This picture is my 93 year-old cousin Bunny with her son, John. You might have guessed it was taken on Christmas Day. I’ve written about Bunny before. She is a dear person who has reached a point in her life that none of us ever want to see—a vast netherland with no beginning and no end. It is the Land of Dementia and its population is growing with each passing day.
Bunny seems incapable of retaining recent memory yet she remembers the past very well. I always try to lead her to that land she remembers. It is populated with her parents and my grandparents along with numerous souls from the town of Norton, Massachusetts. My connection to the town is garbled in her mind. I did live there in my youth but Bunny was in her early thirties and long gone by that time. But she talks to me as a contemporary and I do the best I can to sustain the memory. It always seemed to bring her some joy to talk about “good old Norton.”
Today, however, was markedly different. I couldn’t lead her anywhere. For the first time she failed to recognize me. “You look very familiar,” she said. “It’s your cousin, Alice.” I replied. She nodded but I wasn’t sure the information conveyed very well. Her usual enthusiasm at seeing my dog Tango was also absent. We attempted a conversation about the recent Christmas celebration but she couldn’t recall it. Then I told her that her youngest son would arrive tomorrow and that his children—now adults—would be bringing their newborns. That piqued her interest. “A new generation?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “a whole new generation.”
For just a moment the Bunny of old emerged from the gripping fog of her dementia. Her eyes got bright and ever so sweetly she simply said, “Wow.” ❧
As we age Christmas becomes more and more about Christmas past. It’s inevitable. Even as we enjoy the love and company of family and friends in the present day our thoughts seem to drift backward in time. Memories–so many memories–abound in the ornaments on the tree, the special clothes that come out of the closets and drawers, the feasts we prepare in our kitchens and the presents we place under a tree. Even if we are fully rooted in the here-and-now the past comes a’calling. And it’s not a bad thing. After all, those happy memories are the stuff from which love is made.
This picture is nearly twenty years old and is one of the happiest Christmas’ I can recall. My late husband, Robert, had survived a series of devastating illnesses that year (1995). Just three months before, on Labor Day, the doctors thought he would be gone in less than two weeks. But he pulled through and we would have another five Christmas celebrations together. Each one is dear to me and made this Christmas all the better because of the happy memories. ❧
This picture of wild turkeys was taken last year at Myakka River State Park. There was a time at Myakka when wild turkeys were nearly extinct. They were aggressively hunted in Myakka Park and a part of me can understand why. The meat of these turkeys would not be anything like the Butterball that some of you cooked last week for Thanksgiving. But I feel certain it was satisfying never the less. And wild turkeys have beautiful feathers that no doubt pulled down a nice chunk of change in the early decades of the 20th century when women’s hats were elaborately adorned with feathers. Living here in North Carolina, where poverty is a very real thing, I find myself thinking about all of this in a different way. It takes me back to my very early days in New England when I recall many classmates who were malnourished and poorly clothed, but once we moved to the gleaming Gulf coast of Florida it seemed poverty went into my rearview mirror. I suppose that was the goal. Still, these “pockets” of poverty are with us and extend to our urban areas as well. Any one who has watched the news in recent days has probably heard about the battle for a higher minimum wage. The current requirement of $7.25 an hour is a pittance and can barely sustain a single individual much less a family. If you want a concise essay on that battle I suggest the article by Richard Trumka and Christine Owens on CNN.
We’ve managed to protect the turkeys in Myakka and they are flourishing. Can we find a way to help our fellow human beings? ❧
Any one who has ever owned a dog knows what this picture is about. It’s Tango’s happy dance…those moments when dogs throw themselves on the ground and, well, they twist and sometimes shout. It is a moment of unbridled joy. The joy of dogs is infectious. Every morning I awake and there he is, his chin resting on the bed, his tail wagging, eager to greet the day. He is joyful EVERY morning. There’s a lesson there. ❧
Squirrels are the bane of those who love to feed the birds. If you aren’t careful about the type of feeder you purchase you could be hanging a “Free Eats” sign that every squirrel in the neighborhood will see. My feeders are a mixture of squirrel-proof and non-squirrel-proof so its no wonder that these varmints are hanging out at Alice’s. When things get too bad I take down the easy-access models and the squirrels eventually stop coming.
