you were really important because you were showing livestock at the fair. People knew you by your family and by whatever 4-H club you were in.
Schaghticoke Fair was our county fair so it was the most important fair to our family. We often had up to 20 head of cattle there at our peak, as well as 20-30 sheep of different breeds. A few years we also showed dairy goats at Schaghticoke Fair. During my high school years, I was the only child in my family to still be in 4-H, so I literally did it all. My mother would come up to the fairgrounds during the day to stay in the cattle barns and guard our exhibit. Sometimes she would come down to the sheep barns, especially if it was a show day, but she enjoyed the cattle people best. My brother would come up to help with the open class cattle, especially if we had several milking cattle. The milkers were taken to a milking parlor there on the fairgrounds and were milked there early in the morning and again in the afternoon.
We had several show days because of the variety of animals we took to the fair. There was a sheep show day with both 4-H and open class shows held for all the breeds represented there. My breed was Southdowns, which I always loved because of their little bear like faces. Our family had several breeds of sheep, but the Southdowns were mine. They were shorter and more docile than some of the other breeds like Cheviots and Suffolks. I say this in past tense because the modern day Southdown has become a much taller, leaner breed than it once was.
Sheep showing day was long and hot. Sheep are not the most cooperative animals and they are shown by placing one hand under their necks and holding oto the fold of skin while placing the other hand on the top side of the neck for security. When the judge came to review the animals, the showman's optimal postion was squatting at the sheeps side holding onto only the underside of the animals neck so the judge could have a good view of the whole animal. Because of this rather light hold on the sheep, and the sheep's skiddish nature, many sheep ended up being lost in the ring. The sheep would give one good buck up and the handhold was gone. Also the lanolin from the wool would make your hands extra greesy and add to the"catching the sheep" fun.
Sheep showmanship class involved alot of preparation on the 4-h ers part. You wanted to show a sheep that was fairly tame and knew you well. The sheep had to be washed and blocked and trimmed so that it looked like a snowy white rectangular shaped sheep. Blocking and trimming would take many hours of putting the sheep up onto the show stand and carding , then trimming the wool for just the right shape. A lot of practice was needed to get this right because it was easy to gouge the sheep's wool or make it look uneven.
Years of practice blocking and trimming had me frequently winning showmanship in high school and I was also chosen to be a Master blocker and trimmer at State Fair. I believe the techniques for getting sheep ready have totally changed since I last showed and many sheep are slicked sheared a few weeks before the show so no blocking can be down. Halters are also used in some shows which must make the back breaking work of squatting and grabbing the animal under the neck a thing of the past.
The cattle shows were held on different days. All the 4-H cattle shows were held the same day, but open class was held on various days depending on breed. I was a good showman, but never as good with cattle as I was with sheep. It probably had to do with preparation because you really had to work with your animal before show day so you worked as a team.
I did have other 4-H projects such as flowers, vegetables, demonstrations, dog obedience,dairy goats and an occasional sewing project, but nothing matched the livestock, either in terms of time spent or importance in my life at that time.
Fair time was freedom time for me, a time when my world centered on whatever livestock and exhibits I had taken to fair that year. Fair time meant seeing people you didn't see but once a year and doing things that you didn't get to do but once a year. It meant thinking you owned the fairgrounds and that you were really important because you were showing livestock at the fair. People knew you by your family and by whatever 4-H club you were in.
Schaghticoke Fair was our county fair so it was the most important fair to our family. We often had up to 20 head of cattle there at our peak, as well as 20-30 sheep of different breeds. A few years we also showed dairy goats at Schaghticoke Fair. During my high school years, I was the only child in my family to still be in 4-H, so I literally did it all. My mother would come up to the fairgrounds during the day to stay in the cattle barns and guard our exhibit. Sometimes she would come down to the sheep barns, especially if it was a show day, but she enjoyed the cattle people best. My brother would come up to help with the open class cattle, especially if we had several milking cattle. The milkers were taken to a milking parlor there on the fairgrounds and were milked there early in the morning and again in the afternoon.
We had several show days because of the variety of animals we took to the fair. There was a sheep show day with both 4-H and open class shows held for all the breeds represented there. My breed was Southdowns, which I always loved because of their little bear like faces. Our family had several breeds of sheep, but the Southdowns were mine. They were shorter and more docile than some of the other breeds like Cheviots and Suffolks. I say this in past tense because the modern day Southdown has become a much taller, leaner breed than it once was.
Sheep showing day was long and hot. Sheep are not the most cooperative animals and they are shown by placing one hand under their necks and holding oto the fold of skin while placing the other hand on the top side of the neck for security. When the judge came to review the animals, the showman's optimal postion was squatting at the sheeps side holding onto only the underside of the animals neck so the judge could have a good view of the whole animal. Because of this rather light hold on the sheep, and the sheep's skiddish nature, many sheep ended up being lost in the ring. The sheep would give one good buck up and the handhold was gone. Also the lanolin from the wool would make your hands extra greesy and add to the"catching the sheep" fun.
