Wednesday, November 22, 2023

The Christmas Program from . . .

A table of contents of stories from Hogback Ridge, featuring Parson Smedley 

An Introduction to Hogback Ridge and Parson Smedley

The Christmas Program from . . .

When Smedley went out to saddle-up Sairee, the sky had an angry look about it. Smedley’s dark mood kept him from paying much attention to the weather and prevented Flora Jean from pressing her objection. “He’s been out in worse,” she thought. “I reckon that mule’s got sense enough to get both of ‘em home, even if he doesn’t.” As Smedley rode up the lane, Flora Jean said a prayer for the man she loved. “The fact is,” she thought, “I can use some time without a man underfoot. I’ve got bakin’ to do.”

The top of Peter’s Knob, was the best place for a man to clear his head and Smedley’s head sure needed clearing. Taking the bridle off his mule—he figured this head-clearing would take a while--he gave her a clear warning, “Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Sairee. I done had enough messed up business to last me well into the New Year.” Sairee twitched her ears like she always did when the Parson talked to her. She spoke mule fluently and she had learned enough human to get along. Her vocabulary was limited but she understood tone quite well, and the Parson’s tone was clear. Besides, there was late-season grass on the knob and a hollow in the rock held some water from yesterday’s rain. Smedley was glad she stayed put. He only wished he could talk his thoughts into doing the same.

“Lord, that was the absolute worstest program I ever saw, heard of, or ‘magined.” Smedley took turns praying, pacing, staring at the darkening sky, and having conversations with upwards of half a dozen people, none of whom were present. One of them was Rev. Loggins, the Pastor who had taught Smedley so much about preaching, leading a flock, and loving on folks. Rev. Loggins surprised Smedley when he said, “Sounds like it was the Christmas program from the place of Divine eternal retribution.”

“Exactly,” Smedley replied, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Chuckling for a moment at the thought that he had, in fact, said it himself.

Smedley had felt ill at ease about the program for the last week or so. Flora Jean had tried to reassure him about it. She was almost always right, and she never lied to her husband, but she sure missed this one! Smedley still couldn’t lay a finger on what had troubled him. It was, “just something in my gizzard,” he said. His concern had led to him checking on everything. “Ever-thing looks good,” he had mused, but still . . .”

Missy Bedletter and Kora Jo Danning had done a bang-up job. They wrote up the play themselves and had Opal mimeograph copies down at the school. They’d brow-beaten their husbands into gathering up the children and bringing them to the practices in their buggy and wagon. They found out Horace Smithers was home from Erkin College and corralled him into playing the music. He made that old wheezy pump organ sound like one of those five-acre pipe organs at one of the rich folk’s churches down in Charlotte. They even got the Hogback Ridge Quilting Society to make the costumes. One of the robes was more patches than what was patched, but Missy just named that character “Joseph” and wrote in a line about his robe being just like his name-sake.

In short, in spite of the Parson’s doubts it looked like Flora Jean was right, “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, and then added with a tone like she’d just held the Rook to be sure she won the last trick, “there’s nothin’ you can do about it anyhow.”

The debacle—Smedley had just read that word in a book and thought it fit well—started right at the beginning. Edna McClosky had insisted at the last minute that her grandson, L. Buxton McClosky, who had just arrived from Chicago for a Christmas visit, have a part in the play. Missy and Kora Jo had tried to put her off, and truth be told, it didn’t look like young McClosky was all that interested anyhow, but Edna insisted, and she was the best insister anywhere in these parts. They gave Buxton two lines. He was to welcome the crowd at the beginning and tell them cookies were waiting at the end of the program. Altogether, all he had was about fifteen words to remember, but he didn’t remember.

Dressed in the Windy City’s finest L. Buxton made his way to center stage, and just stood and grinned. After a time, Edna began to mouth his lines for him, but to no avail. “Never has so little, been forgotten so thoroughly, by one so well-encouraged,” Smedley said to his invisible guests. Finally, Smedley had stood up and welcomed the folk, to which L. Buxton replied, for all to hear, “Yeah, what he said.”

