When Mother Isn't Who She Use To Be

   My mother has dementia of some kind.  I know it and my family knows it but I'll be darn if there are some leeches out there who won't admit it and continue to use her.  I can do nothing about it sadly, not a thing.  All I can do is be who I have always been, an honest, caring daughter.

     My mother had a stroke over five years ago that left her with Aphasia.  Aphasia is a disorder that is a result of damage to the brain that is where our speech comes from.  It is usually caused from a stroke or from an injury to the head.  It impairs the ability to understand and express the use of language as well as reading and writing.  At the time her prognosis was good and she was expected to regain much of her speech.  She took it in good stride and initially did therapy for her speech.  Of course like she always does she stopped doing it because she had better things to do like shop, have lunch out with her friends and keep up appearances.  She wouldn't do the follow ups with the Aphasia Center and would lie to me that she did. She did this for years but I knew.

     My mom is all about control.  Her control and how she attempts to control her family and really the control she did with the amazing contributions she has done in her community.  She was quite a speech maker and could get almost anyone to donate to an organization or fundraiser she endorsed.  She would come across elegantly, looking straight into everyone's eyes and using her Southern charm persuade a whole room to jump on her bandwagon right then even if later they changed their minds, which most didn't.  She would have been good as a politician or even a preacher.  So it is very sad to see the woman who could walk up to a podium, without a note or prompter, speak out to a room full of people without a bit of nervousness, who now is unable to have the ability to have a simple conversation.  That was the woman they all saw in her glory days.  That was not really the mom at home with her son, daughter and our spouses or her grandchildren.

     I don't mean to speak badly of my mom but before the stroke she was not an easy woman to be around.  We have had good times but there have been one to many times where she has been an awful mom.  How many moms question the trust of their children without any justification?  How many moms tell their children that they don't love her or care about her?  How many mothers would turn an icy shoulder to her children because they didn't do as she wanted?   I am speaking of grown adult children.  None of us wished to be disrespectful towards her and held our tongues.  I eventually couldn't take it anymore when it became an attack on my daughter.  That was enough and I let her know it.  Pick on me but don't ever speak that way towards my daughter when she has done nothing to deserve the attack.  

     The best part of the stroke, as awful as this sounds, is that she became nicer to all of us.  It was like the nasty ways had been purged from her!  She became a pleasure to have around which was a nice change from wondering who she would be when we talked to her or saw her in the past.  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was my mom.  There is more to her than one can point a finger at and she is an Oscar worthy winning actress to friends and acquaintances.

     Sadly her speech did the opposite and she began to regress.  This regression should have been a flag to her doctors but that is another story altogether.  I could somehow figure out what she was saying and translate for her.  Most people just nodded and acted like they knew what she was saying. At present she is almost unable to speak where anyone can understand her.  A word here and there that one tries to piece together in a sentence or phrase but the overall meaning is lost.  Most of it doesn't make sense because she contradicts herself constantly.  Yes is no, up is down, over is under, red is blue, Monday is Friday and we are all wrong and she is right.  Most times she has this new little laugh or a cough when she is having a hard time speaking.  I tell her to take her time and try again.  The second time may be easier or it may not.

     Today....ah today....she is bent out of shape with me because I am not doing what she wants me to.  She hates, simply hates to be told NO.  To say no is to commit Seppuku by not honoring her demands  Oddly when she is miffed her speech slightly improves which isn't good for the reason that I am subjected to her nasty side.  On one level, the level that I feel first, is that she is so selfish to think I have no other purpose in this world than to be here to always say yes to every request she bids.  The next level is the humor in the request.  I have to remind myself to see the humor because otherwise I would surely go crazy.  She sounds like a spoiled four year old who doesn't get what she wants.   The dementia part is that she won't let go of it till the request date has past.  Today's request will not happen for two weeks.  This will be a long two weeks of her calling to repeat her demands and be irritated at me for not doing what she wants. I am polite,  keep my chin up and move on in the conversation.  This is when she will say silly things like the friend we need to see is dying (they aren't), they are very, very ill (they aren't),  she is dying (she is not), she has three months or five years left  to live (she isn't dying) and how can I not do as she asks?   There is the line that we never see her, but she is the one who cancels out due to rain, clouds, sun, friends, you name it she has an excuse and then accuses me of not seeing her.  I am polite and try to hard to stay calm...because there is no use in arguing with someone who doesn't see the world like the rest of us.  She sees herself as being just fine.  In fact that is the phrase she uses multiple times "Everything's fine, I'm fine".

