The Sparrow

On Sunday she would have been ninety, but God had other plans for her. She has been gone almost four months from this earth and I miss her dearly. However, the body cannot last forever. When I look back over the time that she was here she must have seen so many horrible, fantastic, and wonderful things. She was around for Lindbergh and the flight across the Atlantic, WWII, and the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She took a ferry for the fair at Treasure Island. In her lifetime she was able to travel by train, propeller airplane, jet plane, and helicopter.

Although she did not quite understand the change in technology. She listened to records on her Grandma's Victrola and later she had a hi-fi. She did not know the purpose of a boom box or an iPod. When I was young we had to a crank up our telephone to get an operator because we had a party line. When we moved to California we had a regular phone and no party line. A cell phone was something that Mom never longed for in her life. She first typed on a manual typewriter and then an electric one. She could never learn how to master a computer. However, she did love to look at pictures of her great-grandchildren stored on her Granddaughter's iPhone.

When I think back on her life my Mom was not a thing oriented person. She did not need things to make herself happy. The thing that made her happy was her family. Dinner was always ready before Daddy came home from work. We were always clean and well fed. For her, that was the most important thing that a wife could do. She spent hours trying, unsuccessfully, to make ladies out of her daughters who really liked running instead of sitting still. We did not fit the mold for the girls of our era. Poofy dresses were itchy forms of torture that we were forced to wear on special occasions. We wanted to wear jeans and play with the neighbor's goats.

After Dad died, we moved to California and Mom still clung to the possibility that we could be transformed into ladies. Etiquette lessons and then dancing lessons were supposed to turn the country girls into debutantes. No luck!! Even though television showed that girls were supposed to wear dresses and act helpless neither one of us was willing to act weak in front of a boy.

I will never forget when my Aunt found out that I had actually dared to beat a young man who was my date in bowling. She said he would never ask me out again. Well, she was wrong, he married me. My sister was one of the first women to work for PG&E as part of their work crew. She learned how to use a jack hammer and climb a pole. She was doing very unladylike things. The sixties were a time when women chose to break the mold. Neither my Aunt nor Mom quite understood the concept of the "glass ceiling" even though my Aunt was a businesswoman all her life and Mom had to support us as a secretary. However, Mom was proud that my sister and I were the first to go to college and finish with a degree.

And even though she may have been very Victorian in many of her practices, she was a big supporter of Hillary Clinton. She was so disappointed when she decided not to continue running for President. She felt that Gay marriage was just fine, what mattered most of all was that two people loved each other. Mom even supported the use of medical marijuana. After watching her own sister die of cancer of the jaw she knew what pain looked like and did not want anyone to suffer. Yes, my Mom was a very wise woman who learned many lessons in her lifetime. The lessons she taught us are more valuable than any degree. Love your family, wish no harm to anyone, and if you think there is no God look at a sparrow because Man could never create anything so intricate.

If You Can Read This Thank a Teacher

Of all the professions, teaching gains the least respect in the United States In other countries teachers are revered and respected as learned ones who can pass on the knowledge to the next generation. No matter how much time a teacher spends refining his craft the financial reward is still small. That is why those of us who have been in the teaching profession for many years and still love it believe it is a vocation. To be a teacher means that within that person's soul resides the desire to be a leader and a guide for the students who pass through our classrooms. Many times we do not see the fruits of our labor for ten to twenty years after a child leaves our classroom.

Mom shared two stories with me about the teachers that touched her life. She could remember the stories clearly well into her eighties. Her first school experience was first grade. Her Mama did not believe in kindergarten. She felt that children should be allowed to play and not be rushed into school. (Maybe a thought that this generation should heed. They are scrambling to get little Johnny on the waiting list for prep school the minute he is born.) So Mom's educational experience was somewhat delayed. When Mom walked into class on that first day, the teacher asked each child to find his name and stand under it. Mom did not have a clue about reading or writing yet. However, she was smart. She waited until all the boys and girls stood under their names and she walked confidently and stood under the remaining name.