It was downhill from there.

A. J. Smith’s lamb that was as “gentle as a kitten,” suddenly became as wild as a bobcat. It took ten minutes to catch it. Instead of the shepherds abiding in the field, they laughed on the stage.

Rodney Pickens had that look in his eye—you know the look that says, “I’m up to something.” When the wisemen showed up, much to Missy and Kora Jo’s horror, the look had spread to his whole face. They knew they’d better do something, but before they could, he and his two companions broke into song, “We three kings of orient are, trying to smoke a loaded seegar.” All three wisemen, suddenly turned into wise guys, whipped out what looked like real stogies and yelled, “Boom.”

Three mothers mortified and angry, hauled the three not so wise boys outside for a serious conversation, which everyone in the congregation heard clearly. The summary is, “Whack, whack, whack, to which the suddenly contrite boys, replied, “Ow, OW, wail!” Herod winced at every “Whack,” causing his crown to come loose and fall to the floor. It fell in something the errant lamb had left behind.

That was when Smedley got up and did some serious ad-libbing. He was pretty sure nobody heard a word he said. He was even more confident that that was just as well. Smedley was actually glad that L. Buxton not only forgot his closing line as thoroughly as he had his first but also forgot to even to step out of the shadow where he’d been instructed to wait. Finally, Kora Jo, much flustered, stood up and ended the program as well as she could. “Thank you and good night.” The two program directors and Smedley weren’t in any mood for Cookies, even though some of them were Smedley’s favorite, peanut butter. So, the crowd just left, boys trying to stifle chuckles, mother giving the look that said, “Don’t even think of it,” many heads wagging, and one forlorn parson looking for a place to hide.

The sky had gotten darker and the air colder, as Smedley thought, prayed and carried both ends of the multiple conversations. He was so involved with all that was in his head that he didn’t hear the automobile crunching up the gravel road. At first, he thought the voice behind him was one of the characters who had shared the saddle with Smedley on the trip up the crooked road. But none of the people in Smedley’s head called him Reverend. “Reverend Smedley,” the voice said, and then Smedley heard the unmistakable sound of teeth chattering.

All, at once Smedley realized that it was really getting cold. Snow was almost certain to fall. As he turned to see where the very real voice and chattering were coming from, he saw a man, maybe in his thirties, dressed in the garb of a banker or some such, no top coat, no hat or gloves, and shoes that clearly weren’t up to keeping ones feet warm on this blustery December Day.

“Brother, what are you doing out on a day like this, dressed as you are?” As Smedley spoke he grabbed an old blanket he kept rolled up and tied to Sairee’s saddle, “for emergencies.” The man wrapped himself in the blanket and recovered a bit before he answered.

“I just drove up from the Mile Long Bridge.”

Smedley eyed the car and noticed it was a touring car. “That’s, what, five miles from here? No wonder you’re cold. Why would you go to Mile Long Bridge on a day like this, and why would go dressed like you are? Didn’t you know you’d be froze afore you got back home?”

Smedley wondered because the Mile Long Bridge wasn’t a bridge you could drive on. It was a swinging bridge. It was nowhere near a mile long, but when the wind was whistling up Wildcat Gap, like it would today, it seemed at least that long. There were a couple of hard-scrabble farm families who lived on Freeman’s Ridge who used the bridge to get back and forth. Other than some hunters, nobody else ever crossed it. Clearly, the cold stranger who had suddenly appeared was neither farmer nor hunter. What could have compelled him to go to such a place on such a day?

“I wasn’t planning to go back home. I went there to jump off.” The stranger said, flatly.

The very thought sent shivers up Smedley’s spine. “What in the world for?” Smedley asked the stranger.

“This morning I showed up at the insurance office, where I work, like I always do. The boss met me at my desk. I knew what he had to say, before he said it. “This just isn’t working out,” he said. “I need you to pack up your belongings. See Molly,” she’s the accountant, “before you go, she’ll settle up with you.” My wife’s pregnant. I’m behind on my mortgage. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m sure glad you changed your mind. That jump would have made you a goner for sure and that wouldn’t a helped yer wife a bit, but if you don’t mind me asking, what caused you to change your mind?”