Sheep showmanship class involved alot of preparation on the 4-h ers part. You wanted to show a sheep that was fairly tame and knew you well. The sheep had to be washed and blocked and trimmed so that it looked like a snowy white rectangular shaped sheep. Blocking and trimming would take many hours of putting the sheep up onto the show stand and carding , then trimming the wool for just the right shape. A lot of practice was needed to get this right because it was easy to gouge the sheep's wool or make it look uneven.
Years of practice blocking and trimming had me frequently winning showmanship in high school and I was also chosen to be a Master blocker and trimmer at State Fair. I believe the techniques for getting sheep ready have totally changed since I last showed and many sheep are slicked sheared a few weeks before the show so no blocking can be down. Halters are also used in some shows which must make the back breaking work of squatting and grabbing the animal under the neck a thing of the past.
The cattle shows were held on different days. All the 4-H cattle shows were held the same day, but open class was held on various days depending on breed. I was a good showman, but never as good with cattle as I was with sheep. It probably had to do with preparation because you really had to work with your animal before show day so you worked as a team.
I did have other 4-H projects such as flowers, vegetables, demonstrations, dog obedience,dairy goats and an occasional sewing project, but nothing matched the livestock, either in terms of time spent or importance in my life at that time.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
62 years
Today is my parents 62nd anniversary. Wouldn't it be lovely if I could tell the story of a happily married couple who have lived lovingly and shared that love with their children? Too bad that's only a fairy tale for me. I believe that there was a time of love, a time when they shared common ideas and goals. Because I am the 5th and youngest child, I didn't live through my parents time of happiness. By the time I arrived, they had already formed an unhappy bond full of disdain for each other and opposing life goals. What one dreamed of, the other suffered through. Many times throughout my childhood I asked myself why they didn't get a divorce, why they didn't separate, but there were no really clear answers.
Today, as an adult, I look at their marriage through mature eyes . My head tells me that their relationship was codependent, that they couldn't live without each other even though they showed such outward disdain for one another. My mom was always the stronger one and she used that strength to bully my dad into doing whatever it was that she wanted him to do. Usually that meant lots of yelling and demanding that he get down to the barn to do chores. Since he never liked the farm or wanted the animals, he was always slow to respond and never quite in the manner that she wanted, Back and forth, back and forth, with Mom as the aggressor and Dad as the resistor.
In the later years of my parents time living together, things changed for the worse for several reasons. After Mom had her brain injury in 2004 and came back to the farm after a month in rehab, she became more dependent on my Dad to help her in the house. He was happy to see her come home initially, but soon they turned back to their old habits of yelling and criticizing each other. Mom's cognitive function never got back to where she had been before the accident and gradually it became obvious that she was declining. She still wanted to retain control over my dad and she did that through constant threats, yelling and checking up on what he was doing. His response was to withdraw, drink alcohol and stay in his room upstairs and watch TV. He didn't eat much and became very thin and weak. He was taken to the hospital a number of times due to falling and being unable to get up, and after the last time in 2008, he never returned to the farm again. My mom continued to live there by herself until August 2009 when an animal friend of hers whom she had bottle fed since birth, came into the house and head butted her(as rams are prone to do) causing her to fall and break her hip. As they say in the movies, the surgery was successful to pin the hip, but the patient....never recovered. Her brain took the biggest hit of all post-surgery and not only did she become completely confused and disoriented, but she also never walked nor stood again.
62 years. What does it mean? It means that my parents managed to raise 5 decent kids in spite of their own difficulties. It means that those 5 kids have given birth to 15 kids and adopted 11 from countries all over the world including Haiti, Honduras,Korea and the United States. Among us we have different lifestyles, different religious beliefs, different ways of expressing ourselves, but all of us have contributed something positive to the world.
Today, as an adult, I look at their marriage through mature eyes . My head tells me that their relationship was codependent, that they couldn't live without each other even though they showed such outward disdain for one another. My mom was always the stronger one and she used that strength to bully my dad into doing whatever it was that she wanted him to do. Usually that meant lots of yelling and demanding that he get down to the barn to do chores. Since he never liked the farm or wanted the animals, he was always slow to respond and never quite in the manner that she wanted, Back and forth, back and forth, with Mom as the aggressor and Dad as the resistor.