     This too shall pass, a favorite saying that I utter as a mantra in my head.  My mom is not herself any longer.  Life goes on and I just keep holding my chin up.  My heart aches for her loss and our loss as a family.  I choose to see the glass half full and she will always see it as half empty.  I will not let her bring me down.  I know my mom loves us and she does tell us she does.  There is so much about my mom I will never know or understand.  Ever.  But my chin is up.

Honeymoon Part 1 ~ Corfu

    

              The wind is in from Africa

             Last night I couldn't sleep

             Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here Carey

             But it's really not my home

             My fingernails are filthy, I got beach tar on my feet

             And I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne

                                          

     I was driving on the freeway today listening to Joni Mitchell on my iPod when a song came on that took me back to our honeymoon.  Carey.  Almost all old Joni Mitchell music has some special meaning to our relationship but this song brought the memories of our honeymoon, specifically Corfu, to come meandering into my thoughts.  My Love and I had decided to take a 6 week trip to Europe backpacking and using a Eurail Pass to get around.  I had never been out of the country whereas he had been six years before after he graduated from High School.  I was a wide-eyed 19 year old bride on a huge adventure.  He had our trip all in his mind of where and what we should see and off we went two days after we were married in 1977.  At this point in the trip we had been away for five weeks and were on our way to meet his brother A. who was on the island of Corfu.  His wedding gift to us was to take care of everything while we stayed with him there.  We didn't know what to expect and when it comes to memories this part of our trip was an experience we would never forget.  




                                                  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   We had arrived in Brindisi, Italy via the train at long last.  I was elated to be off the train because of the cramped conditions we had been in from Rome to where we would catch the ferry to Corfu.  When we got on the train it was already full of young northern European's leaving for holidays to sunny beaches in Italy or like us to Greece.  My love and I managed to find a place to stand or sit on the floor in the area where you would embark or disembark, right outside a toilet as all the compartments were full.  How convenient if it wasn't for the hours I would have to smell that awful aroma. Of course the other smells were just as bad.  Cigarette smoke and B.O.   I had decided men in Europe don't wear deodorant since anytime I am in close contact with them I smell the pungent stench of their pits and bodies.  The windows in the corridors next to the compartments open half way but somehow with all the tourists on board and the heat I felt like I couldn't breathe.  We had boarded the train at 12:35 A.M. after sitting at the train station since 6:30 P.M. the previous evening.  We had eaten an okay meal at the Train Terminal Ristorante earlier and would hopefully not be hungry till we got to Brindisi the next morning.  That is hoping that the train kept moving and didn't stop like they did in Spain while in the middle of nowhere.  Spain's train system ran on an always late schedule, seemed to have odd break downs or just stop and start whenever.   So far the Italian trains had been running on time.


     Getting off the train, while a relief, made us realize how exhausted we were from not being able to sleep or be comfortable for any length of time.  But how could we?  Bodies trying to get to the bathroom, bodies stepping over you or on you if your were sitting down, talking, smoking, talking, laughter every now and then, voices of other languages I couldn't understand that became a drone in my tired mind. 


      I really wasn't a very good traveler when it came to roughing it, yet at last here we were in a crowded area near the ferries, waiting to board a ferry to Corfu.  My Love and I found the place to  buy our ferry tickets and we were able to get our own compartment on board to sleep in as it was to be an all night trip for 10 hours.  We had to hang around the port area from the morning till near 10:00 at night before we were to leave.  It was entertaining that much I can say.  There was guitar music playing, singing, and a young woman dancing near a fountain where we waited.  I started to  people watch which helped the time pass by.  I noticed that a lot of the girls had on long skirts, or sundresses  and I looked down at my outfit and felt very unfeminine.  I was wearing my Levi jeans, one of the two I brought, and a t-shirt.  I was feeling grimy from the train ride as well as from the past several days without a shower.   I had brought only one sundress and at this point I was sick and tired of the clothes I had brought.  I wanted a shower badly but that wasn't going to happen for at least another day.  I couldn't wait to be at our next destination.  




     It got hot during the day and we had to wear our backpacks if we walked around so we tried to just stay in one place rather than do any sightseeing.  There was a row of little cafes in the area and we read the menu's placed outside each one deciding where we would eat for dinner.  All overpriced for the captive audience here.  During the day we nibbled on bread we had bought at a panetteria and we bought a couple of liter bottled waters to drink from and bring on the ferry.  Carrying the bottled water is a pain because they are heavy yet we need them.  Amidst all these travelers I felt like we were in a crowd at Disneyland.   Everyone happy and excited to be going on holiday.  All day whenever a train arrived more people would flood the area.  I kept wondering if everyone was going to be on our ferry or were there other ferries departing to take some of the crowd away.   

