Sandwiched Genes

Cupboard Love

2012-01-20T23:18:00.000-08:00

Nonna is a woman who knows her own mind.

Diabetic Negotiations

2012-01-10T23:24:00.000-08:00

Big enough to ride

2012-01-08T12:47:00.000-08:00

Welcome

2012-01-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

Who needs a cat flap when you have your own personal concierge?

Slave Labor

2011-12-30T23:22:00.000-08:00

There's a fine line between keeping someone gainfully occupied and exploitation:-

Sleepover Aftermath - where is everybody?

2011-12-27T14:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you don't notice that someone's eyesight might be failing until you bump into the obvious.

The light was poor, but the body count was unmistakable.

Wearing your insides on the outside

2011-02-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

In February I finally pick up where I left off and plop onto the sofa for a breather. With needles in hand I dive into the project with my bifocals in position when Nonna appears by my side.

“Wot you got dere den?”

“Knitting.”

“Knitting, knitting, knitting. Always you are with the knitting. I tink you are a tricoteuse.”

I refuse to rise to the bait, smile but make no comment; partly because I see the hearing aide is adrift and partly because I’ve not knitted a thing in months.

“Wot it is dis funny ting? A bag?”

“A scarf,” I bellow. About all I have time for these days. “It was supposed to be a Christmas present but I didn’t quite get around to it.”

“Good—dat way you are ready for next year. Wot color is dat den?”

“Green, her favorite.”

“It is an orrible green. Like something dat as gone bad. It’s a funny ting isn’t it,” she says patting the knobbly yarn. “I tink maybe it is like gangrenous intestines.”

.............. I'm sure it will catch on.

National Boundaries

2010-12-20T18:11:00.000-08:00

They both demand attention at the same time. My son needs his Pikmin repaired forthwith and Nonna required her spectacles superglued, posthaste. She has no qualms jumping the queue.

"You ave to wait your turn," she says shooing him aside, "I need mummy more."

His mouth drops open, aghast, "But...you said...mummy."

"So wot? Wot it got to do wiv you den?"

I interject, dispute resolution and interpreter to the fore--put the fire out before it starts, "It's alright dear. Nonna just forgot for a moment. Maddy and mummy sound pretty much alike," I whisper as the hearing aides are still in the mail.

But he's not mollified for a moment, "no ... she is saying the English but Nonna is Italian."

Melting moments

2010-12-12T09:55:00.000-08:00

If you continuously search the same six inches of your very large suitcase at intermittent intervals, such behavior can become seriously distressing very quickly.

Emotions run on high octane and it can be difficult to break the cycle. Intervention requires sensitivity, a quality which seems to dissipate under stress. In addition, if English is your second language there is a tendency to revert to the mother tongue and small words become irretrievable. It’s a process of adjustment, a bit like laundry, spray the stains, soak and steep overnight in bleach for a brighter future.

Most of the time we cope well and remain on track, but every once in a while something hits home. The words may be off but the sentiment is sound.

It is indescribably sad.

“You know Maddy?”

“Hmm?”

“I used to be so proud of my head.”

Pearls in unexpected places

2010-03-07T23:37:00.000-08:00

It’s the pursuit of the day, looking for keys that aren’t there and are not needed.

It begins as a small speck of dust, a mild irritant that scratches away through the minutes that stretch into hours. It’s a familiar tale, which flickers between OCD, perseverance and Alzheimer’s. It does not respond to the usual remedies. Distraction is only a temporary lull in proceedings before she picks up where she left off, back on the hunt for the ever elusive keys.

We have many other keys available, which might work as a fob, but it’s a trick that’s unlikely to work, more likely to ignite anger, because she’s nobody’s fool. The keys belong to her home in England where she’s lived most of her adult life, the same keys to the same house, keys that are definitely stored in secure long term memory, not whispering in and out of the short term.

There is no respite or relief in sight as distress levels rise, and it’s not just me. I see her pause in the middle of her room deep in thought, furrowed brow and bitten nails. Her frustration is palpable. Power ‘off’ on the television – she means business. I try not to pry to closely, but it all jumps out at me: cat litter, pop-corn, shredded tissues, discarded clothes. It’s just like teenagers, I have to allow some slack, a trade off between independence and privacy, but I’m still tinkering with the balance.

It turns the day of rest into a race but the children chortle as they play, loudly. I complete another pointless circuit of ‘helping to find,’ before I step outside for a breather as I’m out of platitudes and placaters.

As I flop into a garden chair the air is filled with the noise of leaf blowers, the rhythmical rapping of the green woodpecker, the cawing of pet parrots from up the road and the pneumatic stapler of the house builder three doors down, when I hear the door behind me and the shuffled steps as Nonna arrives by my shoulder to hover. I try to relax my neck and arrange my face before she says it, because I know she surely will.

“So Maddy… you’re dah lucky one aren’t you!”
I exhale and turn because I really can do think when my head is on straight, “indeed I am.”
“Doh!” she puffs with annoyance as she cuffs my arm, “you’re no fun today.”
And there she is, right back where she should be, faculties in place, the right place.
“How do you mean?”
“You know I just do it to annoy you, don’t you?”
“Indeed… I certainly do.”

Who's Next?

2010-02-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

People don’t talk about Alzheimer’s as a spectrum disorder.

I think we should.

Like a lot of disorders, there are good days and not so good days, we’re in the middle of one of the latter. Fortunately the children are at school and all other adults are otherwise occupied away from home, so it’s just me and Nonna.

She’s having a tough time so I scale down my ‘to do’ list to one single item – produce supper for 8 people. It proves to be a tall order as Nonna is restless, a condition exacerbated by several liters of espresso. It can be difficult to take charge in such situations but I decided to be ruthless at ten in the morning – when the last coffee bean was crushed and consumed, I lied boldly – ‘we’ve run out – no more until I’ve been to the shops.’ After that I’m in the dog-house, although I’m really in the kitchen.

I chop in the kitchen, onions, four pounds, in preparation for something or other, as I’ve not had a moment to formulate anything vaguely resembling a recipe.

We’re run through the usual list of repeats several times – the inventory of household members, the date, the whereabouts of pets, their names and ages, what I am doing currently, why I am doing it and how I am doing it. We’ve searched for all the usual suspects, glasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, handkerchief, book, remote control, pills – many and various, as well as a whole miscellany of other items too numerous to list. As I dump onion skins in the compost bin on the window sill, I feel a presence close by – you know who. I speed up and brace myself because if my productivity gives out today we’ll all starve. I chop faster as my shoulders rise to my ear lobes. Damn her rheumy eyes – go away and come back in five minutes – but bless her cotton socks. I don’t know how to play this game, a newbie, drowning, but I have to stay afloat, play it by ear, for both of us.

I wait for the question and wonder which one it will be? I can more or less guarantee it will be ‘wot about dis den?’ without any other clues. I try to swallow my ire and breathe deeply to find a tiny kernel of energy reserves, otherwise known as patience, but the silence endures.

I’m ready.

I turn to see her behind me and suddenly I see her – she’s at a distance of about six feet, a polite distance. I recognize that woman. It’s the woman on her best behavior, I’ve seen her many times before, mostly when we have guests or visitors. It’s her, ‘I’m a dear, sweet, innocent, old lady,’ act, the one she uses for strangers. I feel my face tighten and eyes prick. We all do it sometimes, pretend to be something we’re not – she’s had more practice than most, a magnificent master class graduate. She hovers with uncertainty, wearing a courteous half smile, standing demurely with one hand holding the other. It’s an affectation I’m all too familiar with. I try to think of something to say to the woman, something in code that won’t startle her. I smile at her cautiously and she flutters back, “ello.” I put down the knife gently on the board, as we have already said “good morning” approximately 50 times. I try and think of something neutral, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Ooo thank you. Dat would be nice.” She doesn’t advance or retreat, holds her ground, rallying, as she asks, “do you like coffee?”
“I do. I’ll make one for us both shall I?”
“Ooo lovely.”
Her diction is sharp as she fakes an English accent, copy cat to blend in.
As I move ten feet to the right she takes a tentative step forward to ask, “you like it ‘ere?”
“Oh yes. I do. Very much. Always sunny in California,” I add with a wave out the window. Her eyes follow as she mutters under her breath, ‘California.’
The espresso machine is noisy but I watch her floundering as I drown and I wrack my brain to ease the pain and hunt for the trip switch to get her back on track. Her finger tips dance on the edge of the kitchen counter, “so…I like it ‘ere,…I tink I ‘ave been ‘ere before?” she asks nervously and I see her eyes flick over my face to check, coz she’s sharp and if I give her a minute she’ll click into place.
“Yes, it’s a home from home really. After all, you’ve been coming here for twelve years,” I bellow. I see a little shudder rattle through her, nothing to do with the sound level as her eyes widen in disbelief. I need to give her a toe-hold, something not too obvious. While I back pedal, thinking, she’s pro-active, “it’s a lovely ‘ouse dis.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And big!”
“Very big, just right for all eight of us.”
If her eyes get any bigger they might just pop out. I skip the toe-hold and opt for the leg-up, “Mike will be home soon,” I lie.
“Mike…”
“Michael, your son, my husband.”
“So…you’re happily…married now…for ‘ow long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“As long as dat…”
“Long enough to have three children, your grandchildren.”
“Children…”
I point to the photo of her favorite grand-daughter, the one she hates because it makes her look older, a pre-teen instead of sweet innocent. The façade falls away as her face formulates a frown. Bingo!
“Ooo I ‘ate’ dat one, it’s an ‘orrible picture.”