“It was something you said last night.”

“Something I said,” Smedley said, amazed and wondering out loud. “What’d I say?”

“You said something about how last night didn’t work out the way you planned. You said, “Life’s like that, ain’t it? But here’s what’s fer sure. Make sure you hold onto this.” Then you read some Bible verse, something sixteen.”

“John 3:16,” Smedley said, not because he remembered, but because he knew that’s what he hoped he had said.

“Yeah, that’s it. God so loved, that He gave His Son. I was try’n to figure out which side of the bridge to jump off of. Ain’t that crazy? ‘N I thought a that. Kinda seemed like the wind was a talkin’ to me, howlin’ at me really, “Siiiixxxteeeen.” Anyhow, I figured if you could say something about love after that mess, maybe I oughta give things another try. I saw yer mule as I was drivin’ by I hoped it was you, so I pulled . . .”

“I don’t think I saw you, last night.” Smedley interrupted.

“Nah, I came in late ‘n sat in the back. My nephew was one of the shepherds. I got there on my way home from work.”

The icy blast that sent a shiver down Smedley’s spine brought him out of his head-shaking wonderment. “Well, say, what is your name?”

“Pete, Pete Dumford.”

“Well, Pete, if we don’t get you off’n this knob, soon, it’ll be April afore we get this car down & we’ll both be plum froze. We need ta talk some more, but not here. Tell ya what. You keep that blanket wrapped around ya ‘n head on down this road the way you was goin. Go right at the fork. My house is the first place on the right.” As he spoke Smedley wrote something on a scrap of paper he’d fished out of his pocket, with the stub of a pencil he always carried. “Give this to my wife, Flora Jean, tell her I’ll be down directly.”

It was way past bedtime, but Smedley just sat rocking, enjoying the warm fire and the satisfaction that came from the half-dozen peanut butter cookies, he’d eaten while he talked with Pete. “Lord, who-da thunk. . .” Smedley’s thoughts were interrupted by the hand on his shoulder. Flora Jean enjoyed the warmth of the fire and greater warmth in her heart for a moment. Smedley felt the warmth from the fire soak into his bones, and the reflection of the flames in Flora Jean's eyes warmed Smedley’s soul.

After a time she smiled and said, “I told you it would be all right.”

And it was.

 

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Other Stuff Table of Contents

Other Stuff, Table of Contents:

  • Joy in Washing a Car
    A little reflection on my grandson becoming a man.
  • Irene's Journey
    This is rough.  My mom wrote a summary of her life.  I just scanned the pages and put them in order.  It is a lovely account, though, well worth the trouble of dealing with the unpolished manuscript.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Tales from the Hogback, #13, Epilogue

EPILOGUE

I almost missed it.  To tell you the truth I'm not sure why I read the obituaries that day--I usually don't.  When I saw the name "James Robert Smedley" I just had to wonder.  It was he.  I had to look a couple of times; I'd never seen him dressed up, but clearly it was he.
I had listened to his tales over countless cups of coffee, yet I didn't even know where he had lived.  I thought, maybe a little selfishly, that I could find out about him from those who attended the funeral, that I could finally find out just where on the map Hog Back Ridge was located, that I could put a date to the beginning and end of Parson Smedley's ministry.
I guess it was at the funeral that I changed my mind.  The funeral director had asked me if I would mind helping to carry the casket.  No formal pallbearers had been selected, and the staff of the funeral home and I were about the only ones there who didn't look like candidates for the next funeral. 
What if he just made it all up--a lonely old man creating a past for himself and populating it with creatures of his imagination?  Maybe he was Smedley, Jim Bob, the preacher’s lanky son, but humility prevented him from revealing it.  Or, maybe there was no Hog Back Ridge, no little meeting house with a stop sign plugging the hole in the cellar, no mule-riding parson named Smedley.
I guess the whole thing had become too much a part of me.  I couldn't stand the thought of finding out that it wasn't that way at all.  Maybe when I'm older and braver I'll do the journalistically responsible thing, but for now all that I know about my friend is contained on a faded obituary that I carry in my wallet.  And, a bunch of wonderful tales that I carry in my heart.