     Finally we were able to board the ferry!  My Love and I waded through the crowd of still jubilant people hoping to find our cabin to leave our backpacks and walk around above deck before settling in for the night.  Our cabin was pretty bland.   A queasy mint green paint with two single bunks of black vinyl mattresses.  No sheets so we would use our sleeping bags to sleep on.  Nothing else in the space not even a porthole to look out.   I was feeling a little claustrophobic and was more than happy to leave and walk around the ship.  My Love was feeling a bit nauseous with the ship heading out into the Adriatic Sea.  The engines were loud and the whole ferry felt the vibrations  with every bounce over the water.   It was going to be a long night.  The main level was a large enclosed open area with hard bench seats around the perimeter and in the middle single seats bolted to the floor in rows.  My Love wasn't feeling any better in there so we headed out on the foredeck which had more open room than the aft deck.  It wasn't sheltered from the oncoming breeze but it was fresh air!   We ended up sleeping out there huddled and cuddled together against the side of ferry sheltered from the wind before heading down into our cabin to reclaim our packs.  The toilets didn't seem to be working on board so you just used them with your nose held, hovering over the seat and getting the heck out of there.  I was getting pretty good at this but wishing I was a guy who didn't need to squat to pee.  To bad they didn't have antibacterial lotions back then as I would have brought a lot along.  


     Our first view of Corfu was of the silhouette of the island against a blue black sky just before dawn.   The sounds of our fellow travelers were like us, stirring and gathering belongings for our disembarking off the ferry.    


  
                                           But let's not talk about fare-thee-wells now
                                                     the night is a starry dome.
                                     And they're playing' that scratchy rock and roll
                                                    Beneath the Matala moon

Three Little Girls....Mommy Fix My Hair

     Mommy fix my hair.....That is what I heard each morning for what seemed like years and years.  Three little girls.   One with thick brown hair, one with hair the color of honey, one with fine brown hair, each one I brushed day after day.


     How many ways can I come up with to do their hair?  
French braid down the back....
French braid pig-tails....
Pony tail....
Inside-out pony tail....
Side pony tail....
Pig-tails.....
Side pony tail with a braid....
Pig-tail braids brought up and crossed at the top....
Side-pony tail braid with a loop....
Pig-tail braids with loops.....
Top half of hair pulled back with a bow, a barrette, elastic bands with round colored balls you looped over to fasten...         
Big bows, little bows...
Animal barrettes, bow barrettes, holiday barrettes... 
Scrunchies in a rainbow of colors...
Leave it down unadorned...


     Do I use water or Dippity-Do?
     Wide comb, small comb...
     Dry hair, damp hair....


     They each were patient at letting me do their hair.  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, spraying with the squirt bottle filled with water which sometimes I warmed so it wouldn't feel so cold on a winter morning.   Combing, combing.   My hand deftly pulling just the right amount of hair into my waiting fingers as I weave back and forth the long braid.  Are all the hairs smoothly laid?  How does it look?  Thanks mommy.


     Next daughter.  What should we do with your hair today?  The same?  Okay.  Different?  Okay.  Which bow?  A ribbon?  Can I weave the ribbon in?   Okay.   Nothing?  Okay.


     Could you do my hair mommy?  My youngest's fine hair is hard to do but I always magically did what was asked.  I felt so accomplished at this small task.  It looks good mommy.  I changed my mind.  Can we do a braid on top and a pony tail too?  Okay.   She makes funny faces at herself or me in the mirror while I do her hair as she stands on the small bench my love made just for little ones not tall enough to stand at the sink to wash their hands.  Perfect for them to stand on for me to work my hair magic in the morning.  That bench now in my closet for me to stand on to reach the upper shelves. 

     Next is my middle daughter with the honey brown hair that shines in the sunlight when she runs in our backyard.  How shall we do it today?  Her sweet smile appears as she thinks and thinks about this one thing she is asked.  Aaaaa...uuuummm....how about the inside out pony tail mom?  She likes that one after a friend she has wore her hair that way.  Her eyes are alight but not with what I am doing but what she will do when I am done.   All done!  She jumps off and runs out of the bathroom.  I am left alone to clean out the strands of hair left on the brush, the comb, on the counter and in the sink.  I hesitate at throwing away my children's lost hairs for to me they are still alive and a part of them.  Cast offs I know but in the wastebasket they look unwanted and ugly in the small wad I have balled up.  Not many but they are of my three little girls whose voices I hear out the door. 


     I never tired of doing their hair.  The feel of my daughters's hair in my hands I can still feel.  


