MOVING ON WITH MOM

MOVING ON WITH MOM

When you last heard, Mom was ejected from the large assisted living community into a smaller facility and then ejected from her new place too. My only alternative was for her to seen by her physician.  My daughter came to aid me because I didn’t know if I could handle her myself when we took her to his office.  She actually was very calm.

The doctor suggested I take her to the psychiatric wing of the hospital for evaluation.  I dropped off my daughter and starting driving her alone. She was quiet and I chatted with her and got her something to eat as it was close to lunchtime. At the hospital I borrowed a wheelchair and followed directions to the Psych Unit. 

After being interviewed at length by the doctor, he told me she could no longer live in an ALF but would need a nursing home.  In the meantime she would have to be committed in order to get her on proper medication.  She had been docile up to this point, but when told she would be staying there, she proceeded to yell and fight to get out of her chair. So they used the Baker Act and committed her against her will and the doctor and nurses told me to leave and that I would be able to see her the next day.

I remember going to the elevator in tears and a gentleman who had witnessed this asked if he could be of help.  I pulled myself together, thanked him and proceeded to my car which, of course, didn’t start. It was now 6:00 pm.

I called the towing company and also called my husband who had left for golf before I got the morning call but had been receiving reports during the day.  He met me at the garage and I used his car to arrive home at 8:00 pm.

Naturally the story will continue in the next chapter.

Parris Island

Parris Island

Last week we had the pleasure to revisit the Marine Training Center on Parris Island.  In the Historic Museum, we met with two young recruits who would not finish training until November. They were on duty at the museum to answer questions from the guests and were absolutely the best ambassadors that our tour group could possibly meet.

After graduating in November they are being sent to Afghanistan.  I told them of the most meaningful experience our family had when our grandson graduated from training.  Everyone in the stands was in tears of joy at their pride in these young recruits as they marched by.  We couldn’t find our grandson in the multitude until his sister spotted him from the top row in the grandstand.  When the ceremony was over all the Marines ran into the stands to greet their families and although they weren’t allowed to look into the stands they all managed to somehow see them.  Our grandson said he spotted his sister in the top row.   

After graduation our grandson had further training and was sent to Fallujah, Iraq for a year.  In this new type of war where everyone had a cell phone, our 19 year old held up his phone so his mother could hear the flak flying over his head.

I didn’t tell this to the young recruits but instead told them I hoped they returned safe the same as our beloved grandson.

Another thing I didn’t tell them was how our whole family was against the war. I told our grandson that although we were opposed to the war, the soldiers still had our support.  He said he understood our stand.  His aunt and her daughter (his cousin) attended peace rallies where they were ridiculed for their beliefs.   

Everyday I looked at the pictures in the newspaper of young Marines, nineteen and twenty year olds who were killed in Iraq.  Each one could have been my grandson.

(As published in the St. Petersburg Times/ Letters to the Editor titled “A Stirring Reminder of Marines’ Service” Saturday October 23^rd. 2010)

ON SENILITY

ON SENILITY

One thing you should know about dealing with a person diagnosed with senility is that you can not reason with that person. You always try simply because they know who you are and can converse in a seemly manner.

My mother was such a person who agreed to take her meds and not use her walker to knock into the other residents on the elevator if she wanted to stay in the beautiful retirement community where she lived. After my brother and I along with our spouses talked to her for over an hour she happily agreed to the terms set by the administrator of the assisted living section of the building.  One hour later, the aide came in with her meds which she absolutely refused to take.

We now had to find a small assisted living facility that was willing to take her. Several days later she was taken out of the building, kicking and screaming and placed in wheel chair transport as my husband and I stood inside and watched out the window along with the residents and staff. 

Her new place held only about 12 residents. They all ate lunch together, played bingo and card games. It was all lovely and she seemed to do well for about two weeks.  Unfortunately, the new place felt she was doing so well that it wasn’t necessary to give her the meds that kept her on an even keel.

What happened? She went on a rampage in the middle of the night, knocked her television on the floor and scared the other residents so that one of them sat in the hall all night to protect the other residents.  This I was told when the owner called me the next morning and told me to remove her from the premises.

The moral is you can’t reason with a person with senility no matter how lucid they seem.

At least that has been my experience.

The lengthily outcome of the story I will tell in a forthcoming blog. Stay tuned.

Principals of the Opera

Principals of the Opera

There was an ad in the newspaper about a newly formed opera workshop which was looking for singers.  It was not necessary to know Italian or French because you could be taught phonetically the French or Italian lyrics. Situated in a suburb of Chicago close to where we had just moved, others like myself were looking for a place to sing, so we all came together to rehearse in the home of it’s founders, a husband and wife who both sang with the Chicago Opera Company.   Entering through a side entrance we were told to proceed to their basement via a door off the kitchen. There was a couch with lamps on either side just before you climbed down the stairs.  The couch had a very shiny clear plastic slipcover and there were two large ornate lamps on which they had still kept the cellophane lampshade covers. Every rehearsal we followed the same route looking at the same plastic covered couch and wondered if anyone had ever sat on it or used one of the lamps which was in all probability dangerous because cellophane is prone to burn very fast.  We did joke when we were leaving rehearsals about sitting on it when the owners weren’t around to see us. This was the only part of the house we ever saw. The upstairs interior seemed small but the basement was actually very large.

The owners were an Italian soprano and a Danish baritone. I think their reason for starting the workshop was actually to recruit students for voice lessons. Their basement housed a full “summer kitchen”. In Italian homes I learned there is usually a full kitchen in the basement because there was virtually no air conditioning in the 1960’s and it was cooler to cook meals in the basement in the summer and use their regular upstairs kitchen in the winter. I still remember her showing us what she called a traditional Italian Easter cookie in which an unshelled uncooked egg was embedded in cookie dough then baked.  I have an everlasting memory of the bitter taste of the dough which she allowed us to try. It was flavored with wine and I don’t think any sugar was used.