Mom struggled in school. Reading was especially hard for her. She recalled that the teacher worked patiently with her until the light bulb suddenly came on in her mind. Then she wanted to read everything in sight. Her love for reading lasted a lifetime. She read mysteries and every James Patterson book she could get. She passed on that love for reading to her children by reading to them when they were small and giving them books as presents when they were older. She never forgot the teacher that did not give up on her. When she was an adult she began corresponding on a regular basis with the teacher. They became great friends. So if you remember a teacher that made a difference in your life look her up in the phone book or on the internet and drop her a line.

Maternal (Eternal) Instinct

Mom has now moved from the cold hospital and back to the cozy board and care home. Her caregivers at the board and care have been so loving to her all the years she has been there. When she came back "home" her favorite caregiver welcomed her back to the "family" and told her he had missed her. That one gesture told me in my heart that I had done the right thing bringing her back to the board and care instead of trying to move her to a skilled nursing facility. She is now considered to be in hospice care-a label I have had a hard time adjusting to because of its possible meaning. The nurse from the hospice facility assures me that some people actually move out of hospice and do not need it after a few months. I want to believe her, but every day I come to visit Mom that hope seems to move father away from me.

Nevertheless, as I sit by her bedside everyday I cannot help thinking about the role of mothers and where those feelings reside. Please excuse anything that seems philosophically, scientifically, or theologically unsound in the following musings. Maternal instinct appears to be a powerful force in nature. In humans, I feel, the innate instinct is nurtured by mothers through their modeling of the role of mother. That does not mean that women who were denied the example of their mothers cannot be good mothers, but it could be a harder task. So what is the point of all of this blather about maternal instinct? I believe that maternal instinct is entwined in the soul of each mother and does not leave until she herself breathes her last breath. I will tell you how I know this by the end of my few thoughts.

I do not recall that I had thought much about maternal instinct until I became a Catholic. As a Catholic I became fascinated with the many artistic portrayals of Mary as a mother. To me, artists throughout time had depicted Mary as the ideal mother. After all, she was entrusted with raising and nurturing Jesus the savior of the world. She never turned away from the task even though she knew his life would be a short one. She loved Him and cared for Him just as any mother would do. And like all mothers, as He grew into adulthood she continued to care for Him and worry about his welfare. Even when He died we are given a rare glimpse of what it must have been like for her. In Michelangelo's, Pieta, Mary was sculpted as the mother cradling her child in her lap. Even at that sad point in her life she could not stop being a mother. She just wanted to hold Him one final time.

And as the rest of us move through life trying to be the best mothers that we can our maternal instinct is ever present. Motherly instinct may come to life the first time we go shopping for tiny baby clothes or when we feel the movement of a child within our womb. But the instinct grows stronger with each tiny smile, tooth and birthday. When we are so tired at the end of the day we become revitalized with a gentle hug and simple "I love you." Such tiny things are the fuel for motherly instinct. When our children are grown the instinct lives in our happy memories that we can call up in our minds whenever we want. If we are blessed enough, we will have grandchildren who make us feel young and who do not think we are silly at all if we roll on the floor with them playing games.

As I said before motherly instinct is deep inside us no matter how old we get. It lives in our very heart and soul even though we may seem so sick that we are incapable of knowing what is going on around us at the time. I saw my own mother who seemed to be in a state of deep sleep caused by dementia begin to stir as she heard her great-grandchildren talk. Previously, I could not get her to awaken to my touch or voice. Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked around the room, and appeared to count each child to make sure they were were all present. She then smiled blissfully as the youngest one gently touched her hand and then she went back to sleep. There she was still acting as a mother, looking at her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren making sure that each one of them was present and accounted for in her "home." That one episode was the only documentation that I feel was necessary to prove that the power and strength of maternal instinct is able to break the bonds of dementia for a brief moment and for that one last chance to be a mother again.

Teenagers are the Same No Matter What Era

Another day has passed as I drive down the winding mountain road to the hospital. When I think about the fact that my mother who is approaching ninety was once a teen. I also think of the parents of today who are scared witless not knowing what their teens are doing behind their backs. Having a child turned into a teen is a scary proposition. I know first hand because I have experienced the teenage years as a Mom three times. You want to trust your children because they are approaching adulthood, yet there is always this little demon in your head telling you that you have to be worried or else you are a bad parent. Fortunately for their parents, the teens return unscathed from their mostly secret escapades. Truthfully and thankfully, I did not learn about some of my children's teen hair brained activities until they had moved out of the house years later.