In the later years of my parents time living together, things changed for the worse for several reasons. After Mom had her brain injury in 2004 and came back to the farm after a month in rehab, she became more dependent on my Dad to help her in the house. He was happy to see her come home initially, but soon they turned back to their old habits of yelling and criticizing each other. Mom's cognitive function never got back to where she had been before the accident and gradually it became obvious that she was declining. She still wanted to retain control over my dad and she did that through constant threats, yelling and checking up on what he was doing. His response was to withdraw, drink alcohol and stay in his room upstairs and watch TV. He didn't eat much and became very thin and weak. He was taken to the hospital a number of times due to falling and being unable to get up, and after the last time in 2008, he never returned to the farm again. My mom continued to live there by herself until August 2009 when an animal friend of hers whom she had bottle fed since birth, came into the house and head butted her(as rams are prone to do) causing her to fall and break her hip. As they say in the movies, the surgery was successful to pin the hip, but the patient....never recovered. Her brain took the biggest hit of all post-surgery and not only did she become completely confused and disoriented, but she also never walked nor stood again.
62 years. What does it mean? It means that my parents managed to raise 5 decent kids in spite of their own difficulties. It means that those 5 kids have given birth to 15 kids and adopted 11 from countries all over the world including Haiti, Honduras,Korea and the United States. Among us we have different lifestyles, different religious beliefs, different ways of expressing ourselves, but all of us have contributed something positive to the world.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Daughter mine
I have a daughter that I loved so much and she went away. While she was gone, she became a different person;someone I don't know. After 11 years of near silence, she arrived back at home and stayed for two months. I didn't know what to say to her, I was afraid of her.
I've been walking on egg shells for the past two months. We pass each other in the house, she going into the kitchen and me going out. We exchange pleasantries, but anything deeper than that causes hostility, resentment and anger.
She's a veteran now after having served in the Navy for almost 10 years. She will talk about Navy things and the carrier. She'll tell you about the young Navy kids she trained and scared to death. She'll swear like a sailor and tell you how she will defend her little brother by kicking anyone's a** who comes near him. Finally she'll tell you how they discharged her from the Navy for being over the physical weight standards for too long.
She's full of anger. She's full of the kind of anger that rears its ugly head at unexpected moments, like when you're trying to have a meaningful conversation about some important issue and BAMM..you get shot down, told that your suggestions, advice, thoughts are not welcome. I don't know what my role is. Is my only purpose to provide a cheap place to live, to hang out ? Then there's the issue of money. She doesn't have much. She asked me if she could borrow some money to send to her ex...to pay for my granddaughter's health insurance. I said sure, as long as you pay me back. She needed to go back to California so she could work on getting physical custody of her daughter, but she didn't have the money to pay for the ticket. She asked me if I could pay for the ticket and I said yes, and I expect to be paid back, While she was at it, she used my credit card to pay her phone bill and didn't ask me about that at all. I don't know now if I will ever see any of the money I lent her.
She won't talk to me except to ask for money. She tells everything to her "Daddy". She tells Daddy that I am judgmental, that I talk to people about her and she doesn't like that. She wants everything to be private. I'm not sure what her level of privacy even means. It feels like she is trying to hide some deep, dark secrets. I have been wondering about those secrets since her daughter was born . Why have I never been allowed to speak to Precious Girl's other grandmother, who has taken care of her since she was born? Precious Girl is a beautiful, well behaved little girl. I know her other grandmother loves her and takes good care of her. Why have I been kept away? I would have loved to have had a conversation about how Precious Girl's doing and was there anything I could help with. But I was never allowed. My daughter refused to give me her mother in laws phone number and so almost seven years have passed in silence.
She's gone back to California now. She says she wants to bring her daughter here, to Texas. I would love to be a part of my granddaughter's life, but I feel in my heart like its not going to happen. I don't think my daughter can live here with me, with her Dad, without fracturing the very essence of who I am, who I know myself to be. She wants to be here with us for all the wrong reasons; so that she can live cheaply and use her GI bill housing money to buy a car and insurance, so that we can help her out at her beck and calling. She is not able to acknowledge that we might have some experience, some wisdom,some common sense advice that would go a long way toward helping her get herself into a better situation, Worst of all, God forbid that anyone would imply that she has been a less than stellar parent. Somehow, in her mind, she has made it so that all the reasons for not raising her daughter herself, all the reasons for not even seeing her daughter much over the past year since she's been out of the Navy; everything is justified.
We gave her the best of everything we had. We stayed in Honduras for an six extra months in order to complete her adoption and immigration paperwork. We vowed we wouldn't leave Honduras if we couldn't get her paperwork signed. She was welcomed to the USA by loving grandparents who went out of their way to make sure she had everything they could offer, She was part of our family, the oldest of 5 children. Although she never excelled at school, she excelled at being social and having friends, Adults at church loved her; kids loved her and would flock to her. Our priest at church was so impressed with her that he wanted to encourage her to think about going to seminary. It seems like a long time ago,so long that I have trouble remembering her sweetness anymore. I want to remember her the way she was, not the way she is now. It sounds like I am living in a fantasy world, that I can't accept who she has become. It's because I can't yet see who she has become, like her true nature is hiding behind a facade of anger.
