There Are Monkeys in My Tree!

A few days ago there were monkeys in a tree in my Dad’s back yard in southwestern Pennsylvania. First there was only one, then two and then, three. Suddenly, a fairly nondescript looking woman appeared and tried to persuade the monkeys to come down from the tree. Unsuccessful in her attempts to aid the poor creatures, she vanished as quickly as she came. Apparently, the monkeys were quite content where they were. They were comfortable in their more natural habitat and wanted left alone. They wanted no prodding or imploring to come down, especially from a woman.

With his trusted walker, Hugo, as his transportation, my 91-year-old father, who normally won’t move from his lift recliner, without persuasion, made several trips from his chair to the kitchen window that day to check on the monkeys and the woman. Curious about why the woman was unsuccessful in getting the monkeys to do her bidding, he mused that he was quite sure she would try again the next day. He was equally certain she wouldn’t have any better success. As night fell from gray to black and visibility dimmed, Dad became more restless and anxious; his agitation increased. Finally, he fell into bed, exhausted from his multiple journeys to the kitchen and mentally drained from his concern for the monkeys’ welfare. Never once, did he ask why monkeys would have been in his backyard or how they got there.

When the sun came up on a new day, there was no mention of monkeys or the mysterious woman. There was only pain and weakness in legs that haven’t seen much activity in months. There was fear of falling and anxiety about why Dad’s legs didn’t want to support him. All the trips back and forth to the kitchen the day before left nothing but discomfort and more anxiety.

As I talked to him on the phone that evening, Dad cried. He didn’t mention the monkeys and neither did I. He cried because he was fearful that his legs wracked with pain would no longer support him and he would have to leave his home. We talked about the discomfort in his legs probably being temporary, not why. We talked about everything he is fearful of and what we might do to help him. By the end of the conversation, he was calm enough to be able to sleep. I called to make certain he was safely in bed before I could go to sleep myself. He had taken the two Tylenol at his bedside. So had I.

Alzheimer’s, dementia, Lewy Body Dementia, the term doesn’t matter. The effects and stages of decline are mostly the same. When the patient is a loved one, someone who a few short years ago was writing and giving cogent sermons from the pulpit, driving a car, planting a garden, excited about new ventures, it hurts. It hurts the most to see the fear that slowly creeps into eyes that at times seem vacant or cry out of loneliness for lost loved ones. It hurts to watch hopelessly the delusional compulsion to make trips to the kitchen window to check on monkeys in the backyard. It hurts to hear one day that your loved one believes he spent a previous evening in the home of his caregiver, in a town where she doesn’t live, in the company of two other ministers and Bishop Desmond Tutu; and it hurts to experience real anger directed at you if you don’t remember him being there. Perhaps the following day will be a normal day, at least his normal? What is normal for him anymore becomes ever harder to understand.

I wonder, are the monkeys my Dad? Does he feel confined to his chair, but most content there? He almost exclusively has contact with women, my sisters, his caregiver and me. We are the ones encouraging him, even making him do the things he doesn’t want to, like shower or change clothes when all he wants is to be left alone. Are we that woman trying to force the monkeys out of the tree, down to earth and reality? Do we exhaust him with our hovering and prodding? It’s a possible explanation for this particular hallucination, but Desmond Tutu? Got me there!

Here’s to You, Mr. Bennett! A Tribute Long Overdue

Only recently did I learn of the death in 2006 of one of my favorite high school teachers, Mr. Floyd W. Bennett. Quite accidentally while I was working on a project for an upcoming reunion, I stumbled across his obituary on the internet. I was very fond of Mr. Bennett and I think he had a fond regard for me. He taught me instrumental music for four years and as the only majorette who also played an instrument, he taught me to lead the band and turned that opportunity over to me several times at our football games.  

 In 1958 when the concert of bands preformed at the Pittsburgh’s Bi-Centennial Celebration at Pitt Stadium, our band and majorettes were given the honor of being one of  the bands in that extravaganza directed by Tony Award winning  playwright and songwriter, Meredith Wilson.  It was because of Mr. Bennett’s able talents as a musician and teacher that we had  that exceptional opportunity.