But here in Western North Carolina things are different. If you are over-run with squirrels here you simply get your 22 rifle and start ridding the world of squirrels one-by-one. That’s what my neighbor has been doing and the neighborhood has six fewer squirrels as a result. Maybe that’s why this fellow has his back to the post.
A part of me — the urban part — is a little squeamish about this practice. But no one is making me take up a rifle and shoot them. And I have to admit that the squirrel traffic has been considerably lighter at my feeders. ❧
There is a theoretical physics concept called string theory. I do not begin to understand it scientifically but in a spiritual sense it does resonate with me. Part of the lexicon of this theory is “fabric of the cosmos” and it puts forth that when we look into the “nothingness” of space we are really looking at a vast fabric that holds the the planets in orbit and the stars in the heaven. In short, this fabric holds the universe together.
When I learned about this theory I wondered why the “fabric” would not extend to everything, that ALL of it — including you and I — are bound together by this mesh, this fabric.
If you begin to think of the world in that way some things start to make sense. War, for example, especially world wars, always struck me as akin to some kind of global virus. What else could compel millions to think in a manner that could justify invasions? Well, perhaps it is some kind of message that is sent along this theoretical fabric that holds the universe together.
But mainly I think of this theory in smaller venues. And that brings me to the CBS show Sunday Morning. It has been on the air for decades. Originally hosted by Charles Kurault the helm is now ably handled by Charles Osgood. The show is like a comfy pair of slippers or a warm bathrobe into which you love to sink your weary bones. It has refused to go the way of the “morning zoo” but has stayed true to its course of providing good news and entertainment, all in a low-key, Sunday morning way.
A regular feature is the “Almanac” and Osgood will bring to our attention an historical event that happened on the particular date of the Sunday morning that you happen to be watching. It can be a news story, an invention or a remembrance. Today’s “Almanac” was the latter and its subject was Mary Martin who was born one hundred years ago on this day, December 1, 1913.
Mary Martin during a recording session.
Now frequent followers of this blog will, I hope, remember that just two days ago I posted a blog entitled “An Appreciation for Richard, Oscar and Mary.” The Mary in that title was Mary Martin. So I was enchanted this morning when Osgood began his small tribute to Ms. Martin. You can read it here.
Now, it is nice to think that Mr. Osgood read my blog two days ago and rushed to get the video piece together but that clearly didn’t happen. So, how does it happen that people — at least two of us — are suddenly thinking about a woman who has been dead for more than two decades? Well, there’s that fabric idea again. Some part of the cloth tugging at us to remember a person who was, by all accounts, as good-hearted and fun loving as her songs convey. As I said before, we could use a few more like her. So, Happy Birthday Mary Martin. So many of us enjoyed your time on this earth and, best of all, your spirit is still coursing through the fabric. ❧
Thanksgiving 2013 is in our rearview window now and we are on the slippery slope to the Christmas holiday. But I prefer to linger in the Thanksgiving mode because there is so much for which I am thankful. An example is some endearing music from my youth.
When I was a child during the 1950s my godmother, Nel, had a terrific collection of phonograph records and the songs that I learned from those records have stayed with me for the whole of my life. The heavy vinyl 78s were my first “medium” and Nel had the very latest technology on which to play them. It was a sleek and modern victrola, about the height of a coffee table. You slid back the wooden top and there was the turntable and controls. I loved that machine and Nel would let me endlessly play the phonograph records, nearly all of which were Broadway musicals, while I colored or played with my toys. So in those formative years of 4 to 9 I was continually exposed to the music of Irving Berlin, Lorenz Hart, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein. And there was the wonderful singing of Mary Martin, Ethel Merman, Alfred Drake, Gertrude Lawrence and Yul Brynner.
Mary Martin as Peter Pan
Accessing those original soundtracks today is a simple task thanks to the internet. Recently I’ve been traveling down memory lane, listening again to songs that shaped my youth. In particular I’ve been enjoying South Pacific with Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza. For Baby Boomers like me Mary Martin is a childhood legend thanks to her enchanting televised performance of Peter Pan in 1955. I would have been seven or eight years-old at the time and I remember it very well. I would go around singing “I’ve Gotta Crow” at the top of my lungs and imagine flying with Peter to that place that wasn’t on any chart but I found it in my heart, NeverNeverLand.
For later generations Martin is better known as the mother of Larry Hagman.