      Shampooing their hair was a task of setting a towel down on the kitchen counter for them to lay upon.  Another towel nearby for wrapping their hair afterwards.   Who's first?  Me mommy!  My oldest climbs up on a kitchen chair to get onto the counter, then swiveling around to lay down with her head in the sink.   I supported her head with one hand and with the other wet her head with the warm flowing water.  Running the water softly all over, under and on top.  I squeeze the shampoo onto her head and bring it to lots of white frothy bubbles.  Massaging and making sure the shampoo gets to all the hair.  My oldest needing more shampoo with her thick hair.  Don't get any soap in my eyes mommy!  I won't as I plop a bubbly dollop from my hand to her nose.  Mommy!  A laugh.  Rinsing all the shampoo out.  Squeaky clean as the bubbles flow down the drain.   I add a conditioning rinse that I comb through with my fingers and all over her hair.  I love the feel of my fingers flowing through her hair to the very ends.   Rinse once more.   Off with the water.  Okay, sit up!  I wrap the towel on her head as she begins to sit up and I gently dry her tresses with the towel.  Jump down!  She stands with her back to me as I begin the process of combing making sure to not pull any knots, the towel slipped down around her small shoulders for a drape to catch the dripping water.  Starting at the bottom and working my way up.  It takes time but I don't mind.  It is a rhythmic motion as I comb her hair and at last getting to the top and gliding all the way down without a tangle to pull.  How lovely my daughter is before me as I turn her around to face me.  Who's next I ask?


     The simple task of mothering is a task I bask in.  I never realized how much it would mean to me.  Those years when they were babies my hands were on them constantly.  Bathing, changing clothes, diapers, loving them.  As they grew it becomes less of the need to do for them.  I know the importance for them to learn to handle the dressing and bathing and only assist when they really need the help.  What was left for me for many years became the hair.  I was needed to do a bun for ballet class just the way the ballet teacher required.  I was needed to do the braids they couldn't do for themselves.  Such a loving touch, a chance to talk about whatever came up in doing their hair.  We don't realize how those moments will fly by just as they run out the door and away to play.  I still get my hugs from my now grown daughters, but I can also still feel my hands sliding through their hair even we aren't together.  I can feel the weight of it, the lightness of it, admiring the color, but most of all being needed.




     

Horse Tails ~ Dub and Ilene

     Even though Antioch was a "Hell-Hole" I met some amazing people who came into my life while living there.  The two that became like foster parents to me were Dub and Ilene Freeman. They both were in their sixties and I had never met anyone like them  before in my life.  When after almost two months had past my horse Duke was finally brought from Salinas to the new town.  Dub and Ilene leased a 10 stall barn at the Antioch Fairgrounds where they kept their three Tennessee Walking Horses and boarded out the rest of the stalls.  The barn was divided by a long open corridor with stalls opposite each other.  The first two stalls had been converted into a tackroom on one side and their office opposite.

     Neither Duke or I had experienced such a clean, fresh smelling barn as this.  Our previous stable life was lacking in both.  Each stall had a thick rubber mat on the base of the floors with thick layers of pine shavings atop.  The stalls were cleaned twice a day, feedings of oat hay twice a day, alfalfa if the horse was being worked more and sweet grain as well.  I think Duke was in horse heaven.  The tack room was neat and tidy with plenty of brushes, hoof picks, shedding blades, and any other needs for grooming.  I could use mine or their's as it didn't matter as long as I put them away where they belonged when I was done.

     Dub was a long distance truck driver and went on the road for a week at a time for deliveries a couple of times a month.  They had a grown son who would come help clean and feed when he was away.  Dub was small of stature with a wiry body.  He had slightly bowed legs that seemed like he walked on the outsides of his feet.  His face was deeply lined and tanned as he spent a lot of time outside.  He greased his very dark hair  and I can still see him combing it back with a small black comb he kept in his back pocket.  He didn't wear a typical cowboy hat but a small crown and brimmed one of light brown.  He always wore a plaid Western shirt that he kept a pack of cigarettes in the front snap pocket.  His voice was deep and gravely and I am sure it was due to all the smoking he did.

     The first thing you noticed about Ilene was her pursed painted red lips.  Then you saw her carefully applied face makeup of bright blue eye shadow, mascara with blushed cheeks and a lightly powdered face.  Her face was wrinkled in a softly lined way and she never smiled a lot yet she was a sweet person through and through.  Her red brown hair was worn atop her head in a big round bun with short curly bangs.  I never saw her wear her hair any other way.  She wore slim stretch pants that zipped on the side with a small belt or Wrangler blue jeans and a neat Western woman's shirt tucked in.  She tucked her pants inside her boots.  She wasn't big but her small belly did stick out roundly from the high waisted pants she wore.   The both of them smoked constantly.  One cigarette would be almost done and they would light a new one right away.