And yet, all parents should take comfort in the fact that teens throughout history having been sneaking around behind their parents' backs. Since I have traveled this route so many times I submit to a self imposed auto pilot and I return to thinking about Mom and the one thing that I know that happened when she was a teen.. One day my own sweet Mother and her sister had a great adventure in the Berkeley hills with their father's brand new car. It is so hard to think of someone who has been my elder all my life as teen, but she managed to survive the silly teen exploits that were often cooked up and carried out by my Aunt. My Aunt was two years younger than Mom and the most daring of the two. When their parents were out of town on vacation my Aunt suggested that they take the new family car out for a spin in the hills. I guess it did not really matter that neither one of them had a license or knew how to drive. Well, of course, my Aunt took the wheel and they made it from Oakland to Berkley without smashing the car. It was a MIRACLE!

The day was warm and the scenery was breathtaking. Emboldened with her new found skills, my Aunt decided to drive around Tilden Park. The park area is known for winding roads that can be narrow at times when all of a sudden as they were riding uphill and a truck decided to pass something disastrous happened. At that moment, the car door flew open and the truck ripped the car door off their Daddy's prized possession. In shock, while at the same time not wanting their to father find out any of the details, they assured the truck driver that they would take care of everything. Then my Aunt had to hatch up another plan in a hurry. They both knew a friend of their father's who would not spill the beans about what had happened. My Mother, because she was older placed a phone call to him explaining what had happened. He rushed to meet them in the hills and promised that the car would be as good as new and back in the family garage before their parents returned. He kept his word. The car was repaired and placed carefully in the garage. My Mom and Aunt were relieved that all ended well and that their Father never found out about their fantastic journey in the park. A least they thought so!

Cute Guys In Uniform

My life has continued to be a series of emotional highs and lows. Although she is being offered a thick liquid diet of soups and tea, Mom seems to want to only consume soda. Trying to get soda in a hospital is like asking for a controlled substance. Finally after about twenty minutes of jumping though hoops I was able to secure a soda mixed with gelatin. Yummy! But for Mom it was the most wonderful drink.

When Mom was young she and her sister used to go to San Francisco. Why? When they went to a bar together there was always a great selection of cute servicemen who would buy them drinks. As a matter of fact I think that is why she went to work at Fort Mason in the Presidio. There were guys everywhere. She used to tell me that she went to the P X one day to buy a drink and she saw Ronald Reagan in uniform She continued to be a sucker for a guy in a uniform and because of this she married my Dad. She met him at Fort Mason when he was in the Navy. It must have been kismet that a city girl from Oakland fell for a country boy raised in east Texas. They remained happily married for fifteen years until Dad died unexpectly from a heart attack.

Even now, in her advanced age, she still has an eye for a guy in uniform. Whether it is a paramedic, fireman, or police officer she always tells me that he is so handsome.

Sleeping Beauty

Another day has passed and Mom lies asleep in the hospital . It seems like just yesterday she was awake and joining in the conversation. But now she is slumbering in her bed like Sleeping Beauty unaware of those around her.The nurses have turned on a channel that runs a constant loop of waves and ocean sounds. It may be restful for Mom, however I can't stop thinking of the television screens in each home in the book Fahrenheit 451. The television screens were used in much the same way to keep the inhabitants in a trance so they would not be conscious of their surroundings.

Since I am not a scientist I would like those that read my comments to understand they are my own observations. I cannot help looking at her and thinking that perhaps dementia is a retreat into a safer place much like the baby inside the womb. For Mom it does not seem to be a scary place, but a cozy space with the sounds of moving water and darkness. She seems to be perfectly happy.

I have not given up, however, I still look for the Mom who used to bring me chocolate dipped cones when I was sick. That wonderful experience caused me to be "sick" on many occasions. She was a Mom who was totally devoted to her family. Her relationship with her own Mother was not close, so I think she tried very hard to be the best Mom she could be for her children.