But, Mr. Bennett, wonderful teacher that he was, had a few idiosyncrasies well-known to all of his students. Mr. Bennett, it appeared, was a classic mysophobe, more commonly called a “germaphobe”.  Any student of his would need no further explanation. The visage of Mr. Bennett, his handkerchief covering his mouth and a can of Lysol spray nearby, as we greeted him on entering the and leaving the class is most clear to me.  And…surely he washed his hands multiple times a day to avoid contact with any germ infested morsel his students might have left in the classroom. 

How he amused us. Oh, how I wish I could say that amusement was all Mr. Bennett engendered with his odd behaviors. But, no…dear Mr. Bennett was the subject of much ridicule, teasing  and mimicking of his phobia all out of his sight, of course. Because we were students in the 1950′s, I’m happy to say there was respect for our teachers in the classroom, but very little respect was shown to this gentle kind soul outside of the classroom.  We all knew he was an accomplished musician, a very patient and good teacher of music, but we thought of  him as meek, humble, timid, unassuming and weirdly terrified of germs!

So, Mr. Bennett  appeared somewhat of  a milquetoast (or nerd in today’s terminology) to his less-than-kind students but, in reality, he was  the antithesis. Sadly, it was only through his obituary that I learned about the  Mr. Bennett we never knew, a man we  never considered athletic but who  had, in fact, played baseball for a minor league. But, more importantly, the man we didn’t get to know was an American hero, a model of bravery, selfless sacrifice and honor. Only through his obituary, did I learn that as a U.S. Army veteran of  WWII, Mr.Floyd A. Bennett survived four years and over 500 days of combat in Italy and North Africa, that he had received a Presidential Citation, a Combat Infantry Badge and was the recipient of, not one, but  five Bronze Stars!  

Mr. Bennett, on this Memorial Day 2010, 50 years since I saw you last, 50 years since I’ve thought about the taunting and ridicule of a man who was the exact opposite of all we thought, I salute you!  This insufficient tribute is my small way of saying, I’m sorry we were silly disrespectful teenagers. I’m sorry we never had the privilege of knowing the real you while you were among us. I’m sorry we missed the opportunity to learn how very thoughtless we were and, in contrast, what a brave self-sacrificing man you were.

With the deepest respect, I honor you today, Mr. Bennett. You are my hero. Rest in peace and enjoy your just reward.

Dear Lord,
Lest I continue
My complacent way,
Help me to remember
Somewhere “out there”
A man died for me today.
As long as there must be war,
I then must
Ask and answer,
“Am I worth dying for?”

A WWII wartime prayer by Eleanor Roosevelt

Simply…”Not My Time”

When I was seven years old I lived in the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I could say that I remember this nearly catastrophic event as if it were yesterday. Truthfully, I don’t. But I do know the story and I vaguely remember the day at its beginning.

One of my favorite pastimes during childhood was roller skating. The street on Lobinger Avenue was made of rough red brick. The sidewalks were made of slate and generously covered with a fine layer soot from the steel mills, dangerous to the lungs but made racing downhill a thrilling treat to a little girl who did just about everything then with reckless abandon. There were many spills on that slate resulting in only minor scrapes and bruises, which I proudly displayed. But, it wasn’t the slate sidewalks that became my enemy one fateful day.  It was that rough red brick street.

As the newly manufactured auto of unknown make came racing from the top of Lobinger Avenue, I was much too busy trying to impress David and Georgie Long with my awesome skating skills. On the opposite side of the red brick street was my four-year old sister innocently attempting to deposit the two shiny new pennies from my coveted change purse into a bank of no return… the storm drain! With all the indignant fury and dramatic rage I could muster, I skated furiously between two parked cars and into the path of the oncoming metal menace. My last memory that day is of my two shiny copper pennies disappearing forever down that dank musty nasty old drain.

The story from there is just that…a story. I know nothing first hand. All I do know is what I’ve been told… that my tiny body flew several feet in the air before landing on that rough red brick street. I’ve been told that my father nearly jumped from the porch of his second story office when he saw his little girl lying lifeless on the street below. Gratefully, sanity prevailed and he descended the stairs in time to join my grandfather in his car where I lay unconscious; and together they sped toward the hospital.  Of course, we know today that shouldn’t happen, that an injured person shouldn’t be moved and an ambulance called. But this was 1949.