Tales from the Hogback #12, Blue Ribbon: Rewards, True & False

REWARDS, TRUE & FALSE

Really there were much easier ways to get to the Jefferson County Fair, but as Smedley walked through the woods down the big mountain he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  He could have waited and gone with Flora Jean on the Jones's wagon.  It was piled high with quilts and carefully wrapped jars of prize preserves not to mention Joneses, but there was still plenty of room for Smedley.  For that matter he could have ridden Sairee.  In fact Smedley felt a little bad that he hadn't brought her.  He always felt a little foolish for thinking so, but he was convinced that she enjoyed the trip to the fair.  "Reckon she enjoys bein’ with her kind as much as we do with our'n." he reasoned.  Even if he was determined to walk he could have walked on the road and avoided the briars and occasional rough places, not to mention the spring branches he had to cross.
The parson prayed as he walked along.  Like a child at the dinner table he prayed with his eyes wide open thanking the Lord for whatever met his gaze.  "Lord, I thank you for the blue sky, and the clouds with the promise of rain.  But Lord I thank thee thet it ain't rainin' today, cuz it sher would ruin this beautiful time.  I thank thee Lord fer givin' that song to Mr. Bob White over in the thicket an' fer sendin' that gray squirrel to gather nuts along as I'm travlin' to town.”
It was a grand day, and Smedly, who was "about peopled out," was enjoying it immensely.  Just enjoyment, though, wasn't what motivated him to take this route to the fair; every once in a while he would spy evidence of the real reason he came this way.  No one else would have noticed, but here and there Smedley would notice the print of a cloven hoof in the soft ground.  A few times he saw some hair caught on a briar.
"Looky there," Smedley crowed to the crow in the tree, when he came to a patch of torn of up ground, "Looks like Mahershalalhashbaz is living right up to his name.  Sorry Mr. Squirrel, Ol' Maher got some a' yer acerns and ches'nuts, but if it's any consolation to ya, the hog thet et your dinner is the finest hog in Jefferson County.  He's gonna win a blue ribbon fer my boy."
Mahershalalhashbaz was the hog Jim Bob Smedley had raised.  He had hauled slop from three different neighbors to keep him supplied.  The Smedleys didn't have the money to buy corn to fatten the hog so every evening Jim Bob would take him to the woods where there was a good supply of chestnuts and let him root and eat his fill.  It was while watching him hasten to the spoil that Smedley suggested his name.*  Everybody that saw the hog told Jim Bob that he was a shoo-in for the big prize at the fair. 
Since the Smedley's didn't have a wagon and since the hog was tame as a dog--better than many--the Smedley clan came up with a plan for getting the boy and pig to the fair.  They'd leave a day early and just meander along.  Maher would have ample opportunity to feed and young Jim Bob would have plenty of time to get him all spiffed up once they got there.  It was kinda' an odd way to get a hog to the fair, but it worked out all right.
The next day the activity at the Smedley campsite began early.  Flora Jean had to get her quilt to the judging, and the younger children had new friends to make and adventures to get into.  Jim Bob & Smedley set in to make sure that Mahershalalhashbaz didn't live up to the reputation of his kind.  They washed him and cleaned his hooves with a scrub brush.  The ring in his nose shone in the morning sun.  It seemed the big porker must have known that something important was up, because he put up with it all pretty well, for a hog anyhow. 
By the time the cleaning operations were completed a considerable group of on-lookers had gathered to admire this fine specimen of swinedom.  Smedley and Jim Bob were particularly interested to see Jake Reardon admiring the Smedley entry.  Jake was the farm manager for the Widow Winstead, about the richest person, and owner of the finest farm, in the county, maybe the state, for all the parson and his son knew.  Jake had a reputation for having an eye for stock, second to none.
"Fine lookin' hog you got there, boy,"  he said to Jim Bob, with a wink.
"Yes sir," Jim Bob replied, trying to look calm.  But when Jake was out of sight Jim Bob couldn't resist slapping his dad on the back and hollering out loud.  "Didja hear that?  Didja hear what Jake said about Maher?"
"Now, jest calm yerself." Smedley admonished, though he was about as excited as his son, "It ain't over 'til it's over."  I'll stay here & keep ol' Maher outa' trouble.  You go & git yerself cleaned up so you kin show him."
When that boy and that hog left for the show ring there wasn't a prouder man on earth than Parson Smedley, and he had a right to be.