I've been walking on egg shells for the past two months. We pass each other in the house, she going into the kitchen and me going out. We exchange pleasantries, but anything deeper than that causes hostility, resentment and anger.
She's a veteran now after having served in the Navy for almost 10 years. She will talk about Navy things and the carrier. She'll tell you about the young Navy kids she trained and scared to death. She'll swear like a sailor and tell you how she will defend her little brother by kicking anyone's a** who comes near him. Finally she'll tell you how they discharged her from the Navy for being over the physical weight standards for too long.
She's full of anger. She's full of the kind of anger that rears its ugly head at unexpected moments, like when you're trying to have a meaningful conversation about some important issue and BAMM..you get shot down, told that your suggestions, advice, thoughts are not welcome. I don't know what my role is. Is my only purpose to provide a cheap place to live, to hang out ? Then there's the issue of money. She doesn't have much. She asked me if she could borrow some money to send to her ex...to pay for my granddaughter's health insurance. I said sure, as long as you pay me back. She needed to go back to California so she could work on getting physical custody of her daughter, but she didn't have the money to pay for the ticket. She asked me if I could pay for the ticket and I said yes, and I expect to be paid back, While she was at it, she used my credit card to pay her phone bill and didn't ask me about that at all. I don't know now if I will ever see any of the money I lent her.
She won't talk to me except to ask for money. She tells everything to her "Daddy". She tells Daddy that I am judgmental, that I talk to people about her and she doesn't like that. She wants everything to be private. I'm not sure what her level of privacy even means. It feels like she is trying to hide some deep, dark secrets. I have been wondering about those secrets since her daughter was born . Why have I never been allowed to speak to Precious Girl's other grandmother, who has taken care of her since she was born? Precious Girl is a beautiful, well behaved little girl. I know her other grandmother loves her and takes good care of her. Why have I been kept away? I would have loved to have had a conversation about how Precious Girl's doing and was there anything I could help with. But I was never allowed. My daughter refused to give me her mother in laws phone number and so almost seven years have passed in silence.
She's gone back to California now. She says she wants to bring her daughter here, to Texas. I would love to be a part of my granddaughter's life, but I feel in my heart like its not going to happen. I don't think my daughter can live here with me, with her Dad, without fracturing the very essence of who I am, who I know myself to be. She wants to be here with us for all the wrong reasons; so that she can live cheaply and use her GI bill housing money to buy a car and insurance, so that we can help her out at her beck and calling. She is not able to acknowledge that we might have some experience, some wisdom,some common sense advice that would go a long way toward helping her get herself into a better situation, Worst of all, God forbid that anyone would imply that she has been a less than stellar parent. Somehow, in her mind, she has made it so that all the reasons for not raising her daughter herself, all the reasons for not even seeing her daughter much over the past year since she's been out of the Navy; everything is justified.
We gave her the best of everything we had. We stayed in Honduras for an six extra months in order to complete her adoption and immigration paperwork. We vowed we wouldn't leave Honduras if we couldn't get her paperwork signed. She was welcomed to the USA by loving grandparents who went out of their way to make sure she had everything they could offer, She was part of our family, the oldest of 5 children. Although she never excelled at school, she excelled at being social and having friends, Adults at church loved her; kids loved her and would flock to her. Our priest at church was so impressed with her that he wanted to encourage her to think about going to seminary. It seems like a long time ago,so long that I have trouble remembering her sweetness anymore. I want to remember her the way she was, not the way she is now. It sounds like I am living in a fantasy world, that I can't accept who she has become. It's because I can't yet see who she has become, like her true nature is hiding behind a facade of anger.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A blast from the past
Our new found friend said Lloyd was coming to council and would be there shortly The Rt. Rev. Lloyd Allen , Bishop of Honduras , is his official title. Well, Paul became a whirling dervish. He changed his name tag to read looking for Bishop Lloyd and he could barely contain his excitement. You see, we go way back..back to when we were all teachers at St. Johns School in Puerto Cortes, Honduras. Lloyd was one of us, he was a Honduran native who spoke fluent Spanish and English. Later he went to seminary and we saw him here in Brownsville in 1988 or so. So many years ago, and yet we have talked on the phone many times since then so it doesn't seem so long ago.
Finally council started and there he was, sitting at the Bishops table. Paul couldn't wait , he couldn't contain himself so minutes later, I see him sitting at the Bishops table talking to Lloyd. Of course I was a little jealous because he had gotten there first. But I found my moment and went and gave Lloyd a hug. And so it went throughout Council. Of course it felt different for us because we couldn't have him to ourselves, because everyone wanted to shake his hand and tell him what a good speech he had made and most importantly because he had come to council to present and receive from everyone. He did a great job and we were so proud of him and felt proud that we had been part of his journey. We knew him then as our friend, as Paul's best man , as Sarah's godfather and we know him now as a great spiritual leader and someone who is moving his country out of the darkness and into its own light.