A little of what you fancy does you good

2010-02-21T23:44:00.000-08:00

With the children at school and Nonna on nap, I take a calculated risk. It’s probably the ideal, if not only time, to make dash to the post office. With a bit of luck I’ll get there and back, before she has the chance to wander very far, if at all.

I leg it.

Round trip in 20 minutes, I return to find Nonna sitting on the bottom stair by the front door.

“You ave?” she asks.
I look around, mining for clues or cats or kittens – give up. There is a worrisome smell of burning plastic.
“Have what?” I bellow as her hands hold her hearing aid.
“A man?”
“Yes. I do. Your son. Mike.”
“Not im.”
“Then who?”
“Another man?”
“I don’t have another man, just the one.”
“Yes you do.”
“Well there’s the boys.”
“The boys?”
“Your grandsons. Owen and Leo. They’re at school. Until three.”
I point at the clock, praying for relief.
“Not dem. Di udder one.”
“Which other one? Mr. B? My son in law?”
“Who?”
“Mr. B. He married Tamsin in the summer.”
“Who?”
“Tamsin. My daughter, your step grand-daughter.”
“Never eard of im.”

I start to edge backwards, slowly, towards the smell as she follows, still talking,

“Dat’s right, he’s in dah kitchen.”
“Who’s in the kitchen?”
“Dah udder man.”

I turn at the entry way to be greeted by a large unfamiliar male, “Hi I’m Paul, I’ve come to measure for the shelves,” he beams. I turn to glare at Nonna, who shrugs ineffectually, “wot I tell you!” I decide to deal with her later, or possibly delegate to her son. She returns to her room, shuffling and making the very annoying cat calling sound.

I surrender to the Shelf Guy, adjust my brain and make ready for some earth shattering decisions that will transform my minute galley kitchen into an efficient working space.

Paul steps towards the cupboard the size of a walk-in closet, large enough for at least two, adult bodies, because in America everything is bigger, much bigger. Behind him, the washer washes but the drier has stopped. He opens the cupboard door to see piles of miscellaneous stuff, because there are no shelves. It is the most useless cupboard in the whole house.

Paul notes down measurements and leafs through glossy, magazine choices. I make my vision blur so I have a pleasant, fuzzy, future without the fear of price.

I take a peek at the drier – just my luck - the darned thing has fused, seized and ceased, containing one load of plasticized laundry – I can hear the washing machine laughing at me, and his pal, the spare/second/emergency washing machine, bought by accident, out in the garage, tittering.

Nonna appears as Paul and I turn our attention back to the matter in hand,

"So...wot you do den?"
"Just measuring," I bellow.
"Oh you don't need to measure, I'm sure you'll fit."
"How do you mean?"
"It's just dah right size."
"The right size for what?"
"For hiding."
"Hiding what?"
"You and your fancy man," she beams.

I look over to Paul to see if this is a common American term, even though I'm fairly sure it's not. Nonna looks at him, waiting for a reaction as his skin turns a deep crimson, "wot dah matter wiv im den?" she giggles to me, "no sense of humor!"

Crisis management - help!

2010-02-13T16:14:00.000-08:00

The Crisis Support Team arrive because it is Thursday, but I had forgotten.

I show another two people into my home – they’re an investment in the future, for the boys – if and when, we ever experience a crisis, Ben and William will be on hand, or rather, at the end of a designated telephone line, ready to come and help me, wherever I am, with whatever is going wrong.

That’s the theory.

However, before the theory can be put into practice, they have to form a relationship with the boys, so when the crisis hits, everybody knows everybody else; not just a couple of strangers butting in.

Building relationships takes time. One hour, once a week, on a Thursday. Building a relationship with people, some people, some autistic people, can take a lot longer.

Reality means I now do what I have to do, while being observed by Ben and William. I suffer performance anxiety. It’s difficult enough doing what I have to do, but in the heat of the spotlight, it’s even worse. What’s worse, is how it highlights my ineptitude.

I have a short-hand version for Nonna because I do not want to explain their purpose in front of the boys at 50 decibels – 'Ben and William are from Social Services,' I say, because it’s the nearest translation I can manage.

Nonna is always perplexed by their appearance, every week, several times each visit, whilst they’re physically present, as well as volubly critical – “but dey don’t do anyting. Why dey are ere den?”

It gets worse later, after Ben and William have left, at dinner, discussion time, around the table.

Nobody listens to anybody else, as usual. It’s a cacophony of independent conversations and monologues, now that the boys can talk, because speech therapy was a success, up to a point. Until Nonna voices the subject she always voices on a Thursday night, to her son, who’s tired at the end of the working day:

“Dey came today.”
“Who came today?”
“Wot dey call again, Maddy?”
“Social Services,” I mutter, because I can see it coming but can’t avert the derailment without appearing like a rude bully of elders - a bad role model to the children. I need to think of something!

“Dat’s right. Social Services came to see dah children. But dey didn’t do anyting.”
“Ah.”
“So wot appen next den?”
“Nothing.”
“Are dey going to take dah children away?”

That’s the bit they always hear as they stampede from the room, with shrieks of terror to rival Banshees.

Next week I'll interrupt, change the subject, or start singing.

Fiendishly cunning

2010-01-10T23:13:00.000-08:00

I decide that I can cope no longer – the woman is driving me completely barmy – me and my shadow, Nonna. There is nothing else for it but to find something constructive for her to do with her time – but what? I’m generally against manual labor for elders and in any case the potato peeling debacle was less than successful – potatoes the size of peas – novel but ultimately mush rather than mash.

It is as I’m listening to the BBC radio 4 on my ipod as I fold laundry that I hit upon a cunning plan. I hear about Margaret Drabble and her fondness of jigsaw puzzles, just like my own mum. I’ve always been dead against jigsaw puzzles, on principal, could there be anything more wasteful in the time department. Fortunately I’m a woman without principals or convictions - easily swayed by any half persuasive argument – a turn coat. After listening a little further I believe all the handicrafts that one might do of an evening, the knitting, the sewing, the embroidery and so forth, all result in a physical item being created. All too often the crafter gives their work away – whether kindly or otherwise – so it’s still just as much of a waste of time. Why waste physical resources when you can just waste time instead? I’m sure Mother Nature would prefer the latter and jigsaws can be done over and over again by different people.

I dash upstairs and dig around the cupboards until I find it – an Escher jigsaw puzzle printed upon card rather than wood, cellophane still in tact so I know that every piece, all 1000 of them, will be there – it is a stunning study in light grey, mid grey and slightly darker grey – fiendish. I’m pretty confident that Nonna will be unable to resist. Margaret Drabble explained the psychologically - we need to complete things, to make order out of chaos – but I have my doubts.

My doubts stem from a little known fact, but I’m not sure how good you are at keeping secrets? Nonna is older now, so she chooses not to tidy nor clean, which suits her just fine. However, even when Nonna was younger than she is now, she also choose not to tidy nor clean, because it suited her. Now me, I come from a formidable lineage of compulsive cleaners and tidiers, my mother did it, as did hers, and hers; it’s genetic, something I can’t fight. That said, Nonna’s attitude – ‘it’s too boring and there are lots of other things that I’d rather be doing with my time and since we’re on the subject who decided that it was my job anyway, do I have to do all that in addition to the mothering thing?’ It’s a compelling argument.

So that’s why I’m a little doubtful. If you don’t have the neat and tidy gene do you also skip the ‘must complete compulsion?’ Are the two related? They seem as if they might be.