     Ilene had a crock pot that she would bring from their home each morning with soup or chili ready to eat by noon.  They would always feed me.  I could never say no because it was always so good.  The office had a small portable heater so on cool days it was nice and warm inside.  A radio would be on a country station all the time and that must have been how I came to like old time country music.  On the white wood paneled walls were photographs of Dub riding his horses at Horse Shows and some ribbons he had won.  An old metal desk for writing on with a chair Ilene sat at, a small table where two chairs were and where we would eat at and which the crock pot sat on, Dub's chair (he was the only one who sat in that chair) which was nearest the door and some shelves with mugs, bowls, and odd items were.  There was a small refrigerator in the corner with the top being used for storage.   They just expected their boarders to eat there with them.  Dub would talk to me about Tennessee Walking Horses which I knew nothing about and I could listen to him for hours.  I learned more about horses from him than all the previous years of riding I had done.  He never said a harsh or mean word to me.  He fondly called me Hippie and after awhile I finally asked him why he called me that.  I thought it was because of the hippies since I wore my hair long, straight and in my face.  He told me that he called me Hippie because my hips were big!  I just about died and no longer liked the name.  Apparently all the good food Ilene was feeding me was adding to my weight.

     He taught me how to use the cross-ties in the barn, how to use hoof polish, and how to get my horse's coat to shine like a copper penny.  Dub taught me how to clean and take care of my tack.  He would get the saddle soap out and expect me to clean my saddle and bridle.  No other person had shown or told me that.  He taught me that if my horse had a foul smell in the hoof area while I was cleaning it that first of all it meant I wasn't cleaning them enough and second to pour a little bleach on it, swirl it around, then rinse with water, and it would help it heal up.  I didn't own a horse blanket but he had plenty and would put one on my horse in the winter.  It helped to keep the coat from getting long and wooly.  He taught me the importance of walking my horse after I had worked him when he was sweaty.  I would come back to the barn after walking all around the fairground barn areas and he would say keep walking he's not cooled off enough.  Sometimes he would throw a cooling sheet on my horse which seemed to speed the cooling off faster but most of all it kept your horse from getting a chill during the walking around.  He taught me how to use a lunge line to warm my horse up before riding and later to use two lunge lines hooked to the bit to train my horse while I walked a distance behind.  He was a wealth of knowledge that I am grateful to have learned from.

     Dub and Ilene's Tennessee Walking Horses were very tall.   My horse Duke looked like a pony next to theirs.  Tennessee Walkers stand higher on their front legs because of the thicker front shoes.  Dub also put weighted chains on the front legs while he was training them and they sat just above the hooves called the pastern.  He would rub some kind of oily substance like vaseline that protected that area of the leg.  I never saw his horses hurt, bloody, or abused.  Of course nobody does this anymore as it is considered cruel but that was very common at that time.  When you use the weighted chain in training it makes a horse have to work harder to lift their legs.  Once you take the chain off the horse, he lifts his legs even higher which accentuates the unique Walker action of high stepping.  He also would use a special wig piece on the top of the tail which gave the look of the tail being carried higher than a horse normally does when he had them in horse shows.  All his horses had very long manes and tails.  The tails were wrapped up to keep them from dragging on the ground and getting dirty.  He let me ride one of his horses once and it was like floating on air.  The action of movement was a gliding feel and you could cover a lot of ground because of their long legs and fluid movement.

     The lesson that Dub taught me that made the most impact though was not what I had expected nor was it one that would be called a typical horse lesson.  A friend of his had a mare in foal who came to stay at the barn to give birth.  She was a beautiful Quarter horse and to watch her walk around with her big belly was a treat for me.  To put my hand on her sides and feel the foal within kicking and moving was amazing to a 14 year old.  Dub had said if I was around I could watch as long as I was quiet and paid attention to what he said.  I hoped so much that it would be during the time of day I went to the barn.  One day I came and she had already had the foal early in the morning.  He was a  cute little guy with such wobbly legs.  My friends and I at the barn couldn't get enough of staring at the two of them.  Dub would tell us to leave them alone and take care of our own horses.  The day after the mare gave birth she started having a fever and not doing to well.  The vet came out and checked her and her baby.  I don't know what was said but it wasn't good news.  I later heard it was a uterine infection that happened after birth.  A couple of days later the mare died and her little foal an orphan.  I came to the barn to witness the hauling away of that beautiful mare.   I had never thought about this part of an animal's life cycle.  I had never thought what happens to a horse when it dies.  This large bed truck had a motorized wench chain that was wrapped around the horses back legs and reeled her into the bed of the truck.  I don't know how they got her out of the stall but I assume they had backed the truck into the barn and maneuvered her out of her stall into the corridor with the wench.  It was heartbreaking to say the least and every girl at the barn was in tears.  Dub was quietly talking to his friend who owned the mare and foal and it was agreed that the foal should stay at the barn and not be moved.  Ilene was quick to come up with a foal size blanket which they put on the little guy.   Being in school I wasn't around as much to see all the work it would take to keep this foal alive.  All the feedings I was not aware of.  Someone had to stay at the barn round the clock for awhile.  As awful as seeing the loss of the mare it was a delight to watch the foal grow.  Foals have lots of energy just like a kid and need exercise so as soon as he was strong enough they would take him out for walks around the fairgrounds.  He wore the cutest little halter and jumped, pulled, and tried to run in all different directions nickering and neighing the whole time.  He grew fast and soon enough it was time for him to leave.  We all were going to miss him.