We were finally able to take him out to lunch, to one of my favorites-Cracker Barrel- and really talk about whats happening with him, where he's been and where he's going. It was so good to see him, talk with him, make future plans with him and honestly start revisiting our journey to Honduras and how we can go back. We know we're going back for a few weeks to see the country and how its progressed and to see what we are called to do, as a couple. No decisions yet, but lots of thoughts , prayers and dreams floating around. And so the story continues....
Friday, February 11, 2011
Perspective and bias
How much are the decisions that we make influenced by our past? When others are making decisions about us, how much of the decision making process is truly looking at the facts and how much is influenced by bias due to allegiances, money or in the worst case scenario, pure bigotry?
Over the past two years, I have been struggling with the effects of an automobile accident that I was involved in while working. Initially when I went to the doctor , the diagnosis was a back strain/sprain. I had neurological symptoms of something else, but that was the doctors starting place. When I returned to the doctor, he sent me for an MRI to see if I had a lumbar disk herniation. At that point I was referred to the neurosurgeon because of the symptoms I was having.
I lingered with the assigned neurosurgeon although he was not about to recommend anything that workmen's comp wouldn't pay for. In fact, I got to hate going to see him because he really didnt do or say anything other than how are you. Basically I had a recurring L5-S1 disk herniation which I could take pain medication for, have physical therapy for or eventually have surgery if the pain was too bad. Workmen's compensation left me high and dry. They brought in their big wig lawyer in the end, who said that all my symptoms were from the previous disk herniation/surgery I had. It didn't matter if other doctors disagreed or said that I certainly had additional injuries. All that mattered was that their slick Houston lawyer had ways to make me look bad by twisting what I said for his advantage.
Anyway, I'm free! Free to go to whatever doctor I choose and have whatever treatment is best for me. Its not being paid for by Workmens Comp, but maybe it doesn't matter.
Over the past two years, I have been struggling with the effects of an automobile accident that I was involved in while working. Initially when I went to the doctor , the diagnosis was a back strain/sprain. I had neurological symptoms of something else, but that was the doctors starting place. When I returned to the doctor, he sent me for an MRI to see if I had a lumbar disk herniation. At that point I was referred to the neurosurgeon because of the symptoms I was having.
I lingered with the assigned neurosurgeon although he was not about to recommend anything that workmen's comp wouldn't pay for. In fact, I got to hate going to see him because he really didnt do or say anything other than how are you. Basically I had a recurring L5-S1 disk herniation which I could take pain medication for, have physical therapy for or eventually have surgery if the pain was too bad. Workmen's compensation left me high and dry. They brought in their big wig lawyer in the end, who said that all my symptoms were from the previous disk herniation/surgery I had. It didn't matter if other doctors disagreed or said that I certainly had additional injuries. All that mattered was that their slick Houston lawyer had ways to make me look bad by twisting what I said for his advantage.
Anyway, I'm free! Free to go to whatever doctor I choose and have whatever treatment is best for me. Its not being paid for by Workmens Comp, but maybe it doesn't matter.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The winds of change are blowing
Both of my parents are in the hospital tonight. Seems so strange that my father would have asked to room with my mother, but he did. Apparently they both have pneumonia, although my mother is not doing nearly as well as my father. He'll probably go home in a day or two, where my mother may be in the hospital for weeks, depending on how things go.
Its strange how families change over time. I never could have envisioned how the relationships between my siblings would so affect my mother. There are five children in my family. My oldest sister Jennifer lives in Oswego, NY and has lived there for many years. Next is Melissa. She lived in South Carolina for the duration of her marriage, about 15 years and has lived not too far from my parents farm for the last 19 years . Jonathan is my brother who has lived on the farm for all of its existence. He got married 30 years ago and moved into a mobile home near my parents house , then some years later got divorced, remarried and built a big log home just above my parents home. Deborah lives nearby my parents home in Schaghticoke. And I live in Brownsville,TX, far away from NY and the farm. Ive lived in Brownsville for 24 years now.
Over the years, there has often been conflict in relationship to aspects of the farm. My brother has done the major part of the physical labor on the farm for many years which has included milking cattle, haying, planting and harvesting other crops as well as maintaining the farm and its buildings and machinery. Jon and my mother were often at odds with each other, because my brother was the physical manager , but my mother wanted to be the verbal manager and there were many conflicts regarding their different styles
Melissa came up from SC 19 years ago after a bitter divorce, and I thought she was going to be a good ally for my mother as well as someone to help out with farm things. She and my mom bonded right away because of her love of all things farm and animals. However, they also clashed right away and my mom realized that Melissa was not going to stay on the farm with her. Soon Melissa bought a farm a short distance away from my parents and my mother helped her with everything from taking care of her children to giving her money to fix her house , barns and buy more sheep.