I find the biggest board available in the garage, remove cobwebs, dry and place in the middle of the dining room table while the children are at school. I lie in wait to capture my prey. Nonna appears on cue to hover at my shoulder as I pretend to be deeply absorbed with puzzle pieces.
“Wot you got dere den?”
“It’s a jigsaw puzzle.”
“I can see dat. Wot you do?”
“I’m matching the pieces.”
“I can see dat. You are always too busy to be sitting down in dah middle of the day.”
“Indeed I am, I’ll just go and rinse the rice.” I skip into the kitchen secure in the knowledge that before too long Nonna will be entrapped. “Dis is an orrible ting you ave ere!” she calls as she edges herself into a more comfortable puzzle matching position.
“Don’t finish it all at once!” I reply as I whiz to the compost heap, alone. I continue to complete all my many boring household chores for some considerable period of time without any physical interruptions. Communication regarding puzzle progress is easy as I frolic and flit about whilst Nonna remains static, glued to her dining room chair.
“I tink maybe some pieces are missing?”
“No, no, no, rest assured every single piece is there, definitely.”
“You didn’t take one den?”
“No, of course not. Why would I take one piece?”
“To hide it of course.”
“Hide it? Why would I want to hide one piece?”
“The last piece.”
“No. That would be too cruel.”
“Oh good. I just hope I can remember den.”
“Remember what?”
“Where I hid it.”
“!”

And Always Keep Ahold of Nurse, For Fear of Finding Something Worse

2010-01-03T23:54:00.000-08:00

It’s cookie and pastry day before the holidays - an attempt to get ahead of the permanent food shortage. Not only must we produce enough items for our own consumption but also sufficient for neighborly gifts. In addition, each child must have a turn in the kitchen, one on one with mum.

Although we’ve been in the States 15 years, I still have a hard time rolling ‘a rebel without a cause’ in dough – it’s a tall order - but Jimmy Dean is the number one brand of sausagemeat out here, and sausage rolls are a must on the menu. Nonna observes our doings from the safety of the dining room table as she paws over a library book.
“Ooo look at dat,” she says turning the page of ‘Snakes and Reptiles, the scariest cold-blooded creatures on earth.’ “I’ve seen that somewhere today.”
“Really!”
“Yes, now where was it?”
“It must have been something else. It can’t have been a Fer-de-Lance, not here, not in California.”
“No, no, I’m sure I saw it.”
“Maybe you remember seeing it in the book, perhaps earlier today?”
“No, no, no. It’s the first time I see dis book ere.”

My youngest son recently decided that he has Ophidiophobia, although whether he has a real fear of snakes or merely warms to all those syllables is still unclear – an affectation or an affection for all things Indiana Jones? Who knows?
I step over for a closer look, hands air born and flour covered, “no, look at the map, in the corner, they’re in Central America and Brazil…..Mexico……they don’t live this far north, none in California.” I make sure the last phrase goes over my shoulder, back to the kitchen so my youngest son gets the message, the fact, indisputable, from a text book. He, the chef, is busy squeezing dough through his fists – it squirts through the gaps in his fingers just like a fidget ball but less calming. I nip back to salvage warm pastry, oily from over handling, on the turn, grey and lifeless, a sticky mass.
“Now where did I see dat ting?” she continues.
“Can’t have seen a snake as it was too cold to go out today – remember?”
“No, I tink I saw it somewhere around ere…….in dah house.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hmm ere somewhere,” she repeats as her hand circles the air, close by and about to materialize, charmed out of the ether. I am ready for this conversation to cease, but only the cookery is terminal as her grandson keeps a beady eye upon her, just in case. She stands gingerly, fingertips braced against the table for balance as they begin to tap, semaphore over the surface, searching like heat seeking missiles until the inevitable collision.

“See!” she beams. “Ha ha!” she chortles as she lifts the volume in my direction, the evidence in black and white, so I am red all over, “it’s yours isn’t it? Dis is what you are reading!” She doesn’t say ‘stupid girl!’ out loud; she doesn’t need to.

Cream – who’s got it?

2009-12-27T23:13:00.000-08:00

“You bought a what!”
“Not ‘bought,’ ‘adopted,’ – remember, we’re Americans now.”
“But why. Why now?”
“It’s been on my mind for a while, but this morning – that was the final straw.”
“What happened?”
“Rascal brought another mouse into the house.”
“Again?”
“Yes – but I caught it - so hopefully no babies this time.”
“Well that’s alright then. So why did you buy another cat?”
“Because I didn’t kill the mouse, I let it go in the garden.”
“In the garden?”
“Actually that’s a lie – I threw it over the fence into the empty lot.”
“Like a rickety old wooden fence is a cast iron barrier.”
“Quite.”
“Why didn’t you kill it?”
“You never kill them.”
“True.”
“And anyway, I wasn’t going to kill it in cold blood in front of an audience.”
“Which particular audience?”
“All the children and Nonna.”
“Ah – I can see why you’d want to avoid being type cast as violent annihilator of innocents.”
“Indeed.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you bought another cat.”
“Well Rascal caught it again and brought it back into the house. This time it escaped - upstairs. Took us all morning to track it down and trap it – mayhem, absolute mayhem. I haven’t managed to get one thing done today.”
“And buying another cat is somehow going to increase your efficiency? Did it ever occur to you that now you’ll be chasing double the amount of vermin?”
“Hmm. But this new cat is going to eat them.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Indubitably. She is a ferocious mouser. It's genetic.”
“Rascal will leave - he’ll be jealous.”
“It’s a female cat.”
“Spade?”
“Yup. Smaller than Rascal, company not competition.”
“I don’t know how you can have such confidence in such inanity.”
“I’m merely quoting your mother.”
“Ah. So…….?”
“She’s absolutely thrilled – Christmas has come early.”
Again.

Presented on a salver

2009-12-20T23:05:00.000-08:00

“So Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Wot you do wiz doz tings den?”
“Which things?”
“Doz tings dere – dat you made.”
“Ah the sugar-paste. They’re not finished yet. I’m painting them silver.”
“You start a new career?”
“I don’t think I could earn my keep making cakes somehow.”
“No. De other.”
“The other what?”
“You know…….” I watch her as her arm flourish as she makes a little twirl, I am none the wiser, “er…..Turkish dancing?”
“No!”
“Hawaiian?”
“No. Dah ladies of dah night.”
“!”
“Wot you call dem?”
“Prostitutes?”
“No!”
“Good. I think I’m a bit old for that.”
“Wot they called when they take their clothes off, dancing around?”
“Strippers?”
“Yes dats right.”
“!”
“So dey’re not props then?”
“Props?”
“I thought they were breast coverings, like coconut shells.”
“!”
“The handles are a bit cheeky though.”
“!”
“At least dey’re dah right size.”
“!”

A bid for freedom – sheath your weapons

2009-12-17T09:40:00.000-08:00

I take the advice of my brother, in advance of any possible New Year’s resolutions. I request a copy well ahead of the December meeting of the Mystery Book Club. Once a month, early evening, more than doable.

People differ so much in their doings but I know my own preferences. By page 247 I know who did what, when and why, but I leave the last chapter, the solution, untouched, so that I’ll be able to relish the moment. It shouldn’t be gobbled in snatched seconds, stolen from my other responsibilities during the day, but savored, like the last chocolate in the box.

I have that time slot ear-marked, late morning, where I plan to sit in the front room by the window and wait for the boys to return on the school bus. 20 minutes of uninterrupted silence. Indulgence, once duty is fulfilled, so that the all will be clean and fresh and bright in my mind for the evening meeting. Who needs a lunch break when you can have a book break and brain food?

Or at least that’s the plan.

I drive home – with a bit of luck Nonna will be up so that we can have the third breakfast sitting. The combined expedition: school drop off, supermarket, post office and library pick-up, was swift. I pause at traffic lights, knee deep in bags of stuff. I review my latest campaign, the one I think I can manage, rather than the one that I know that I can’t.

The ‘can’t’ issue is delegated to her son. I’m aware that elderly people often worry about money. I’ve experienced it first hand. My dad has one version, the version where you hand it out to every Tom, Dick and Harry, smile without a care. His signature began to falter on the cheques, so my mum intervened. It was a joint account, no choice. Now he’s limited to cash, small denominations only. But I do exaggerate.

Nonna has another version, the kind where everyone is a thief, no-one can be trusted, least of all light fingered daughter’s in law. I claim ignorance – ‘ask your son, not my department.’ I agreed at the time – so clever – so non-confrontational - no travelers cheques. No Greenbacks. He’s in charge of the finances. So what if I’m not a woman of independent means. What would I do with a stash of pounds sterling? Did I mention the exaggeration?