Smedley was used to seeing the typical mountain hogs that existed on what slop was left from the family table, which the way most folk lived in those parts wasn't much, and what acorns and chestnuts they could root out in the area available to them.  They often had worms, and were just, well scrawny.  The beasts that met Smedley's gaze at the fair were gigantic, but for size and form none were the equal to the animal standing next to his son. 
"Ladiiiies and Gent-le-men," the chairman of the county fair committee intoned.  "I am glad to recognize as the judge of our swine competition the honorable Rueben C. Galepoke." 
The crowd tried to suppress their shock.  Rueben was the County Commissioner and it was appropriate that he receive some honor at the fair, but the only thing that he knew about pork was that ham and eggs were good for breakfast. 
Smedley's heart sank.  But as each handler brought their entry into the ring Smedley noticed something that revived hope in his breast.  As Rueben circled each hog, pretending to look at it, he would glance up at Jake Reardon, who was sitting next to his boss in the front row.  A slight nod or lift of the eyebrows from Jake would follow some of the glances while at other times Jake's face showed no response.  After he circled each hog Rueben made marks on a piece of paper he was carrying.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the chairman again held forth, "our honorable judge, Commissioner Galepoke has chosen the following entrants as finalists in the competition."  As the names were read from Rueben's notes the crowd murmured its approval.  "Maybe the licker dealer, turned politician knows more about hogs than we thought." one gnarled old farmer commented.  Now Smedley was sure.  Jake Reardon was the real judge in this competition and now hope burned bright once more in the parson's heart.
"Quiet, quiet," the chairman hollered, as you know, by long standing tradition, Winstead Farms has made a standing offer of one hundred dollars for the blue ribbon hog in this competition.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead has asked me to announce that in honor of the Fiftieth Anniversary of Winstead Farms, founded by the late W. W. Winstead, that this year Winstead Farms is offering two hundred dollars for the winning hog."  Near bedlam broke loose in that arena, but finally the crowd settled for the big conclusion. 
Rueben followed the same procedure for the five finalists that he had earlier.  Smedley lifted his gaze from Jake Reardon only enough to see which hog Reuben was circling.  Jake's weather beaten face betrayed no emotion, until Rueben circled Mahershalalhashbaz.  Just the slightest lift of an eyebrow said it.  Rueben officiously made some marks on his paper and started back to the chairman when someone else caught his eye.  Sam Morrison the editor of the Mt. Elmo Star, looked Reuben right in the eye and patted something he had stuck in his jacket pocket.
After conferring with the chairman for a moment Reuben took another look at the hogs.  The behavior from Jake Reardon and Sam Morrison was just as before.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the winner of the yellow ribbon is Jasper Peters, for his hog Bluebell.  The winner of the Red Ribbon is James Robert Smedley, for his hog, Maher . . ."
Before the announcer could finish the name the crowd sighed, people looked at one another in wonderment and began to murmur, most didn't even hear when the winner was announced as Elmer Morrison of Mt. Elmo for his hog El Prezedente'.
The trip back home was much different than the trip down the mountain of just a few days before.  Jim Bob was trying not to cry and trying not to let any one see when he couldn't help it.  Smedley was wondering, "Why a man who runs his mouth fer a livin' cain't think a nuthin' to say to ease his own boys hurt?"  Flora Jean with her usual skill was keeping everything running along.
Life got back to normal after a while.  Oh sometimes Flora Jean and Smedley would think about that $200, but they tried not to.
They were reminded about what really matters a few days later by two items of news.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead died.  "Says here in the paper thet all the heirs is in an uproar over whose gonna git what.  The Lawyer came n' locked up the whole business 'til they kin git it sorted out."
"An' looky here, Says Reuben C. Galepoke was arrested last week fer sellin' illegal whiskey in his store."
The Winstead estate was tied up in court for years.  Jim Bob had forgotten all about Mahershalalhashbaz when it was finally settled.  When all the papers were finally cleaned out a letter was found in Mrs. Winstead's old roll top desk.  Eventually it found its way to Private First Class Robert Smedley, Fort Campbell Kentucky.