Its strange how families change over time. I never could have envisioned how the relationships between my siblings would so affect my mother. There are five children in my family. My oldest sister Jennifer lives in Oswego, NY and has lived there for many years. Next is Melissa. She lived in South Carolina for the duration of her marriage, about 15 years and has lived not too far from my parents farm for the last 19 years . Jonathan is my brother who has lived on the farm for all of its existence. He got married 30 years ago and moved into a mobile home near my parents house , then some years later got divorced, remarried and built a big log home just above my parents home. Deborah lives nearby my parents home in Schaghticoke. And I live in Brownsville,TX, far away from NY and the farm. Ive lived in Brownsville for 24 years now.
Over the years, there has often been conflict in relationship to aspects of the farm. My brother has done the major part of the physical labor on the farm for many years which has included milking cattle, haying, planting and harvesting other crops as well as maintaining the farm and its buildings and machinery. Jon and my mother were often at odds with each other, because my brother was the physical manager , but my mother wanted to be the verbal manager and there were many conflicts regarding their different styles
Melissa came up from SC 19 years ago after a bitter divorce, and I thought she was going to be a good ally for my mother as well as someone to help out with farm things. She and my mom bonded right away because of her love of all things farm and animals. However, they also clashed right away and my mom realized that Melissa was not going to stay on the farm with her. Soon Melissa bought a farm a short distance away from my parents and my mother helped her with everything from taking care of her children to giving her money to fix her house , barns and buy more sheep.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
More changes for the 'rents
Dad has been having problems with the circulation in his legs for years. I remember him having his first vein surgery on one leg when I was in college, which must have been 25 years ago or so. Even at that point, the doctors were saying the other leg was too bad, too far gone to do the vein stripping surgery. Over the past 20 years he has had problems with ulcerations on his legs which would appear and never heal. Slowly, one of them grew so large it was like a raw cuff around one of his legs, which wept and oozed all the time. It would not heal for a long time because Dad didn't take care of it. He didn't wash it, clean it or bandage it the way he was supposed to for years.
When Dad finally left the farm and my sister Melissa began to dress the wound, it actually started to heal a bit. At last , Dad was able to have skin grafting surgery to close the wound. It healed well and he seemed to be doing much better when I saw him in August.
Apparently, last week one of the ulcerations on his foot became inflamed and swollen. He was put on antibiotics, but for whatever reason the foot and then the leg shut down and became cold. The doctor sent him to hospital for an arteriogram and it was determined that there was no hope of saving his leg because it had no circulation in it.
So tomorrow, September 27, Dad will have one of his legs amputated above the knee. If all goes well, he will be in the hospital for a few more days, then go to Sunnyview Rehab hospital for a few weeks. He'll have to learn how to get up and walk on one leg, using the walker and all the things that go with that.
There is no reprieve at this point with either of my parents. My mom continues on her downward decline with Alzheimer's Disease and this is hard to listen to and hear about. Although I don't get to see her often, I know that "Mom" the one that I knew is gone and now its as if a different person inhabits her body. You can either contradict her every few words because she's making no sense or you can enter her world and go along with whatever she says. She told my sister Deb that a "rich Englishman" was living at my sister's house. Apparently she doesn't remember her husband (Dad) at all or maybe little snippets. Either way, we are not telling her about Dad's surgery because it woulds only confuse her.
Staying positive about the situation is becoming more and more difficult. I know that I am not the only person to have elderly parents with many medical problems, but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. The fact that I live so far away from my parents and have to hear everything after the fact and second or third hand also does not improve things for me. Worry, concern, guilt..these are all the things that add up to difficulty staying positive.
Enough for today..we'll see what tomorrow brings .
When Dad finally left the farm and my sister Melissa began to dress the wound, it actually started to heal a bit. At last , Dad was able to have skin grafting surgery to close the wound. It healed well and he seemed to be doing much better when I saw him in August.
Apparently, last week one of the ulcerations on his foot became inflamed and swollen. He was put on antibiotics, but for whatever reason the foot and then the leg shut down and became cold. The doctor sent him to hospital for an arteriogram and it was determined that there was no hope of saving his leg because it had no circulation in it.
So tomorrow, September 27, Dad will have one of his legs amputated above the knee. If all goes well, he will be in the hospital for a few more days, then go to Sunnyview Rehab hospital for a few weeks. He'll have to learn how to get up and walk on one leg, using the walker and all the things that go with that.