I stick to doable things, manageable campaigns, as I know my limits, or at least some of them. I cannot rationally explain why this issue is quite so irritating. All I know is that I’ve had enough. I've devised a counter measure to stop one of the repeats, just one, the second new repeat. This one repeats at approximately 20 minute intervals, just after the money repeat, just before the other repeats.

Nonna arrives in the kitchen, cross, clutching her carrier bag to her chest; Christmas presents which she has forgotten about. It is a very heated exchange – necessarily louder than I would wish. Often the children are well within ear-shot. They have known for over a week that Nonna has chocolate for them for Christmas. Whilst we have this conversation, each boy echoes the exchange, word for word, which is presumably why it has become ever more excruciating, not for them, but for me.

“Wot about deez tings den Maddy?”
“They’re for the children, for Christmas, remember?”
“They are for me?”
“From you. We bought them for you, because you were worried about the presents, remember?”
“But I don’t ave any money?”
“I know, we paid at the time. It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

But she does worry.

She continues to worry.

My answers were inadequate the first time around and have continued to fall short of the mark thereafter. I am aware of my failing but unable to climb back out of the mire. Hence, like most cowards, I’ve decided to simply remove the object of obsession. As soon as I get home I shall take the bag elsewhere, for safe keeping, for the next 21 days, because I am selfish and do not want to flail incompetently for the next three weeks. Not a time out or a confiscation, merely moved to a pending file, out of sight and hopefully out of mine. Far from perfect, but ‘good enough’ is all we can manage these days.

Mercifully we usually shift gears seamlessly into other, older, more familiar repeats:-
“Wot about dis one den?” she’ll ask, every time a knife is in sight.
“I’ll put the cover on in a minute, don’t worry.”
“Ferocious dey are, fiendish weapons!” So animated and expressive with her powerful Italian accent and flourishing hand gestures, each time, every time, because each time is the first time.

The boys love it. They think it’s hilarious. All cutlery has been renamed in accordance; not 'pass me the knife please,' but ‘hand me the ferocious,’ the infection is contagious and permeates every mealtime.

As I pull into the driveway I notice that the front door is open. I run in to check but nobody is home. Her coat is gone, as is her bag, which is good. There is no note, not that I expected one. I nip over to my neighbor to see if anyone saw her leave:- “sure, while after you left in the car. Did you know you’ve left the door open?” We have a brief exchange, eyes on the look-out for wandering elderly people or would be burglars and I’m off, trolling the streets. I am aware that I am a danger on the road as my attention is directed to pedestrians rather than cars. I have my phone but no-one to call:- ‘dear husband of mine, sorry I mislaid your mother today whilst I wasn’t paying attention, I’m sure she’ll be fine with her deafness, diabetes, heart condition, high blood pressure, one leg an inch shorter than the other, intermittent attention, left over jet lag, in unfamiliar territory, on the wrong side of the road and a penchant for jay walking.’ I have a whole two hours to find her, two hours before my loyalties will be divided by the impending arrival of the school bus.

She’s cross and defensive when I find her, just by the main road, heading in the wrong direction.

I’m cross and worried, but less worried than I was as I lock her into her seat belt.

I press a cup of coffee into her chilly hands as she sits hunched in the family room, diminished.

I wait until I am calm and then ask if she can recall our address. She’s almost right but the difference between 10,000 and 1,000 is about 10 blocks – it’s a very long road. I also know that like everyone else, if she were flustered and lost, her recall would also be challenged, assuming she could hear them, assuming they could understand her. It’s assuming too much by a long chalk.

She is adamant that there were people, other people, in the house when she left. She is not responsible for leaving anything unlocked - “but I can’t be a prisoner in dah house!” Luckily she’s only half teasing. I can see how elder abuse comes about, no matter how unwittingly; it doesn’t have to be physical restraints, merely the denial of freedom of movement. For her well being? For my well being? Where does one start and the other end?

I ask if she has her map or the card or the ‘locator’ in her bag, which is mean because I already know the answer. I step out to answer the phone as she rummages in search of what is not there.

I assure her son that all is safe and well, if a bit shaky. We decide to talk, later. Something must be done, but what? My last chapter beckons but the book club will have to wait til next month, as there are some things you can’t sweep under the carpet.

I replace the receiver to the cradle as I think. It’s tough to be reliant on other people for transport, especially when you’re used to your independence. Although she’s a voracious reader, she can’t be expected to be stuck in the house, morning, noon and night with a book. I step over to the computer, flip to the library page and reserve two copies. In a month’s time we can go together, to the Mystery book club meeting, leave the hungry hoards to fend for themselves. I return to the family room where Nonna sips coffee and nibbles from a Holiday print candy wrapper from her bag, “nice chocolate dis! Such a nice present. I love Christmas. Thank you.”

One down, 2 to go.

Choking on the Chalk

2009-12-15T10:31:00.001-08:00

One of the great things about elderly relatives and old people in general, is that eventually they just stop trying. Instead of giving inadequate, age inappropriate, naff presents, they admit defeat and hand over the cash instead. It’s a fabulous eventuality for the youth of the era. The kid doesn’t have to try and thank the elderly relative in a fake manner, tinged with resentment for the dinosaur puzzle or a doe eyed baby doll. Instead, the youngster can demonstrate genuine glee, even if the amount is more suitable for a child in the 1920’s.

Cash is cash, no matter how meager. Young people can forgive the miserliness, because old people don’t grasp inflation or the exchange rate or the current value of either. I know, or rather, I remember when that transition crept into my own life, several decades ago. You love them in their decrepitude but really, how hard can it be? Something’s triggered in the expanding brain of the nearly teen; ‘ah well, what can you do, chalk it up to experience.’

It’s easy to remember amid the noise of the television, washer, drier, dish-washer and radio, simultaneous with my all too good fortune, white goods, wealth and an easy life style; as I pick out the candy wrappers from all the plant pots on the ground floor, because diabetics can cheat and none of my children are that devious, yet. I turn off running water and light switches as I travel in the new daylight. I gather detritus as I roam, lost glasses, dropped hankies, notes, clothes, dust bunnies and pills. How can any of us reasonably keep up? So much has changed in nearly a century.

I hear my daughter scream with delight as she comes rushing out of Nonna’s room at this unearthly hour of the morning. Wide eyed she fans out the green backs, a fortune. I watch her father flair with a mixture of irritation and despair, but Nonna’s not bothered, she’s perfectly happy, as anyone would be on Christmas Day. We sit everyone down in front of the pile of birthday presents, wrapped in blue for a girl. Her excitement is uncontainable as she begins - cards first; it’s a rule.

Pacing is everything.

The third card is from Nonna. As she rips it open; more greenbacks appear, a King’s ransom. I put my body between my daughter and my husband, before his hands can snatch it back, a gesture that no-one would understand, as instincts ignite reaction. He turns away to gouge his eye sockets, but that won’t erase the picture. All his careful plans dashed. All his precautions evaded. There is little hope of avoiding a repeat performance at Christmas, in ten days time.

Not now.

Don’t make a scene.

Deal with it later.

They’ll understand, given time, or at least one of them will.

Dossier for deviants

2009-12-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

I rush around the kitchen on maximum efficiency as it’s time to ramp up production. Next to me on the counter is the menu plan for the entire quarter, three whole months, to encompass the holiday season, when there will be 8 bodies skulling around the place all in need of three meals a day and two snacks.

Nonna is jet lagged but vertical.

Special needs, special diets – not my specialty.

I pause between cake icing and caramelized onions to deal with dog barf.