Dear James,

For over twenty five years it has been the practice of Winstead Farms to pay top dollar for the finest hog produced in Jefferson County.  My foreman informs me that though I have purchased the hog that won the blue ribbon, I have not obtained the best.  If you will be good enough to bring your animal by, my bookkeeper will write you a check for $200.

Sincerely,
Mrs. W. W. Winstead

Jim Bob just smiled.  "That was mighty expensive bacon we et."


[* The name of Jim Bob’s hog is taken from the book of Isaiah, 8:3.  It very roughly translates as one who is quick to grab up what he can.]

Previous Tale  --  Epilogue

Saturday, October 5, 2013

Irene's journey

This post is pretty rough, but it is what it is.  
My Mom, Irene Hargrove Merrell died this past Monday, September 30. 2013.
You can see the dates on my mom's little autobiography.  The only form in which I had it was as typed pages.  I simply copied them here as images.  
Since Mom's record ends 13 years ago, I added an addendum.  I haven't edited it, so again it is what it is.  I just wanted to get some stuff down while it was on my mind and the rest of the families.
I hope reading about my mom will bless you, as knowing her has blessed many.












Added by Howard:

Until about 2007 Mom's life continued in the same pattern.  She enjoyed living in her little apartment that is attached to my house.  She enjoyed visits from the other kids and from the grandkids who were now out on their own.  Christopher, her oldest Grandchild gave her the name Gooma.  I think it was because in Christopher's world all the regular names for a grandparent/great-grandparent had been used up, so "Gooma" it was.  The other greats followed along & soon even we adults referred to mom as "Gooma."

The situation where mom lived was ideal.  She was very close to Kathy and I, yet on her own.  She had her own kitchen, laundry, car.  Half of the garage was hers.  She parked her car there and had shelves for storage.  She even had a "backyard."  It consisted of a small deck, a little table with two chairs, a couple of planters and a bench, where she would often sit in the sun.  The warmth seemed to help her arthritis.

As mom indicated she had suffered with various ailments most of her life.  I was amazed at the level of health mom enjoyed at this point in her life.  She often went to Texas in the winter time to visit my brother and avoid the worst of the cold and snow.  She enjoyed meetings with a quilting group, outings with the Senior Saints, and all things related to her church.  I'm glad to say that, while she had days that were made hard by sickness and pain, and she never really got over missing Dad, she was quite happy.

Kathy and I began to notice, however, that Mom was more forgetful.  We were concerned that she wasn't taking her medicine properly, things like that.  One day, unknown to her, I followed her to Walmart, to see if she could still drive.  She passed, and stayed on the road for a few more months.  After eye surgery the doctor told her not to drive for a time. She planned to drive again.  Kathy and I had our doubts.  She had allowed one of our sons to use her car while she was grounded.  It needed some work.  She wanted it fixed, so we had it fixed, probably spending more than it was worth.  As the time approached for her release from the doctor, Kathy and I were sure mom shouldn't drive any more.  We talked to my siblings and they agreed.  I dreaded the conversation, but a day or two before her medical release she and I were alone at church.

"Mom, the other kids and I don't think you should drive any more."
With barely any hesitation she replied something like, "OK."
It took another thirty seconds to discuss what to do with her car.  I suggested giving it to one of her granddaughters who was going away to school.  She thought that was a good idea.  In less than two minutes the dreaded conversation was finished and she never complained afterwards.