There is no reprieve at this point with either of my parents. My mom continues on her downward decline with Alzheimer's Disease and this is hard to listen to and hear about. Although I don't get to see her often, I know that "Mom" the one that I knew is gone and now its as if a different person inhabits her body. You can either contradict her every few words because she's making no sense or you can enter her world and go along with whatever she says. She told my sister Deb that a "rich Englishman" was living at my sister's house. Apparently she doesn't remember her husband (Dad) at all or maybe little snippets. Either way, we are not telling her about Dad's surgery because it woulds only confuse her.
Staying positive about the situation is becoming more and more difficult. I know that I am not the only person to have elderly parents with many medical problems, but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. The fact that I live so far away from my parents and have to hear everything after the fact and second or third hand also does not improve things for me. Worry, concern, guilt..these are all the things that add up to difficulty staying positive.
Enough for today..we'll see what tomorrow brings .
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Peach Chutney
I went to New York to visit my family last month and as usual, I was inspired by my sister Deb. Its not that I want to do just what she does, but I always feel a little inadequate in terms of cooking,canning, gardening, sewing etc. She's got the whole home cooking with fresh grown produce down to a science.
I decided to try a peach chutney recipe for my first foray at canning in a long time. I do remember canning with my mother as a teenager. She always made the same types of canned goods; tomato sauce with peppers and onions, grape juice from our grapes, applesauce from our apples and occasionally some pickles. My favorite type of pickle to make was something Mom called winter salad, although I can't seem to find anything under that name on Google. The closest thing I could find was a hot dog relish that has turmeric in it, which makes it bright yellow.
Anyway, today peach chutney was on my radar. First of all because Deb made some while we were in NY. and second of all, because I love anything that has fruit in it. The process of making the chutney was not difficult until I stated working with the hot peppers. I knew Serrano peppers would burn my skin if I didn't handle them carefully, so I did what I could to avoid touching them with anything, but the knife. Then came the problem. I couldn't get the seeds out without handling the peppers. I thought I didn't handle them much with my fingers and it seemed to be going well, but after I finished, my hands felt like they were on fire.
One hour later, my hands are still burning and the chutney is in jars in the canning kettle. Like Sarah says, at least I tried. Hopefully when I finally get to eat some chutney, it will all have been worth it.
I decided to try a peach chutney recipe for my first foray at canning in a long time. I do remember canning with my mother as a teenager. She always made the same types of canned goods; tomato sauce with peppers and onions, grape juice from our grapes, applesauce from our apples and occasionally some pickles. My favorite type of pickle to make was something Mom called winter salad, although I can't seem to find anything under that name on Google. The closest thing I could find was a hot dog relish that has turmeric in it, which makes it bright yellow.
Anyway, today peach chutney was on my radar. First of all because Deb made some while we were in NY. and second of all, because I love anything that has fruit in it. The process of making the chutney was not difficult until I stated working with the hot peppers. I knew Serrano peppers would burn my skin if I didn't handle them carefully, so I did what I could to avoid touching them with anything, but the knife. Then came the problem. I couldn't get the seeds out without handling the peppers. I thought I didn't handle them much with my fingers and it seemed to be going well, but after I finished, my hands felt like they were on fire.
One hour later, my hands are still burning and the chutney is in jars in the canning kettle. Like Sarah says, at least I tried. Hopefully when I finally get to eat some chutney, it will all have been worth it.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Changes
Near the end of August, my mom broke her hip. The exact details of how it happened are unclear as noone was there except my mom and her memories are blurry to say the least. The most likely scenario is that her 9 month old ram lamb ,whom she had bottle fed for many months, pushed his way into the house and somehow knocked her down against a table. He had already done this a number of times and so it seems likely that he was involved somehow. She apparently managed to get herself to a phone and call 911 after some period of time.
Hip surgery went well and she had pins and a plate put in to stabilize her hip. so the hip is healing well, but her brain and memory took a big blow. Not that she physically hit her head, but that somehow the trauma of the injury and surgery left her brain out in left field. She went from being able to hold a conversation, with some problems with memory and reasoning, to now being totally unaware of her surroundings. She speaks of shopping and fairs and visits with the President and the Archbishop of Canterbury, but she doesn't or can't acknowledge that she is in a Rehab hospital/nursing home undergoing Physical therapy.
I've had some conversations with my sisters about these changes, and the thing that keeps occurring to me is that Mom doesn't want to be in a nursing home and somehow her brain is letting her believe that she's not. Maybe it really is a blessing although its hard to see it this way at times. Mom wouldn't have ever wanted to live this way, this much I know. She keeps saying how she's in her kitchen, with her dog, on her farm, so everything is ok. And yet, she knows she's confused at times and will sometimes say that her brain feels fuzzy.