“So Maddy……….wot do we ave ere den? Divorce papers?”
“!”
Her fingers pat the stapled papers and ruffle the corners because she is the source of the twiddle gene whilst I scrub the carpet nearby. She pats down her body in search for the all elusive, reading glasses. The document is formatted to size 14 font, perfect for me but still too small for her. “Here, borrow mine.” She takes my reading glasses with doubt, “I don’t think deez will elp.”
“1.25 will still make a difference.”
“Not when dey are so mucky.”
I nab them back as I wash both hands and glasses in the sink - “try them now.”
“Ooo dats better. So what do we ave ere den?” Her fingertip helps her navigate the plan amid many sighs. She nods with approval every time she finds any item that includes pasta. Little squeaks of satisfied joy every time she comes across pizza. In my children’s ideal world, they’d eat eat pasta or pizza daily, quite possibly both. I’m the only deviant: whilst I loathe both of them, pasta is quick and pizza is purchased. On the one hand it keeps them all optimistic; on the other hand it’s an easy night off for me. It would be so easy to have easy nights every night. She turns page after page, week after week, month after month. “Lot of chicken you ave ere. You like chicken?”
“It’s cheap.”
“Ah!” She pats the paper, a sign of finality if not fatality, as she makes her little raspberry noise, the sound equivalent of ‘rats to that!
“Something wrong?”
“No…..it’s just I see dat we’re not going out to a restaurant at all……..in the next three months.”
“Hmm……I see what you mean.”
“Does he keep you on a budget? Housekeeping?”
“Sort of……he earns it, I spend it.”
“Oooo you are a lucky woman den!”
“I suppose I am.”
“Dah budget doesn’t stretch to dinner out sometimes?” It’s my turn to sigh but she cottons on without another word, “I spose it is a lot isn’t it……all 8?”
“Hmm…..” I pause, spoon mid air as her son appears in the kitchen brandishing his brand new phone, great for games apparently, “ooo dere you are! Where you bin hiding with your silly phone.”
“It’s not silly, it’s a Droid.”
“Don’t tell me about google goggles again! You and your toys and your gizmos! We ave more important tings to talk about.”
“!”
“So wot you tink den?”
“Think about what mum?”
“Shall we go out to dinner?”
“Sure if you like. Where would you like to go?”
“Not fussy. Anywhere, just make it sometime soon.”
“Soon? Why soon?”
“I want to go whilst I’m still alive.”
“!”
“Why you are always so fat?” she asks him as she pats his tummy affectionately before leaving, as she calls over her shoulder, impish grin in place, “maybe it help keep your bag of bones wife alive too!”
“!”

Annual Solicitations – sackcloth and ashes

2009-12-01T11:17:00.001-08:00

I chatted with my neighbor the night before because he’s older than me and has far more life experience to share - his parents are in their nineties. He knows a lot about Alzheimer’s. He had lots of siblings and ten children. I only have two, one brother, one sister, piggy in the middle. I wore my new cardi, a voluminous grey affair that the shop assistant described as ‘fashionable.’ I was advised that it wasn’t a cardi but a duster, as I still have a lot to learn. She asked me a great number of questions, unusual at the check out, until the penny dropped, as it often does, occasionally, eventually. I was happy to advise her that my accent was British, happier still to tell her that British people speak English too, delighted to explain that England is a tiny little island and is jolly close to Europe. It could be sarcastic but it’s not, just a wee private joke. It made me smile. It always makes me smile. It’s a smile I recognize from my Dad, the most polite, courteous and considerate man I’ve ever met, although my emulation falls short of the mark. I suspect you need to be a Victorian or an Edwardian to match; bygone eras are the yardstick and don’t allow for millimeters.

She was a lovely young thing, fresh faced, apple cheeked, huge dark eyes, and silky haired, ripping off security tags with a vengeance, although it doesn’t do to type cast, even though we all do it. I do it today because my smallest baby is nine, which means it is my mother’s birthday too, eight hours ahead, back in England. I could have phoned at midnight, but octogenarian’s don’t appreciate early morning calls, so I waited. I waited until after all the presents here at home, the excitement of his last single digit birthday: Lego, cats and gold-yellow-orange, he’s so easy to please; the positive reinforcement of the first window on the Advent Calendar.

So much hopefulness amongst the festivities.

I wonder if the shop assistant was the eldest in her family? So forthright. Or the youngest – so girlish. Or the middle child – so pleasing. I wonder if birth order really has an impact? If you’re typecast as the baby of the family, does it stay with you forever? My brother was the baby; he was the brainy one. My sister was the eldest; she was the beautiful one. I was the middle child; the amiable fool. We knew our place, content with the pecking order.

My parents talked in code, made reference to a different cultural age: my brother was the heir, because he was the only boy, fee simple, absolute but not yet in possession, my sister was the eldest unmarried daughter, spinster of this parish, at 12, because it was amusing. I remember the staff at the bank being very amused when I turned up at the window with a hand written missive from my father, my authorization to collect his money, in his own unique style. There could be no mistake. I might as well have had it tattooed on my forehead – my gene pool. It might have been humiliating but it wasn’t – just plain funny. No other customer was likely to describe their emissary in such terms, as marital status is a thing of the past.

It was difficult for him, my dad. I was the first person to ever be divorced in our family. It was a shameful disappointment; the mark of parental failure; it was a heavy blow. It was a long time ago. Divorce did not exist within my parent’s circle, unheard of, unprecedented, unbelievable. The bank tellers were indulgent as they wiped away the tears of mirth – ‘your driver’s license would have been fine!’ they beamed as they passed the note around, colleague to colleague, so that each could read it, glance in my direction to check, see if we were a match – we were – the offspring of an eccentric. There were many ways he could have described me – I was glad it wasn’t age, height and weight, another chattel. He was old school. Whilst I was unmarried, I was his responsibility. Children can be so unwittingly cruel.
When I was divorced I returned to the family fold, soiled goods.

‘This is my daughter – see we have the same eyes.’

‘This is my daughter – she’s skinny like me.’

‘Don’t know where she got her height from – must have been the postman when I was away at sea.’

‘This is my daughter, the dud, divorced.’

‘She has the same wicked sense of humor and an eye for detail.’

All such a long time ago as I listen to the telephone - one ring and he picks up. I can see him sitting in his winged backed chair as we exchange the formal pleasantries that are customary, a script. We practice the script every Sunday before he finishes with the same line, “would you care for a word with your Mother dear?” because that’s all he can manage these days. Today is my mother’s birthday, not Sunday but Monday. The drugs keep him docile, manageable. If my mother is home my father and I exchange two sentences first, before the hand over. He sounds exactly the same. If my mother is not home we exchange three sentences. No-one would ever know. Always the same exchange, two lines or three - so I can tell if she’s home or not. He used to be ten feet tall, magnificent. Now he’s nearer 5. Three sentences means phone again later, as he doesn’t function as a message center. He can legitimately claim deafness when required but I’m still startled when he asks, just one extra question that changes everything and I wish I hadn’t heard –

“who are you?”

I remember, just in time, because I’m good at time travel, back to the 70’s when everything was so much more simple, “it’s me dad, your youngest unmarried daughter.”

Permanently Waving

2009-10-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

If you have not already read ‘Deaf Sentence’ by David Lodge then I would highly recommend it as a thoroughly entertaining read whether or not you have any particular interest in hearing impairment. David Lodge exactly describes the emotions and practicalities of life with dwindling hearing, the frustrations of the victim and those around the victim, their respective inability to communicate. ‘Deaf Sentence’ is black humour, the kind I like most. One scene of many, particularly illuminates the underlying complexities of why a hearing impaired person might ‘pretend’ to understand a conversation but I shan’t include a spoiler.

Suffice to say that we experience this situation all too frequently as Nonna’s hearing declines. Sometimes it is simpler for her to just simply agree, a nod of affirmation, because deafness can be exhausting for the victim in the land of the hearing majority.

I believe I may have mentioned the repetitive nature of my relationship with Nonna. What I haven’t mentioned is that there are several different classes of repeats, the daily ones, the less frequent ones that simmer and boil up once a week and lastly the intermittent ones that pop up at random intervals. The last batch are generally stories of yesteryear. I had assumed that all family members were familiar with each category even if they didn’t share my categorization.

The intermittent repeats are many and various. One is an on-going nag. Nonna is an accomplished painter. Her neighbours gave her a photograph of their cat in the hope that she would produce a portrait of the feline. Nonna is reluctant to oblige. Her reasons are completely logical:- it’s a lousy photograph of the cat, doesn’t do him justice and his eyes are closed, the most important feature of any creature. We print out a picture of the moggy frequently, as they always seem to get lost. So it’s a recurring theme, her obligation and her avoidance, a mere prevarication.

Another is when my daughter offers to cook dinner, another random occurrence although very welcome, when I have commitments elsewhere in the evening. Her efforts are splendid as a new cook, wholemeal, meat-free, healthy and hearty. The children also object but that’s following one unfortunate incident with the timer because one person’s ‘well done’ is another’s ‘cremated!’ Sadly, that one incident of cremation has been seared into Nonna’s memory bank, a recipe for disaster, permanent. The association has been made, a cast iron link.

Although I warn Nonna in advance that I shall be out for the evening, it is not until I physically leave that she connects the dots. Suffice to say that some elderly persons have certain expectations when it comes to food, possibly more so if they are Italian. Whatever is on offer is shunned in favour of bread and brie, with a hunk of salami on the side. I’m not unsympathetic. Healthy eating is all very well but if I were over 80 I think I’d prefer to have my taste buds tickled than a clean colon.