We singers were seated at the other end of the basement close to their baby grand piano and were taught how to pronounce the lyrics. There were about 10 singers, men and women, who were to be directed by “The Maestro”. Maestro Tony was in his early thirties and he had studied singing as well as conducting. He had a beautiful tenor voice but unfortunately for him his mother usually accompanied him to our rehearsals.  We found out that he had rheumatic fever as a child and his domineering mother refused to allow him to find employment after he finished his education. In addition to being attractive he was also very nice, but he probably didn’t have much of a life. He was our pianist and conductor and we actually called him “The Maestro”.

The chorus worked phonetically on parts of Verdi’s Italian opera “The Masked Ball”.  Also in rehearsal was Gian Carlo Menotti’s one act comic opera “The Telephone” written in English and to be performed in our planned recital.  Its roles were to be sung by the Italian Soprano, the Danish baritone and their only student who had never before had a singing lesson.  We paid for our own music but the rented Marie Antoinette costumes and wigs for “The Masked Ball” were paid for by ticket sales. Costumes for “The Telephone” were just everyday dress to be worn by the three member cast.  When it came time for their student to sing her big solo, the soprano sang right along with her and drowned out her voice.  Everyone in the audience felt the whole program was a huge disaster and these people were actually our friends and families.

We were scheduled to start rehearsing the opera “Rigoletto” after our big debut.  I think this was to be a vehicle starring the Danish baritone.

Shortly thereafter, although we had already paid for the libretto of “Rigoletto” (I still have my copy if anyone wants it) the group fell apart after some harsh words, which I honestly had nothing to do with. We all left the Soprano and the Baritone but took with us the Maestro and started a new chorus which met for free in a local bank building.  We were able to pick up some new members and sang together for about six months entertaining for various social events before being assimilated into the new Broadway Show community.

I IS OK

I IS OK

When I sent my story called “Sleigh Ride” to my family and friends, my son called and said he thought I should have a blog so that I could continue the writing I’ve done the past several years.  My reaction was that I was computer illiterate and didn’t think I could handle such a thing.  I only had seen one blog which made no sense to me, the writer just rambled on with total nonsense about someone who had died and a recipe she was making.

The next thing I see is my blog complete with a picture I had painted. I was expected to come up with a title and start off running.  My writing would be typed on Word, cut, pasted then posted.  I had troubles doing attachments to e-mails so how could I function? I didn’t even know what cut and paste meant.

I’m not that familiar with Facebook, never having seen a page.  Our cell phone is mystery, I can’t take a picture or do a text message.  It always seemed to me these people are so self-absorbed they want to tell the world how remarkable they are.

 Now I’ve become one of them.  My first blog was so filled with I’s that I was ashamed yet, I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t write in the third person and had no other frame of reference.  Write about what you know is what all writers are told.  So I write about what I know and who I know and it’s all non-fiction.  The audience I’m writing for is my children and grandchildren and my future great-grandchildren because I want them to know me and who I am as a person.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s OK to use I’s.

The Guarantee

The Guarantee

There’s a guaranteed place for me in heaven.  I’m sure you’ll agree when you hear my story.

When my divorced mother moved us to the city, my brothers and I started Catholic School after being in public school for years.  I was delighted to attend First Friday Masses because we could carry breakfast and later eat at our desks which used up some of our class time. However, the best part of First Friday was we students got to sing the Mass in English and in Latin. I always was thrilled to be able to sing out loud.  Regular Masses on Sunday were sung by the male choir or the organist played in the background when the choir wasn’t there.

Missions were held regularly in our church and the visiting priest/missionaries held morning and evening services for about five days. The congregation members listened to hellfire and brimstone sermons about all the evil in the world and that you must repent to save your immortal soul.  I only attended because I just wanted to sing.   I had planned to walk to the local drug store for a Coke after I was able to sing my heart out.  Unfortunately after listening to the sermon, I was so scared that when they passed the collection basket I dropped in the only money I had.

And that’s why I have a guaranteed place in heaven because I gave my last dime to the Church.

Meeting Old Friends

Last week we spent some time with two of our young grandchildren.  While in the car we talked with them about how much reading has meant to their grandfather and me. Sometimes we would run into a character that we have met in a previous book and recognize them as an old friend or someone we didn’t like.  But they somehow feel real to us though they are still fictitious.  Soap opera watchers sometimes think the actors are really the characters they portray.

I got caught up in such a situation many years ago. My mother and I were both avid readers and enjoyed some of the same authors, Pat Conroy being one of them.  We both had read “The Great Santini” and were familiar with Conroy’s background.  He had tremendous issues with both his parents as well as mental illness in his family.  Knowing this you feel his epic novels are really truthful events that are woven into his fiction writing.

My mother loved to play bingo at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Atlanta and I went with her one evening.  She pointed to a tall older gentleman who was working there and said “that’s the Great Santini”.  I said that’s not possible because he’s dead.  I was totally taken aback to realize that Conroy had portrayed his own personal anger and killed him off, yet his father took great pride in telling people he was “The Great Santini.” In the book he is portrayed as a totally mean bastard.  You’re really glad when he dies at the end.

Next week our vacation includes a tour of Historic Beaufort in South Carolina.  Many years ago when my husband had business in Beaufort, I went along for the ride.  The bank manager he was meeting with took us on a tour of the small beautiful city and pointed out the house where the movie “The Great Santini” was filmed.  I expect our tour guide on Tuesday will tell us the same thing.