Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘demons’ Category

Carved pumpkin

Pumpkin carving, a Halloween tradition.

When my kids were at home it was their job to carve the scary faces on the pumpkins.  I also had them scoop out the “flesh” of fall’s bright orange squash so I could make pumpkin pies.

Now I cheat.  A couple of ceramic pumpkins already wearing carved faces and placed on a plate with a candle inside does the trick.  What’s more they look every bit as Halloweenish as did the real thing.  Well, maybe not quite so much.  As my in-house experts advanced in years their talents increased exceedingly.    Using the most humble of kitchen knives and scoops with utmost proficiency the more ghostly the carved pumpkins became as the artists scraped out more and more of the pumpkin flesh making the shell creepily translucent.  While I do miss the activity and the main fresh ingredient for pies I get along very nicely using the old standard:  Libby’s pumpkin in a can.

Meanwhile, I find I enjoy this holiday more now than when the house was filled with our children.  There was always so much hubbub in getting costumes ready – not only for the big night – but for school and other celebrations:  costumes on – costumes off, this party that party, costumes on – costumes off.  Then it seemed, in the past, that day-light-savings time never cooperated, switching back to standard time the week before Halloween making it really dark at dinnertime (even when eating was bumped up to 5:00 p.m.).  Chaos reigned trying to feed kids a bit of real food before they hit the neighborhood for candy while we ran back and forth answering the constant demand of the bell as early trick and treaters opened their pillow cases for the required ransom.

Kristina, the granddaughter who lives with us, loves Halloween.  At 22 her sites are no longer on dressing up for treats.  It’s been fun for me watching her get ready for this bedecked and bejeweled holiday.  She found a saloon girl dress at a vintage shop in Santa Curz and spent the last few weeks acquiring the accessories to make her costume complete.  Her young man, also Chris, found chaps transforming him into the needed cowboy to escort his “Lady in red” to various parties.  A really fun holiday and I didn’t have to do anything but watch, although I did help her with a minor alteration.  And I am totally prepared with a cauldron full of candy for the night visitors.

Living with Alzheimer’s I am determined that life will be as normal as possible, so I continue our celebration of All Saints Eve.  Decorating is simple, but effective.  I like the orange candy lights which I scatter over one specific juniper bush.  Towering above, is a ghost made from two sheets ruffled over a couple of pieces of wood stuck behind the lights in the same bush, and for the head a very large,  round light globe salvaged when an outdoor fixture was replaced.  Easy up, easy down.

For a few years, even with his disease, Ken helped, but often took down the decorations each morning not remembering the holiday was yet to come, so together we would put everything back in its place. This year there isn’t much notice from my husband.  It’s almost as if he looks, but doesn’t see.  A tall ghost surrounded with small orange lights means nothing to him as he gazes out of the front window, but I continue with tradition not only for me but for our numerous great grandchildren and Jessica, our youngest granddaughter who is 11 and blends right in with her cousins of another generation.

This morning as Ben and I were getting Ken ready for the day he looked at me with disdain as I held his restrained hands while Ben did the cleaning.  “You don’t know anything,” he growled giving me a “duh” expression.  His contorted face made me laugh out loud.  Ben looked over and laughed as well.  Ken continued making faces finally sticking out his tongue like a naughty five-year-old boy.  “Why are you making those funny and scary faces?” I asked, still laughing.  Ben looked again and said, “Faces he probably made as a young boy.”  Stopping my giggles I asked my husband, “Are you getting ready for Halloween?”

On Halloween night, later in the evening, Jess will pay us a visit with her mom and dad.  She will be wearing a surprise costume which her mother made especially for her.  Perhaps Ken will show her his little-boy faces even sticking out his tongue, and then add a few scary ones – or not.  More than likely he will be unresponsive.  However, in a pretend perfect world he would be just Grandpa looking at her with love in his eyes – remembering who she is, who she was and anticipating, with all of us, who she will become – saying something like, “You are a beautiful fairy princess, Jess (or an awesome Darth Vader — whatever the costume) and  I love you.”