Another is the visit to the hair dresser. “Wot about dis one den?”
“Which one?” She pats her head and pulls at strands of hair in exasperation.
“My air!”
“Yes, we must make you an appointment.”
“Wot I do wiv it den Maddy?”
“Short at the back, swept at the sides. You remember how you liked it when I did it last time?”
“Not a perm den?”
“No, you hate perms. Too much bother.”
“Yes dat’s right. Looks fine when you come out but dah next day! Ooo gawd it’s a bird’s nest.”
“Right. No perm.”
“No perm.”

Then there’s the other one, or one of the other ones, that follows intermittently after the nightly squirrel surprise during dinner. This amounts to a debate as to whether some animal lover has created a permanent structure of squirrel runs through the trees or whether it is a naturally occurring phenomenon. The latter, I assure you.

It is when the hairdresser issue is addressed that I realize that I am way behind schedule. My elder daughter offered to take the matter off my hands as she volunteered to take Nonna to the hairdresser when she went herself. However her life is busy, newly married, newly working. Hair is not a priority and days have morphed into weeks. I suggest that she may wish to push the hairdresser to the top of her list, the list that now has ‘acquire or purchase suitable clothing for substitute teacher post,’ in the number one slot. She accepts that personal appearances can sometimes be important. She recognizes that a professional appearance also encompasses hair. She jumps on the phone and confirms that she and Nonna will be off and coifed within the hour.

As they leave I have a quick after thought. I run after her to add detail, “remember, no perm just short at the back and swept back at the sides.”
“Got it.”

I continue my supper preparations and prompt each child to comment positively about older people when they return from the hair dressers. We practice out loud just to make sure there are no hic-cups, no references to curly frogs, no mention of lanolin and sheep and certainly no references punk rockers and their ideal hair colour.

By six o’clock, supper time, they are all well versed, exhaustively rehearsed. By six fifteen they begin to flag. There is no reassuring telephone call. By six thirty, they have lost interest in everything, as well as hair and food. There is no sign of the salon goers. By seven fifteen interest in everything has waned to inertia. Empty stomach walls adhere to each other. By seven thirty the dried up, not to say burnt bake, is somehow far more appealing than it was at it’s peak, an hour and a quarter earlier. All of a sudden there is a flurry of activity as Nonna bursts into the room accompanied by my fully flustered daughter. The heated debate that ensues is difficult to unravel. A combination of English as a second language to Spanish, Italian and some Asian language which wasn’t Cantonese, a mislaid hearing aid, the accusation of the possible theft of the battery to the hearing aid, conspire to confuse. They’re all tangled up with breathy swearing and volatile hand gestures. Whatever the truth to the matter one thing is clear, Nonna is annoyed. The second thing that is clear is that my daughter is exasperated. The third thing that is pertinent, is a very tightly curled head of hair, Nonna’s hair, as well as a very tightly coiled temper.

Now lets be fair as I wasn’t there, I was at home, so I shall choose my words with care. I can picture it all too clearly as I have experienced it many times before. There are certain situations where Nonna morphs into another being. She adopts an easy persona, that of the dear sweet little old lady with beaming, gentle smiles of compliance. This generally occurs under a very specific set of circumstances. It is in situations where the conversation is too difficult to follow, she is with people that she trusts to interpret accurately for her and she hopes that her stereotype will be accepted by whosoever is about to act upon her, benignly. Not an act so much as mere expediency.

The hot air of emotion in the kitchen is mixed with the crusty black flakes of the supper as Nonna attempts normal breathing patterns in the face of adversity.
“Well……enough of dat……..what about supper den……or did I miss it?” I look at the casserole with a certain degree of doubt, Nonna’s eyes follow mine, “dat’s not supper is it?”
“Well……..”
“I tink I am not hungry really……I just ave a bit of bread.”
“With some brie?”
“Ooo yes dat would be nice.”
“And salami?”
“Ooo yes.”
“Right.”
“Wot I don’t understand is……?”
“Yes?”
“Why you are ere?”
“I live here.”
“No……I mean……ow can she be in two places at once?”
“Who is in two places at once?”
“Tamsin…….she is ere cooking dis…er…..dinner……and she is with me at the hairdresser?”
“Well…..I think perhaps……”
“Next time you take me to dah hair dresser……leave her to cook dinner?”
“Well I….”
“It’s better dat way.”
“You think? I thought you didn’t like ……….her dinners?”
“I have cheese! Dat’s good. I make it in minutes…….but my hair! Gawd! Dat will be months!”

Fruit Salad

2009-10-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

“So what’s your favourite fruit then?” I ask my son as he makes vomit noises during dessert despite half a gallon of cream to take the edge off. It has been a very long dinner, the light is fails as the chill rolls in.
“Chocolate pudding.”
“That’s not a fruit dummy it’s not even a proper food! Is it mom?” But I can’t get another word in edgeways as the more verbal exercise supremacy.
“There’s only one food group and it’s not a pyramid it’s shaped like a bean, a cocoa bean.” I turn to my silent son, the one who loathes fruit, all fruit, especially bananas, a mere whiff from fifty paces will make him gag, “what about you dear?”
“Nuffin.”
“What’s your favourite fruit?”
“Bats.”
“Fruit…… fruit to eat?”
“Oh…..er.…..maybe……pineapples.” It’s like extracting teeth to get him to say anything sometimes.
“Nonna……what about you? What’s your favourite fruit?”
“Me? I like anything…..everything….pasta is my favourite though.”
“FRUIT!” we all bellow in unison. The unison is surprising as it means that in one very rare occasion we are all on exactly the same page at the same time. Unfortunately, Nonna, unusually, is wearing her hearing aid, together with fully functioning batteries. I watch her reel with deadly feedback and blink, repeatedly, as she regains her composure, “oh, fruit you say? Well I like peaches best, whatever is in season really.” As an after thought, seconds later, when no-one is listening and the conversation has moved on to the subject of a fish called croissant, the French for fish which sounds like croissant but is really poisson, she adds, with an expression crippled with distaste, “but I do hate bananas,” and in a snap, my son who has only uttered 12 words since breakfast blurts, sotto voce, in a tone of dripping ice, “welcome to the club.”

How wonderful to have a built in baby sitter

2009-09-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

I arrive back at the house, otherwise known as Fort Knox, from the school run to find the gate and front door wide open. I pause on the driveway, motor running. I tell the children to remain in the car, to listen to their sister and wait until I return. When I return, I shall return with M & M’s for anyone who has managed to remain in the car, because the lowest common denominator usually works. I remove the car keys from the ignition so that when the criminal escapes from the house, he or she will be prevented from abducting my babies. It occurs to me that if there is a mad axe murderer in the house that I may, inadvertently, have given my children false hope. Since I am not armed with a handy ax myself, I pick up the abandoned garden fork instead. What a pity that it hasn’t been washed recently, if ever. Inside I find that the back door is also wide open to the garden. As many as 50 flies are having a party in the mid-air space of my dining room which means that every door has been open for some considerable while. I dart over to Nonna’s room where I find her asleep with a book open on her chest, peaceful. I check every room in the house to ascertain whether or not peace reigns throughout.

It does.

Or rather it doesn’t really. I may as well have a yard sale and dispose of the entire contents of the house, give it all away, hang a neon sign on the open doorway saying ‘muggers and thieves welcome, help yourselves, anytime, open all hours.’ I grab a handful of M & M’s and step out towards the car. En route I find Thatcher, good and faithful hound who thankfully has decided to remain in residence rather that escape as puppies so often do. I march out to the car in the 80 degree heat and reward my good and faithful children. I beam so that they know that there is nothing whatsoever to worry about, even though there really is, it is of no concern to them, at least not for now. The adrenalin rush still courses through me as I hang onto the door frame as my children slather themselves in well deserved chocolate, because they’ve taken a giant collective leap forward. It’s the nature of things, forwards and backwards, swings and roundabouts, one step ahead, several in arrears. My youngest pipes up in-between munches, cheerful and sweaty, “Nonna is bad.”
“Is she? Why is she bad?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“She isn’t as bad.”
“As bad as whom?”
“As bad as us.”
“You’re not bad. Who told you you were bad?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“Dah door is being open.”
“I know…….but it’s o.k.”
“Nonna did it.”
“I know but that’s alright. Nonna is allowed to leave the door open…….sometimes.”
“She forgotted.”
“You’re right she did. But that’s o.k., we’ll help her to remember to keep it closed.”
“But she isn’t being bad to go outside.”
“That’s right, no harm in taking a little walk once in a while. It’s probably good for her.”
“Yes, so she’s not bad.”
“Right. Not bad, good.”
“She is good…..gooder…….good to go outside nicely.”
“Hmmm. We can all go out nicely now can’t we?”
“Yes but Nonna goes out nicer,” he struggles with the seat belt and pulls off his T-shirt bathed in sweat as he hops out of the car.
“Nicer?”
“Yeah.”
“How?” I watch him make a dash for the house, for the shade, for the cool as he discards his clothes en route and shouts over his shoulder, “coz she ain’t naked.”
“!”