From here the tale improves. Despite the brut force of being smashed broadside by a ton of steel, the several feet ascent into the air and the not-so-soft landing on the rough red brick street, the disappearing shiny copper pennies was not a metaphor for my story. I obviously survived,  inspired 60 years later by this old  photo of myself taken several weeks after that frightening day on the red brick street. My injuries weren’t too minor, a concussion, a broken arm,  broken ribs, broken clavicle, among other kinds of trauma to my 45 lb. body, but the awful fate that everyone who witnessed that event that day thought was mine, thankfully was not.

Of course, I’ve wondered several times over the years if there was a reason, despite logic to the contrary, my life didn’t end at the young age of seven. I’ve led a fairly productive and interesting life, but I haven’t done anything especially worthy of note. I haven’t invented anything revolutionary, nor  is that likely to happen. I haven’t become wealthy and powerful so I might be able to make a positive impact on thousands of lives. I haven’t even saved anyone else’s life that I know of. No, there’s no grandiose or  exceptional reason why I’m still here. The simple truth is that…it just wasn’t “my time”.  Or maybe the reason, if there was one, is that I was given an opportunity to  become a useful  citizen, to work hard and earn the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of that labor, to contribute my small share to the hope of a better world and to use whatever gifts I’ve been given to that end. Most of all, it may have been only to marry, have the blessing of  children, to raise them with solid values important to me and set an example worthy of being  perpetuated through their children and future generations. That’s all? That’s enough.

Yearbook Memories

I’ve always wondered how people who marry someone much older or younger than they experience one of life’s little treasures…a shared history.  Life on Serendipity Lane is slowing down a little and as I slow down with it, I value being able to share a common history with my husband and friends. I don’t live in the past, nor will I ever, but reminiscing with others who experienced the same people and events as I, adds a beautiful dimension to this time of my life. It’s not just the shared memories, but the warmth and humor that go with those memories that seem to wrap me up like a comfortable old blanket on a cold winter’s night.

I was a teenager in a magical time and a  trip down memory lane, with people who were “there”, gives a unique sense of belonging…almost like belonging to a kind of secret club. On a recent visit with “old” friends, we found ourselves pouring over our yearbook laughing, sharing, teasing and  enjoying each other’s company. The yearbook, now richly brown with age, was definitely required to jog our memories of some of our classmates and teachers. “Do you remember…?” “No.”  “Let’s look at his picture.”  “Oh yes”, and then..the faint smile of recognition and usually a good story to go with it.

My own recounting was of an intimidating female classmate who, I recall, vividly, didn’t like me. She had even invited me to meet her “in the alley” after school where all scores were settled. (Yes, those things did happen.) I never met her “in the alley”, of course, but I did fear her and in my mind’s eye she was fully seven feet tall and at least 300 lbs. A search for her in the yearbook revealed an image I couldn’t believe. The menacing giant of my memory wasn’t much larger than I. My fear had given her proportions way beyond all reason. We all agreed, however, that if I had decided to meet her “in the alley” that day, I might not have been here to enjoy today!

Then, there were the yearbook messages we decided to read aloud to provide some innocent entertainment. Written by eighteen year old high school graduates, anxious to move on to the next big adventure, they were clearly lacking in creativity and all shared some very common themes: “To one of the nicest”…”To one of the sharpest”…”To one of my best friends.  “Just about the prettiest” (Well, just skip the whole thing if you have to include the  ”just about“. Didn’t do much for a girl’s ego.) Then there was… “To a real pal” (Oh my!)…”To a real nice girl”… (Simple and to the point). Of course, there were the full-page treatises, often written by someone “special” in your life at the time.  Mine begins with a profound sentence:”I’ll confess that I haven’t given this much thought”!  Then, the writer goes on to fill an entire page with musings about himself.  He ends his monologue with an admonition about my chosing a career other than the one he thought best for me: “I hope every time you decide not to be…’one’…you will read this and feel guilty!”  Hmmm. Well, I didn’t and I don’t. So much for that hex. But, to his credit, he did close by wishing me the best of everything I so well deserve. Now, just what did he mean by that?