     For awhile I kept thinking what if that had been my horse.  I couldn't imagine life without him as he was my best friend.  I had friends who had horses that had been hurt or had lameness but they got better and continued riding.  Not one had lost a horse to death.  Dub tried to explain in his way that these things do happen.  It wasn't expected of her to die.  No one could have known she would get an infection and not respond to the medication.  It came down to it that there was not much that could have been done.  At least the little foal was healthy and would be just fine.  I know Dub and Ilene had seen other horses pass on and though upset this had happened they quickly shifted to the care of the little foal.  How little did I realize that I would have to face a dark day in the months ahead.

Where is the beginning, and where is 
     the end?
That life should revolve in an
     endless circle,
As on a Merry-Go-Round that
     goes up and down.
What course does my life take?
     Do I give do I take?
Am I the recipient or the reciprocal?


As in a dance I twirl to see
     the rainbows,
I leap through the storms.
     This life, God given, is the bitter, is the sweet.
I will savor its fruit and
     feel it's passions.
These gifts I humbly partake of.
     I am blessed to feel.


~Ellen~

Lapse of Judgement

     I have been going through old photo albums that I had collected from my mom's house months ago.  They have sat in piles on my long wooden bench by my front door.  They are just waiting for me to open them to reveal stories that are familiar and stories I haven't a clue about.  Initially when I brought them home I scanned through them in a hasty way.  I knew if I committed to sitting down and really looking at the photos I would be there for a very long time.  All of Thanksgiving went by as well as Christmas and I didn't even move them out of the way.   I didn't have a good place for them as the closet that has other family albums in it was cluttered and disorganized.  It is a closet that I would like to get into but it really needs a good clean out which is a project for after the holidays, not during.  

     The holidays have past and I have no more excuses.  Bringing one album out at a time to the table I begin the slow task of dismantling them.  I am going to take out all the photos from these albums because they all are on magnetic pages.  What an awful invention those magnetic page albums are!  The photos stick like they have been glued onto the pages.  When I take them off it has to be done slowly and carefully or else the photo can tear.   Then there is the yellowing to the photos and sometimes ridges from the page that keep the photos in place is permanently imprinted on them.  They come off the pages curled and I place them in piles of  familiar faces or unknowns.  The unknowns I will throw away the others to be sorted by month and year.  I figure I will have to place a heavy book or two on them to remove the curl.  

     At first I systematically place them without really digesting the images.  It isn't till I notice that pages go by where I am not in any of these photos that I start to wonder why.  I thumb back through the piles I have made figuring that I have just overlooked myself but no, I am not in any.   I look through the pages ahead to see if I show up.  No.  I realize that this is when my mom is dating my future new stepfather to be, R.  The years of 1973 through 1974 is the album I am working on and these are their times dating together.  It brought back a lot of memories that even though I did remember, somehow seeing the photos reminds of when I was left alone as a young teenager while my mom and he dated.  It is the time I was left not for an evening, or a day but left for days as in two to seven days that troubled me most.  

My mom far left, R. with the beret and my love the far right at the helm 
(before we knew each other)

     Seeing page after page of what they were doing left me wondering if they knew what I was doing?  Did it matter that a 15 year old was left alone at home for all their times together?  What kind of parenting is that?  More than a few of these dates were when they would go sailing down the coast of California and one was of when they were out of state.  I am floored!  There were day trips as well but I was not included.  I can understand not wanting the teen daughter to tag along but really, if you are going to leave town you should think about what to do with her.  I would.   It was during their dating my Nana was not with us but had gone to visit her sister in the south.  I am sure she was not aware of the fact that I was left unattended.    Maybe it is good that I don't have  clear memories of how I handled taking care of myself but I guess I did the best I knew how. In fact I am sure that I was delighted that she had left me alone!  That doesn't mean it was the best solution though.   I was a mature young teen but more because I did have to take care of myself.  We did have a dear couple who lived downstairs from our apartment who I am sure kept a bit of an eye on me.  Yet I was getting myself to and from school which was an easy walk to home.  Did I cook?  I wasn't much of a cook except for desserts so what did I eat?  Whatever I could find I guess.  