In her role as Nellie Forbush in the Broadway musical South Pacific she sang the delightful song, “I’m Only a Cock-eyed Optimist” and it was that song that popped into my head and prompted this journey down memory lane. If you’ve never heard it just click on the link and give yourself a treat.
Listening to the soundtrack of South Pacific got me to thinking about how innovative and trend-setting that musical was in 1949. Like many of Rogers & Hammerstein‘s musicals the plot line has a distinct dark-side. In the case of South Pacific it is interracial relationships. Nellie falls for a Frenchman who is older and has fathered two children by his first wife, a Polynesian. Nellie struggles with this fact and nearly throws away the love of her life because he has “been with” a woman of color. The sub-plot in South Pacific is a similar theme and has the young Lt. Cable singing the powerful “Carefully Taught.” According to Wikipedia, the plot was so controversial that theaters in the South would not allow the touring production to perform. In Northern theaters Rogers and Hammerstein, in several instances, had to threaten to withdraw the show if segregated seating was not allowed. This was dramatic and culturally altering stuff in the 1950s. Doctoral dissertations have been written about the role of Rogers and Hammerstein in the integration of America. We owe them a profound debt.
But from a strictly personal point-of-view I just wanted to say thank you to Richard, Oscar and Mary for creating such a wonderfully uplifting song as “I’m Only a Cock-eyed Optimist.” I can recall singing along with that song as a young tyke, having no idea what the words meant, responding instead to an emotion that is conveyed by the tempo and the remarkable vocal qualities of Mary Martin. As I got older and understood the words I wonder if I didn’t subconsciously begin to pattern my own life around the outlook and optimism of Nellie Forbush. Similarly I would get chills hearing “Climb Every Mountain,” (from Sound of Music, again with Mary Martin) and there are mornings when I will break into “Oh What a Beautiful Morning!” (from Oklahoma). I can’t help but feel that this music helped chart my course, giving me a fallback point of optimism, hope, and appreciation of life. It has served me well. So thank you Richard, Oscar and Mary. We could use a few more like you. ❧
My friend, Gail Walton, died today, She was 69 years-old. That’s her in the picture, on the left in the blue shirt. She is with her life-partner of more than twenty-five years, my college friend Bonnie Powell. The picture was taken in 2000, not long after they got McDuff, the Jack Russell Terrier in the middle.
Gail was a wonderful woman with a big heart. She loved dogs and rescued her fair share of abandoned or abused critters.She ran a pet supply business for a while. She was also a respiratory therapist, a gourmet cook, an M.P. when she was in the Army, and a whole assortment of other occupations or pre-occupations. She was witty and beautiful.
Fawn Hill feels a little lonely tonight. A year ago I never imagined I would be living here, neither did Gail and Bonnie. After I moved here in June we talked about how incredible it was that we had become neighbors. Gail said, “Alice, I believe some energy has brought you here.” Just a few weeks later she was diagnosed with an advanced case of recurring lung cancer. Eight years ago she had a lung removed and the doctors felt they had gotten all of it. But they didn’t. By the time Gail was diagnosed, just over four weeks ago, the cancer was everywhere. There was nothing that could be done. Hospice was brought in.
Hospice was my occupation for the last six years of my working career. The irony that I would arrive here just before Gail’s awful diagnosis was not lost on any of us. I did the best I could in advising and helping. I have to say, however, that administering hospice care to a friend is so much harder than administering such care to others. When I was working for hospice people would often ask me, “How can you do that kind of work?” I would explain that there was a certain level of detachment, which is not to say disinterest or aloofness, but rather an acceptance that death is inevitable and that dying patients deserve compassion and competent care.
When the patient is your friend or a family member (and I have had experience in both instances) it seems that all you have learned in ministering to the dying patient just goes away and you feel helpless. You lose the objectivity that is normally present. Your thought process seems fuzzy and muddled. Actions and reactions that once seemed so sure and competent become tentative. The shroud of grief becomes becomes a straight-jacket that seems to paralyze you.
We did the best we could in caring for Gail. She was surrounded by loving friends and, for the most part, we were able to control the pain. Still, it has been a difficult time that has once again brought home the fundamental truth: Life is short. Carpe diem! ❧
I had forgotten. Forgotten the melancholy of autumn. A time when everything is on the move and changing. The endless summer days give way to great migrations and the reminder that the only constant is change.
Alice's WanderLand 