When I reflect today on that time, how we passed our yearbook around to as many classmates as possible to get their hastily penned pithy morsels and wishes for the future, it’s clear that mine and others were truly trite or banal and some self-serving, some possibly creative. But, whatever they were, the most cherished today are the ones that simply said…”I hope we’ll always be friends” …and we are.

Cashel Musings

The secrets of this ancient place  imbedded here remain .

They daily seek the light of day

to share the pain, the song, the heart

of humble souls and saints.

An artifact seeks careful heed.

The fresco unfolds with awe.

A killing hole shrieks horror pitch.

And narrow port yields lepers eyes.

Echoes of haunting choral chants

in Gothic chambers sound.

Cormac’s ghost in slab of gray

Yields yet its vacant tomb.

The graveyard still

with cross and sword

Speaks a tongue unlearned.

And yet reveals the hearts and souls

Of consecrated ground.

This sacred place transcends all time.

It sears with lucid form.

And shrouds a mortal being spent

With depth and peace and grace.

 

To read about The Rock of Cashel, County Tipperary, Ireland see:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_of_Cashel

Lament

We always said we would go together, first, she, then, I, no more than seconds apart.

But, it didn’t happen that way.

I am left alone to bear this first ugly winter without her at my side.

I visit her and cold and desolation penetrate my bones with wanton misery.

 The brooding gray mist engulfs me in a blanket of dread.

I feel a deepening loneliness my heart cannot bear.

I am weak and afraid. I find no comfort here.

When time is my enemy no longer and her radiant countenance my reality, I will be at peace.

The Legacy of Mom’s Spaghetti

Last week my first-born celebrated her 45th birthday.  No mid-milestone celebratory birthday dinner for her at a fine restaurant, no catered affair required. What her heart desired most was an intimate family dinner at her home and Mom’s cooking.  What could warm a mother’s heart more than to know that a family dinner repeated to the point of monotony can, years later, evoke memories that cause that dinner to qualify as a birthday gift? The menu request wasn’t any culinary specialty from the Food Channel, high-end cookbook or anything gourmet, which I would have gladly tried my best to give. Rather, it was…Mom’s spaghetti!

I have made the same spaghetti sauce now for almost 47 years now. For many of those years, it was a weekly menu regular at our family dinner table. The recipe isn’t complicated and didn’t come from a cookbook or a magazine, both of which I referred to often in the early days of my marriage. Two main ingredients, a few dried herbs and spices, no exact measurements, and three hours of stove-top simmering, essential to infusing the kitchen with warming aromatic pleasure, is all that’s required. Anything beyond those few ingredients, like the fresh herbs and spices I like to use today, would most certainly spoil the satisfying olfactory memory and the original marvelous hearty taste of that fine uncomplicated sauce.

Mom’s spaghetti sauce recipe didn’t originate with Mom at all. It belonged to the culinary repertoire of someone no longer with us and engenders memories of a special time, a time earlier than when my daughter first tasted its satisfying richness.  

In the “now-known-as fabulous fifties”, I had a good friend in talented and lovely, Judy, who came from a beautiful and loving  Italian family.  Fortunately, for them and for me, Judy’s Dad was an excellent cook of  really good Italian food…not cuisine, but food!  Every Saturday, Mr. Rosso happily traded his chemist’s apron for one of red, white and green cotton and delighted in the weekly ritual of spaghetti sauce making for his family. And, to my great pleasure, I was often invited to share the fruits of his Saturday labor. Forever as a companion to the recipe Mr. Rosso shared with me, are the free-floating happy memories of those wonderful Saturday evenings, the love and warmth the family of six lived as they sat around their ordinary kitchen table, in their ordinary two-story house, on an ordinary city street, enjoying each other and their special Saturday spaghetti. The stories, the good-hearted teasing, the laughter and sense of belonging that gracious family shared with a teenaged friend, permeate always that simple fabulous sauce with a richness and legacy well beyond its recipe.