     I don't know what my mom must have said to R. while they dated.  It wouldn't surprise me if she didn't tell him that I was alone.  I won't let myself be hurt or angry towards him.  I feel angry with my mom for not being a better parent to me.  That she would just leave me to go have a good time.   But what if something had happened?  There were no cell phones then and I sure don't remember her leaving me information of where she was at if I had needed to contact her.  

     I am a grown woman who shouldn't react in a childish way by holding onto the resentment of what she did.  Yet I do feel that I am entitled to mourn the loss of a normal childhood.  I do remember situations  I was put in that no 15 year old should have happen.  I also know I could have gone really wild which I didn't.  I did have some bit of judgement when it came to the wrongs I could have done.  I had my horse and a life at the stables where I could be safe and busy.  Thank God for my horse.  

R. and myself at the helm

     We moved to a new town in the Fall which was a much better community than where the "Hell Hole" was.  Out of an apartment into a townhouse all paid for by R.  That same year I started being asked to go sailing, meeting their friends at the Yacht Club and meeting his grown children.  They got married in September of 1974 and we moved to his townhouse in yet another town.  I went to a total of three high schools in three years.  I had a hard time keeping friends due to all the moving.  I came to think that having a solid friendship like when I was in grade school would never happen.   I also didn't let it happen.  All these peers at the various high schools had been friends for so long and came from normal backgrounds it appeared to me, what did I have?  What if someone asked about my life?  At school I was a warm and engaging friend but outside of school it was just my horse till I started dating my love.  It was not like anyone called to go hangout or go to a movie.  I made it clear I had a boyfriend who was older and we didn't do the high school dances or sport activities.  

     So where does this go in my heart?  How do I keep pulling these photos out, seeing my mom and R. with smiles on their faces, with people I did not know, going to places I would not see?   On one hand I feel that it is wonderful for my mom to have met the man of her dreams at long last.  That someone did sweep her off her feet.  Who wined and dined her.  It sounds romantic.  A happy ever after story for her.   On the other hand I feel sad about those years of not having my mom around to be a mother to me.  Every girl should have a mother who shares the values of being a woman, who listens to them when they are sad, who cares about what they do whether it is good or bad.  I know my mom was there but she was in a survival mode.  I know this to be true.  That is another story..... 

The Sea...Birth...Life...

      It reaches towards me with it's powerful release, extending out and around me, drawing me in and in and in.  I close my eyes and can feel it without it touching me that it wants my thoughts, my soul, my heart.  Then it withdraws, almost silently with just the sand sizzling from the loss of the liquid life that has pulled away.  Just as you feel you want it back, even though its power frightens you, it comes back crashing loudly to let you know it's demands.  I give it what it wants and at the same time I am open to the peace the sea has given me.  How can it know me so well?  I am just a visitor, a mere woman amongst many who watch, swim, glide upon, and study it.  Yet it knows me in ways I never knew about myself.  It has taught me every time I have sat on the shore, walked on the beach, sailed upon the top rolling waters, or clambered upon rocks that hid secret pools with treasures from the deep for those of us who walk the land, to admire and question.


     Though I have never lived by the sea I visited it often as a child to have picnics at the beach with family or friend's families.  At any picnic, I always managed to grab a sandwich with sandy hands and make a unpleasant face when that first bite would give an unexpected crunch.  Ones hands would taste salty from filling a pail from the ocean while making a moat around a castle.  Collecting shells, sand dollars, and driftwood to decorate the outside, taking such concentration to finish yet knowing the sea would take it back.  It's a sacrifice gladly given since this place does not belong to us but to the sea.  


     The sound of the sea speaks to me.  This unknown voice that drowns out my thoughts sometimes and at other times helps me to understand my thoughts.   It seems to know what I need without hesitation.  It's endless song that I never tire of.  Every once in awhile a sudden crash of a wave awakens me from my inner thoughts as though to remind me I don't belong with the sea.  I am merely visiting for a time.  I wondered if when we moved farther away from the sea it would remember our times together.   