Eye opener

2009-09-15T20:01:00.000-07:00

A very long time ago we had children we few words and a great many frustrations. Several developmental leaps later, they had more words and a great many more frustrations.

My job description at the time was ‘the finder of things.’ I had been trained by a couple of experts. One would scream ‘Thomas’ and off I’d trot like a heat seeking missile, but not as accurate, nor fast. During a lull on the demand for brain cell function, it occurred to me that it might be a jolly good idea if I could train my children to find their own things. I devised a not so very cunning plan and we made a start. We experienced a great many hic-cups due to my short sightedness and my inability to predict roadblocks but eventually the ‘search’ plan materialized into something doable.

If I had my time over I would probably have used different words but the words were adopted, swallowed whole at the time and became deep seated. It became a prompt, an aide memoire that was thoroughly well scripted. I would approach a howling child and gently calm him down until words became possible. Clever people will know that if you have to attend to a howling child this means that you as a parent have missed the opportune moment to intervene, prior to the howling, but I still had a great deal to learn about pre-emptive strikes.

Once calm we could begin. Identify the name of the missing item, although that in itself might take quite a long time. Having identified the item we would then think. We put on our thinking poses, cartoon style, an index finger to the temple or mouth, deep in thought. ‘Aha! I know, why don’t we look for the thing with our eyes.’ It was an exaggeration, it was banal, it was a prompt to promote body action, movement and the first step to active problem solving.

But as I said, it was a very long, long time ago.

I bump into Nonna in the hall as she rears around the corner with faulty brakes as her right leg is one inch shorter than the other, “sorree, sorree, sorree,” she mutters as she regains her breath. “Can I help you? What are you looking for?” Her hands continue to pat surfaces as they search for whatever it is. Whatever it is, is currently nameless, or if it can be named it most likely will come out as the Italian version. She mimes instead. “Ah glasses!” because I’m quick off the mark like that. “You get a coffee and I’ll find them for you.” I trot off to check out all the usual suspects. The four pairs of reading glasses and three pairs of sun glasses have had a unduly high rate of escapism of late.

My son has witnessed this exchange, unusually. He watches Nonna walk to the kitchen and me go in the opposite direction. I see his head swivel to double check before he darts after me in Mr. Speedy mode. He has a huge cheesy grin plastered to his face as he flits around me on fast tapping tippy toes and a rapidly nodding head. His lips open and shut rapidly as do his hands, one at each cheek to show three lipped synched mouths all chattering in silence, ‘help ME! Help ME! HELP ME!” mouth the lips. “I’m helping Nonna, I’ll help you in a minute dear.” But he persists running back and forth in front of me, running feet, running mouths, cheesy grin and nodding head. In Nonna’s room the glasses are in plain sight as he bounces up and down on the bed, still miming, "HELP ME!" I return to the kitchen with mosquito boy still in full zap mode, and hand the glasses to Nonna. She smiles and returns to her room with a coffee. My son, deflates in another exaggeration of exhausted disappointment. “Right. What is it dear? What are you looking for?” But he is wordless with a scowl. He mutters something inaudible. “Pardon?” He whispers something quietly, probably the first real whisper in recorded history around here. “Why are you whispering dear?” which is a counter intuitive question in view of the fact that it is his first and I should be celebrating the event. He points to Nonna’s room with a stab for emphasis. “Nonna? What about Nonna. She’s in her room now, she can’t hear you.”
“She couldn’t be hearing me even if she was being here!” he scoffs.
“Enough of that matey. Use your kind words, just not in a whisper.”
“Why for she is not be lookin for her own stuff coz I am be needin for you to be helping me with lookin for my own stuff?”
“Because you know how to look now, don’t you.” He pulls a face, as he recognizes that it is indeed true, he is independent in that skill area, most of the time. “Darnit!” he screams, returning to his usual modality of 50 decibels.
“Hmm?”
“ELDERS IS TAKIN OVER DAH WORLD!”

Not as green as you’re cabbage looking*

2009-09-11T23:02:00.000-07:00

The thing about dementia is that it is often very gradual. A person can swing gently back and forth within a certain range, take a dip below, and bubble up above, all in the same time period. I exist in a zombie period of time after four consecutive nights with my nocturnal son. I sit on the edge of the swimming pool with my feet in the water fully dressed but unwashed. Green top, green trousers, green cardi, crumpled and un-ironed with green shoes waiting as it’s the closest I can get to co-ordinated. The washing line flaps in the hot breeze loaded up to full capacity. Ostensibly I am supervising swimming. In theory I would save myself time in the washing and dressing department if I did have a swim, fully clothed but I’m on a strict time limit before Respite workers arrive. It is very important to appear to be co-ordinated before such people, public people, people who measure ‘togetherness’ by a dress code. Nonna appears after her thirty minute warning. Thirty minutes allows the children to work off the edge of their exuberance so that they’re less likely to mow her down.
“You not swim today?”
“No, not today.”
“No? Ow come?” She peers at me, critical. “You know, you look dreadful,” she says with a certain eerie sincerity.
“Tired.”
“Maybe you need a break?”
“I’m off to the dentist in half an hour.”
“Ah dats good. Is dat good?”
I give her a quick flash of my retainer, the never ending saga of teeth.
“Change is as good as a rest, hopefully just a clean.”
“You’ll be lying down den.”
“Right.”
“Good……..So Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“I ad a visitor last night.”
“You did?”
“Yes, crawled into my bed at 5:03…..so I suppose it must ave bin morning den.”
“5:03?”
“Yes, all like a …..like a……wot it called again….an edgehog! All pointy elbows and knees.”
“Ah.”
“You must ave been asleep I tink?”
“Must have been I suppose.”
I shoed im away…….but ee came back again at 5:36.”
“5:36?”
“Yes…..al curled up like a little prawn. All wiggly…..like a cat trying to get comfortable.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Dat’s o.k. I just wanted you to know dat I know even doh you don’t tink dat I know.”
“Thank you.”
“Dat’s o.k……….it’s not often I can truthfully claim to ave ad a gentleman visitor in dah dead of dah night.”
“!”

* do not make assumptions based upon appearance.

I swear to you

2009-09-08T23:11:00.000-07:00

The subtleties of language are complicated by culture, custom and hearing skills.

Because my children are American and have the power of verbal speech they are apt to say “I’m done,” on completion. This phrase is less common abroad. If you are abroad and say “I’m done,” it would be more likely to indicate that the speaker had run out of patience with the task or conversation. The speaker might make a hand gesture at the same time to emphasize their annoyance, terminating the chat. I think Brits would say ‘I’m done with this,’ but I’m out of date so don’t quote me. It is because of this inference that Nonna seems to always catch this phrase, it catches her interest because of the underlying implication that her grandchildren are upset about something. Saying ‘I’m done’ in English, especially if it’s your second language as Nonna is Italian, is the American equivalent of ‘I’m outta here’ or ‘enough already.’ Nonna, being the concerned grandmother that she is, will then encourage the children to explain why they are upset. Her inability to hear their replies usually makes for an escalating scene of frustration all round.

In essence, it runs like this:-

“I’m done.”
“You’re done? What ave you done?”
“I’m done.”
“What ave you done?”
“I said…I’m done?”
“Yes I know you said you were done but I am asking you what ave you done?”
“I’m done already!”
“What have you already done?”
“I’m done!”

Let’s just say that it’s one of those little repeats that I would prefer to repeat less often as it makes for lots of hurt feelings all round and ever greater degrees of confusion for everyone. Hence, just lately, I have been trying to persuade my children to say that they are ‘finished’ instead of done. I thought it would take a long time, as so many of these things take longer around here than they do in other places. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when after any number of prompts, I found that the children helped each other out and began prompting themselves. When the ‘done’ word popped out, I was right on their case with my pre-emptive strike, but I wasn’t quite quick enough as my youngest son shouted at his brother at 50 decibels, “no dummy! Use the F word!” I watched Nonna’s hands fly to her mouth, speechless, before the hesitant question, “did ee just say wot I tink ee said?”

It’s a gentle reminder, to think through the natural and all possible consequences of one minor change and just how far the ripples will travel.