My sister and I always had new shoes for church and the first day of school. When it was a very special event she drove us to the nearest town twenty miles away so we would each have a special dress purchased from a "real" department store. In the end even though she tortured me with countless smelly perms to make my straight hair curly, just like Shirley Temple, I would still forgive her, give her a kiss, put on my jeans, grab my baseball glove and run across the road to play with my boy cousins. Despite my Mom's example of how a proper young lady must act, I never wanted to transform myself into a girlie girl. For me life was much more exciting climbing trees and wrestling with the boys, not kissing them. Yuck!

Cooked Squirrel?

As Mom sleeps peacefully in her bed, I gaze out at the gray fog as it creeps slowly along San Bruno Mountain. I try to put the monster that resides in my mind, the skilled nursing home, aside acting much like a child who hides under the covers when his parents turn off the light hoping it will never appear.

I think, once again, of the stories Mom would tell us about her Texas days. Being a city girl she never knew that squirrel was actually a part of the East Texas food pyramid. Squirrels for her were cute furry little things you fed peanuts to in the park. So when her father-in-law presented her with a freshly skinned squirrel she had no idea what to do with it. So she put the whole squirrel into a giant stew pot, added water and let it boil. Needless to say when it was "cooked" it looked and tasted like a gray mass of slightly hairy rubber. Her failure in the kitchen was further proof to her mother-in-law that her son had made a huge mistake when he married a damned Yankee!

So What if She Was Not a Great Cook

Much of my early childhood my Mom did not work. Her job was somewhat, June Cleaveresque, a typical woman of the 1950's. She stayed home and washed clothes and hung them up on a line in the back yard. To make sure my Dad's khakis had a crease she put a metal form inside them and then hung them up. The cleaning and ironing were easy for her.

However, her Achilles heel was cooking. Mom was a terrible cook. She had never had to cook until she was married. The kitchen for her was uncharted territory.I remember the famous lopsided cake that she baked for the church bake sale. Mom thought she could disguise the top layer's unevenness by placing some pink plastic flowers on the sloping side. Not yet able to appreciate this accomplishment, I was mortified when she placed it proudly on the table with the rest of the cakes for sale. The long table was filled with baked delicacies of every kind, fancy coconut cakes, red devil and German chocolate cakes. I prayed that the cake would not be the last one left on the table at the end of the sale. To my relief, her cake was not the last one purchased. Mom was so proud of herself that she sent home with a beautiful smile on her face.

Longing to be a Child

As I sit in the hospital room I find myself wanting to travel back in time to the happier days of my childhood. On a hot summer day Mom would give me some money and I would ride my bike down a red dusty road to the grocery store. Our town had one store so the selections were quite limited for its shoppers. I could smell the hickory smoke coming from the smoke house in the back. The African American gentleman was great cook and a real magician when it came to barbecue. He could take any cut of meat and turn it into something delectable. I can remember consuming many spicy barbecued chicken legs and soda - truly a feast for the gods.

I selected two of the individual bottles of clam juice and hopped on my bike. When I got home my Mom quickly consumed one. I could never understand why she thought clam juice was so good. I thought the gray fishy smelling liquid was totally disgusting! But now I understand-it was the closest she could get to her memories of the San Francisco Bay area now that she was living in an tiny town in East Texas with a population of 699.

Mom

It is not my intent for this blog to be a bummer for those who read it, but I think that it is something that all of us will face or have faced in our lives. My Mom is eighty-nine and she is now beginning to show signs of dementia. Writing is my way of dealing with Mom as she is now and at the same time remembering the Mom I knew as I was growing up. Perhaps this blog is a way that I can celebrate and share my Mom's life with others.

The past couple of days have been both harrowing, frustrating and inspiring. What is happening to Mom, what does she really want to do with the rest of her life? Right now she has not been able to communicate very much. She has been in the hospital, on oxygen and not interested in food for two days. All of a sudden she asks for soda. Her grand-daughter carefully feeds her the soda with a plastic spoon and wipes her mouth. The process itself looked like a Mother feeding her small child. It looked like a task that Mom must have done repeatedly for her three daughters over the years. Sher remarked how great it tasted. A simple remark such as this one gives us a glimmer of hope about the possibility of Mom's recovery.