I'm not sure if mom's mind went back to the days when I was four and five, and we lived in a small apartment in Harvey IL, maybe.  The apartment, back then, had poor heat, especially in the kitchen, so to warm the space mom would sometimes light the oven and open the oven door.  The apartment she lived in a few years ago, had a little electric range.  She got in a habit of turning it on for heat, sometimes forgetting she had done so.  We also found a strange odor in her apartment one day.  Investigation revealed that she had put some chicken in her stove one day, and forgotten about it.  If I remember correctly it wasn't even cooked.  After a few days, the stench got pretty bad.
About the same time she began to mix up her medicine.  We had been using one of those seven day pill boxes for some time.  Maybe on Wednesday, mom would notice that Monday and Tuesday were empty, so she would take pills from Wednesday- Saturday and put them in the empty compartments.  On a couple of occasions she found some pills she wasn't even taking any more and supplemented several day's stock.
We turned off the breaker to her stove, and found all her medications and took them to our house.  We would give her her meds. three times a day.  As long as she was in the apartment she was still able to make coffee, and work the toaster.  She would get her own breakfast most days.  It might consist of toast with chocolate pudding on it, but she got breakfast.  We would eat one meal together, either in her apartment or at our house, and for the other meal we would bring her a plate.  Several times she mentioned to Kathy, "I think something is wrong with my stove."
Kathy would go over and appear to fiddle with the controls, and announce, "You know, I think there is."
Mom would again forget for a while.  Kathy was glad she never lied to her, or had to have an unpleasant confrontation.

Shortly before mom moved out of her apartment, Kathy and I planned to take a trip to Texas to see our son and his family, and my brother.  We took mom along.  It was her last trip (other than the final move she made to Indiana.).  Her inability to adapt, her obvious lost-ness in unfamiliar surroundings, and some struggles with personal hygiene made it absolutely clear that she needed other living arrangements.  My sister, Judy, had recently become an empty-nester.  She had room and wanted mom to make her final home with her.  Since her twin sister, Carol, lives about a half mile away, the situation was ideal.  Mom had a very nice two room suite, with her own bath.  For most of the time she was there she was able to come to the table and get her meals.  At first she helped with simple tasks like folding laundry or helping with meal preparation.  As her mind deteriorated she would "straighten up her room" which consisted of taking all of her clothes out and replacing them in new locations.  Finding them provided my sister with excitement.
Fairly soon Mom forgot her old home.
She couldn't name any grandkids.
Ted, Becky, Kathy and I became unknowns, though it appeared to me by some of her gestures that Mom knew we were someone who belonged.
She began to confuse Judy with Carol, and then couldn't remember either of them.
One of the most difficult times for my sister were the times when mom would cry with confusion.  She couldn't remember who she was.
Finally, her mind dulled to the point that she wasn't confused, just, mostly, blank.  I likened her life to looking out of a moving vehicle through a narrow slit.  She saw nothing of the past, or future, just the immediate present, which I am glad to say still had moments of joy for her.  Probably her chief joy involved little children.  She enjoyed meeting Fiona, my brother's older grandchild and Gooma's seventh great.  She was able to meet number eight, Ava Rae, via Skype.  My Brother and I were at moms for a visit.  Mom reached out her hand and tried to touch the babies face that she was seeing on the computer screen.  For that moment she was happy.

For quite a while whoever was feeding mom would have to repeatedly remind her to take another bite.  A few weeks ago, those reminders became ineffective.  She stopped eating, and then stopped swallowing liquids.  Hospice came to help.  In her emaciated condition, bedsores appeared.  Thankfully, they were controlled, but with no nourishment it was clear that mom would soon die.

In a flash of clarity that my sister will treasure for all her life.  Mom looked at her and told her, "I love you too."
A couple of days later Mom died.

What a privilege it was to know her and be a part of her family.

HM, October 5, 2013

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