     I have a fear of the ocean from trying to ride waves as a young teen.  I had felt so good when I jumped through the waves out a short distance to wait for a incoming wave.  My friends and I laughing and enjoying ourselves.  Yet it was like the sea needed to remind me I wasn't from her and to remember I am just a simple child that may have forgotten the respect the sea needs.  The wave came like the others but I wasn't prepared and was pushed to the bottom and tumbled around before she spit me out onto the beach.   My suit was filled with sand. My mouth was filled with salty sea water which I spit back out at the sea.  My heart was racing and I was scared.  Had the sea tried to take me or save me?  From that day I was guarded around water and stopped riding the waves.  I didn't want that to happen again.   I would walk the shores and splash in the gentle waves but that was it.   




     The sea came to me when I when I was in labor with my second child.   I felt the sea rise up in me as my body gave rise to the waves of contractions that brought me back inside my thoughts of fear.  Like riding waves I feared the fall and what would happen to me.  My midwife, Peggy saw that fear and rode the waves with me.  Her voice helping me to trust my body and ride with abandon.  Her voice telling me "Down and out, down and out" which I did.   To be open and let go.  As long as I could hear her voice I didn't feel alone.  If my eyes closed she was there to pull me back from the place where fear begins.   She led me to where I could feel my own power and to trust my body.  I was on a journey quite different from my first born child.  This one I rode atop of,  feeling emotions that I had never had before.  My love rode with me as well though he could not see the waves that tried to swallow me.  Peggy would be on one side of me and he on the other, their voices softly urging me to see the nearness of my child within who soon would be in my arms.  I spoke words occasionally that made no sense to those in the room, my mind wanting me to flee this moment.  Can I escape?  The pull of the waves constant in their response to my thoughts gave me two waves back to back.  How could I do this?  My fellow wave riders brought my thoughts back to the present.  Let it go.  Trust your woman's body that through the ages each woman giving birth has done.  









     The last wave came and then there was calm.  A peace for me to see what I had longed for.  A time to collect my thoughts and prepare for the best wave to come.  My child, after living in an ocean all her own, would leave my protective womb to slide into our world of light and air.  To feel her descent and rotation as she slipped into our hands so open and ready to hold.  Upon my breast she was laid where the warmth of her small body melted with mine.  Her buttery vernix spread upon me, the last of her sea world, as our hearts blended into a new harmony.  I was in a lagoon of joy.  I marveled at her seashell ears so softly shaped.  Her small toes, her feet, her dainty fingers and hands that had swam, kicked, and fluttered inside me just a short time ago.  Would she remember in some inner place those rocking lullabies I sang to her while I held my swollen belly?  Now we rock on a chair while I sing more lullabies to her.  We rock on a gentle sea of mother and child where her small hand lays upon my breast.  Her fingers gently hold mine while we both are lulled into our own world together once more as one.  


     The sea will always be there in my life.  With each birth of my next daughter and son it called to me.  I knew I could rise above the relentless waves that tried to toss me about and throw me off my course.  Peggy's voice, my love's touch guided me along.  Yes, even when Peggy wasn't at our son's birth she was there.  The sea echoed her voice to me knowing this was a time I needed her.  








     As the years have drifted on and I have had other visits to the seashore.   I once again have time to listen and to be heard.  I found myself to feel so free on a recent trip where I watched my two sweet nephews plunge into the gentle waves near the shore.  They threw long-tailed looking seaweed about with giggles of glee which the wind blew down the beach.  They danced in and out of the swirl of water that tried to lull them closer to the pounding waves, but they danced back to shore.  Running, ever running without a care just as I had done as a child.  Only the third brother, a wee little toddler, felt the fear of the sea as it played games with his brothers.  I watched his careful movements to the water's edge, his turning away from the cold, chilly water.  Not ready, not yet.  He chose to be farther up on the sand where the water does not touch.  I want to tell him "Henry, it's okay, your time to jump and run will be here soon enough."  The day passes by with the wind sending sea breezes blowing through our hair, the kiss of the sun upon us as soon enough the winter days would be here.   Sand clings to our toes in hopes we bring some back to our cozy beds to leave a bit of grit and sparkles on our sheets.  Our dreams will be of waves, birds, boats bobbing on top of the water, and the laughter of a day filled with fond memories.  The pleasure of knowing we will come back and play again.  


     There are times I think I would like to live by the sea and walk the shore anytime I wanted to.  To look for the treasures that I may find along the way.  To watch the birds with spindly legs who run in and out from the lapping waves.   To listen to myself and the thoughts that wash over me.  I ask, "Will you listen to all that I say to you for as long as it takes?"   And  the ocean calls out, "Tell me, I am here."   




~   I dedicate this to my dear Peggy and my niece Shannon for the lessons of life you both have shared with me.  Thank you....I love you both.   ~