So this Halloween when unseen visitors from the past make their presence known, when witches fly through the air on  broomsticks, or  ghosts and goblins dash about the streets disappearing over the hills and unexplained apparitions appear from no where, perhaps the real Ken will be allowed to sneak away from the prison of Alzheimer’s and be just plain Grandpa – for a time.  Stranger things have happened.

We can only wish.   Maybe someday we can catch that very first magical evening star to wish upon.  If it’s the right one, wishes are  supposed to come true.

Read Full Post »

My mother was the most charitable person I have ever known.  From the time I was a little girl I remember strangers standing at our front door while she made a sandwich as he waited, or fed another lunch in exchange for washing our 3rd-floor windows both inside and out.  There was never a thought these people were anything other than what they claimed – down, out and hungry — as she allowed them to work for food during those Great Depression years. 

It wasn’t as though we were much better off with my dad doing piece work for a small steel company.  When the order was filled he went home with his few dollars to buy food, pay the rent, and hopefully the utilities.  Yet my mother managed to stretch the meager dollars to care for us and to help the less fortunate.  She and my dad prided themselves on never going on “Relief,” which was the welfare program of the 1930s.  They were fiercely independent, and, perhaps, to a fault proud, but that’s who they were.  They could take care of themselves and they did.

During World War II and the peaceful, economic healthy years which followed, I watched my mother continue her service to mankind through our church and other philanthropic organizations.  Nor did she choose to treat herself to some delicacy at the soda fountain or bake shop.  Rather than be frivolous she would take the money saved and donate the coins to a worthy cause.  Mama always felt fortunate and blessed to be self-sustaining.  This pattern continued for both my parents all of their lives.

One day, late in life, Mama was taking a bundle of newspapers to the garage for recycling.  Stepping down the one step of their entryway, she lost her balance and fell.  Bruised and bleeding she picked herself up from the cement, grateful no bones were broken.  Stalwart that she was, my mother insisted ice packs and a little rest were all she needed.

The next day, John, a representative from our church stopped by their home for his regular monthly visit. Finding her battered and bruised he asked what had happened.  Hearing Mama tell of her fall, he immediately said, “Irene, you need a hand rail at your front door.”

Sounds of a hammer and saw awakened my parents the very next morning.   Investigating they found John building the needed hand rail.  “I can do that,” protested my father.  “Now you won’t have to,” answered John, continuing his project.  “Then let me pay you for the materials,” Dad insisted.  “You can’t afford me,” replied John.   Humbly my parents accepted their gift.

Later my mother told me that she was surprised at her feelings of submission – of allowing someone to fill a need for them.  Being the giver all of her life she didn’t quite understand feeling so good about receiving.  Then she thought of the triangle of doing God’s work.  “Without people in need, and we were in need,” she explained, “other people might never have the opportunity to serve, to experience being charitable. With God as the director, I became part of the triangle.  Instead of feeling embarrassed about accepting John’s charitable offering I felt humble and grateful, and very warm inside.  I guess part of my learning was to be a grateful receiver.”

My mother’s last years took her into the depths of Alzheimer’s.  Slowly she faded from the vibrant woman she was into a child I could only imagine I might have known.  A little temperamental and stubborn at times, caring for her was still relatively easy.  Her walk with the demon of diseases took a little more than four years before she passed on peacefully in her sleep. 

In another dimension my mother is probably musing about the last chapters in her book of life as she continues to grow in her appreciation of being a grateful receiver.  Knowing my mother, however,  she’s also back doing God’s work: charity, which is the pure love of Christ. 

Care giving for a loved one who suffers from Alzheimer’s is of that same charity, but is so often a thankless job.  The thought of being part of God’s triangle somehow escapes as the tedious days and endless months and years continue with no relief in sight.  And gratitude for this horrible disease?  There is none.  Yet, during this time of my accident recovery I have found endless gratitude, especially in finding such capable employees.  Both of Ken’s caregivers, Ben and David, have my utmost appreciation.  At the end of their day, I would imagine they feel downtrodden and exhausted, but they continue caring for Ken with love and kindness.  And while Ken is the recipient of their goodness, I am the one filled with gratitude, making me the grateful receiver.

Read Full Post »