Hip surgery went well and she had pins and a plate put in to stabilize her hip. so the hip is healing well, but her brain and memory took a big blow. Not that she physically hit her head, but that somehow the trauma of the injury and surgery left her brain out in left field. She went from being able to hold a conversation, with some problems with memory and reasoning, to now being totally unaware of her surroundings. She speaks of shopping and fairs and visits with the President and the Archbishop of Canterbury, but she doesn't or can't acknowledge that she is in a Rehab hospital/nursing home undergoing Physical therapy.
I've had some conversations with my sisters about these changes, and the thing that keeps occurring to me is that Mom doesn't want to be in a nursing home and somehow her brain is letting her believe that she's not. Maybe it really is a blessing although its hard to see it this way at times. Mom wouldn't have ever wanted to live this way, this much I know. She keeps saying how she's in her kitchen, with her dog, on her farm, so everything is ok. And yet, she knows she's confused at times and will sometimes say that her brain feels fuzzy.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Lemon meringue pie
You never knew what would come out of a Freighoffer's animal bag. Sometimes it was just various kinds of bread; rye,white, wheat and even party rye which was little tiny pieces of rye bread. Sometimes there were cakes and danish or cookies which were often broken and squooshed from being thrown into the bag. But the most unique item of all was the lemon meringue pie. Sometimes it was a bit broken too, but if we could manage to get it out of the bag in one piece, we would have a feast. The crust was actually quite soggy from being "day old" and the meringue had lots of little beads on it, like the meringue was sweating. The lemon filling had a special buzz to it which added to the zesty flavor of the meringue. We dug into the pie like it was a meal fit for a king.
At the farm's peak, we would get bakery animal bags every few weeks and fill up the back of my fathers truck with them, 10 or 15 bags.The contents of the bag were either put into our freezer or fed to the various goats, sheep, chickens and ducks that were on the farm.
Much later on, I discovered that lemon meringue pie wasn't supposed to have those special flavors. Maybe we were getting buzzed off the pie, I'm not sure, or maybe it was a sugar high, but I'm certain that all of us kids have that memory of the fizzy lemon meringue pies.
At the farm's peak, we would get bakery animal bags every few weeks and fill up the back of my fathers truck with them, 10 or 15 bags.The contents of the bag were either put into our freezer or fed to the various goats, sheep, chickens and ducks that were on the farm.
Much later on, I discovered that lemon meringue pie wasn't supposed to have those special flavors. Maybe we were getting buzzed off the pie, I'm not sure, or maybe it was a sugar high, but I'm certain that all of us kids have that memory of the fizzy lemon meringue pies.
The long good-bye
I went home for a visit a week or so ago. Home ? It's not my home anymore. Its just the place I grew up, so many long, hard days ago. I want it to be different, but it not going to change for the better now.
My mom has Alzheimer's disease. Its such a hard pill to swallow. We've been calling it dementia for a few years now, the result of a fall on the ice. She seemed like she was getting better, stronger for a while after rehab. , but things never really came back to normal. Now it's Alzheimer's. Its called the long good-bye for a good reason. Pieces of your childhood slowly disappear , as though they never happened at all. Mom's childhood memories seem to be there and she clings to them for proof that she doesn't have "that thing". That thing that she can't remember what its called, but she doesnt have it. She tells me over and over. That's the recurring theme of my visit with her. Over and over, the same stories with the same inflection, the same surprise when I say that I've heard them already.
I know in my head that she she has Alzheimer's, but some part of me doesnt want to accept it. My sisters and I keep getting hurt by the stories she tells. Her brain has made up new stories as though they were the truth and now these are told over and over. We try to rationalize with her, to show her how the stories can't be true, but somehow that information does not enter her brain. We get mad and indignant and say "how dare she say that" and "that's just not true", but we are still learning that its Alzheimer's speaking and not our mother.
My mom has Alzheimer's disease. Its such a hard pill to swallow. We've been calling it dementia for a few years now, the result of a fall on the ice. She seemed like she was getting better, stronger for a while after rehab. , but things never really came back to normal. Now it's Alzheimer's. Its called the long good-bye for a good reason. Pieces of your childhood slowly disappear , as though they never happened at all. Mom's childhood memories seem to be there and she clings to them for proof that she doesn't have "that thing". That thing that she can't remember what its called, but she doesnt have it. She tells me over and over. That's the recurring theme of my visit with her. Over and over, the same stories with the same inflection, the same surprise when I say that I've heard them already.
I know in my head that she she has Alzheimer's, but some part of me doesnt want to accept it. My sisters and I keep getting hurt by the stories she tells. Her brain has made up new stories as though they were the truth and now these are told over and over. We try to rationalize with her, to show her how the stories can't be true, but somehow that information does not enter her brain. We get mad and indignant and say "how dare she say that" and "that's just not true", but we are still learning that its Alzheimer's speaking and not our mother.
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