Hide and seek

2009-09-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

It is often difficult to describe someone to other people with accuracy. So often our own bias creeps in to distort the picture. At best we can only capture little glimpses, snapshots in time. If someone has accumulated more than 80 years of life then any description is sparse but I’d still like to share a patchy fragment.

Nonna is wildlife’s best friend, always has been always will be. She has never paid hard cash for a pet, they simply deposit themselves on her doorstep in the sure and certain knowledge that they’re entitled. Thus far, they have proved to have made the right choice. If you asked her, Nonna would tell you that hers has been an ordinary little life of no great import. She’s quite accurate of course, because I’ve seen the photographs of her and her chums. Old sepia photographs of her with her group of fellow mountain climbers as they sit at the bottom of the mountain, resting. I think you would need a rest after fitting planks of wood to my boots to ski down en masse. It would have been tough to keep up with all those fit young men, the only woman, or maybe that’s just me? These days she would tell you that she doesn’t like crowds although I suspect that is influenced by her hearing loss. You can see how she copes with crowds when we take the children to a theme park. There are fewer older people at most theme parks than one might think. There are lots of grandparents but so many of them are merely middle aged. There are fewer octogenarians. Of the octogenarians that are there, they are mostly observers. Our octogenarian is most often found squished into a plastic helicopter next to her grandson, attached to a pole, forty feet in the air, waving to the ground, laughing. She’s the sort of person that will pinch your M&M’s when you’re distracted, especially when she’s the distraction, such a tease. Of course these days it’s so much easier to get in and out of vehicles designed for the under 11’s, now that she no longer needs a cane, now that her hip replacement has mended, now that one leg is an inch shorter than the other.

The shorter leg taps the bar under the table in the garden as dinner draws to a close. Her hearing aid is in her pocket as we spoon feed two yelping children, nearly the last spoonful over a period of more than 40 minutes. Nonna’s plate is empty, it’s been empty for 35 minutes but she has no complaints as she comments on squirrels and hummingbirds, strokes the cat imprisoned on her lap and feeds the dog morsels by hand, because she is exempt from all the rules. I pass the spoon to my eldest daughter, a hand over so that I can address Nonna directly and loudly over the ambient level of noise, “want to play hide and seek?”
“Wot?”
“Hide and seek?”
“You want me to ide or you want me to seek?”
“I want you to seek the tortoise, Fred.”
“Oh no. Eee is lost again, Gawd dat creature is a menace.”
“No. He’s in the pen. See if you can see him.”
“In dah pen? Out ere in dah garden?”
“Yes. Come on.” I lead her unsteadily over a couple of yards to the edge of the house where we have a make shift pen for Fred, because he is so small and can’t be given free reign yet. She peers into the two by four square foot of grass, shaded by a towel as we don’t want to accidentally cook him in the Californian sun. She reaches down to search with her hands to no avail. She steps into the pen and then gingerly crouches down on all fours to hand search the blades of grass. “Am I getting warmer?” she asks with the evening sun on her back. “Bit more, keep going.” Her fingers brush his shell and she parts the grass to reveal a very small tortoise. She pulls him out backwards from the hole that he’s dug himself into, “well look at dat! Wot a pretty little ting she is!” she beams with delight.

Bullies and favourite grand-daughters

2009-09-01T18:42:00.000-07:00

Since the ‘clean up after yourself campaign is floundering,’ I decide instead to push for a snippet of independent living. It’s a tricky one, as diabetics need to eat regularly. Elderly people also need to be encouraged to continue independence in small manageable tasks but it’s hard to draw the line between that and being a slave driver. It is just as easy for me to make sandwiches for everyone in one fell swoop but I need to have the children attempt to make their own, despite the mess. Why not do likewise with Nonna? Several reasons immediately come to mind, not all that different from the barriers my own children face such as ‘where is the bread/butter/filling/knife/plate etc. It’s all very time consuming.

I am also alarmed to note that we have fallen into an unfortunate habit, although the fault is entirely mine. Nonna appears at around lunch time in the kitchen. I mention lunch. She mentions that she really isn’t hungry, at all. I remind her of the importance of eating regularly. She leans against the door and asks what if anything, there might be to tempt her. I take out the temptations and before I know it I have made a sandwich, a custom order. I pass her the plate, she beams with just the tiniest hint of satisfaction. Just call me Pavlov! She’s a force to be reckoned with and no mistake. Having learned from my mistake, again, try a new tactic. We repeat our daily conversation up to the point of temptation, whereupon I suggest she has a look in the fridge and make whatever she would like. I then remove my self to a safe distance, the utility room, to fold laundry but within shouting distance. My back is turned towards her as I lift and fold and lift and fold surrounded by four already full laundry hampers as I’m sure the visual reminder will keep her on track. She may be mischievous but she’s not certainly not mean. I’m confident that given time she’ll persevere rather than ask. I listen to her mutterings as she gently sequences herself through the lengthy series of tasks. I know she can do it.

“Where is she?” she calls but I ignore the distraction, at first.
“Who?” I call over my shoulder as we’ve only just finished the tortoise repeat.
“Where is she?” When she says it a third time I turn to face her, holding a packet of Salami in her hands.
“Penny.”
“Penny who?”
“You know…….your daughter, Penny.”
“Do you mean Tamsin?”
“No dah other one.”
“Ella?”
“Ella? Is dat er name?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” she acknowledges with hesitation.
“She’s at school. I’ll collect her in half an hour.”
“Right.” Her first grandchild of three. The similarity between the two of them in both humour and temperament is quite marked. Her joy at the birth was a sensation, unparalleled by subsequent arrivals, as is often the way with these things. She puts the open packet of salami on the counter next to the bread before she wanders off, leaving, but she pauses and calls over her shoulder, “I know I shouldn’t say it, but Penny az always been my favourite.”
Lucky Penny or bad Penny? I wonder who she is?

Changing the points

2009-08-30T23:56:00.000-07:00

We talk our talk, the alternate version from the "I do miss fruit" conversation. It’s like a regular detour, shunted off to a siding, waiting for the freight train to pass.
“So Maddy?”
“Hmm.”
“Are your teeth still bad?”
“No they’re alright now,” I beam a demonstration of my flashy straight gnashers in confirmation.
“Oh…..so………ow come you don’t eat fruit den?”
“I do, every day, several pieces, certainly far more than the 5 a day.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Do you remember last night when you all had ice-cream and I had raspberries?”
“Oh yes…..so ow come nobody else eats fruit?”
“They do all of them, especially the girls, they’re both fruit bats I swear.”
“Really?”
“Yes…..that’s why I’m always buying it, why the fruit bowl is nearly always empty.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Ooo eats it all den?”
“We all do, pounds and pounds, all 8 of us.”
“8? Eight of us?”
“Yes, all eight.”
“Ooo are all deez people den?”
We switch seamlessly into the ‘head count’ conversation where each person is itemized, has their name, age and marital status confirmed before we move onto pets, and whether or not they are spade, the benefits of being spade or neutered, swiftly followed by the conversation pertaining to the sexuality of the tortoise. As we reach the end of this cycle, several times a day, it becomes far easier, although sometimes I feel ever so slightly dazed at just how many of these conversations we can slot together in one sitting.
“Well……..dats alright den.”
“Yes.” We both pause and take a deep breath, dry mouthed. She pats the counter for a few moments, revving up for the next exchange. She blinks at me a few times, something flips over, track back and we’re on the mainline again, “you know………?”
“Hmm?”
“I tink maybe everything is going to be okay.” I smile in reply as I’m sure she genuinely means it. It’s just a chink, like a little gear change, a switchover.
“So den?”
“Hmm?”
“I tink maybe you don’t love me any more?”
“Pardon?”
“Yes……I tink you forget to put on the BBC for me. Ow can I keep up with world events if you cut me off,” she scoffs, nudges my arm and giggles.

And other old sayings

2009-08-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

He’s barely over the threshold after work when I detail him off to remind his mother to take her pill whilst I finish off supper preparations. Even with the extractor fan working full tilt above my head I can still hear every word they say together in her bedroom with the windows open.
“I need to go to the bank to get some money. I aven’t been for a week.”
“You don’t need any money. Anyway, you’ve not been to the bank out here.”
“Ow long I been ere den.”
“2 months.”
“2 weeks……well I suppose…..”
“Months! Two months not two weeks.”
“Two months! Gawd I can’t ave been ere dat long. I need to go home. When I go home den?”
“September. Another month.”
“Gawd! Another month you say?”
“Yes.”
“It’s like……”
“What?”
“Like fish!”
“You don’t like fish. You hate fish.”
“I know……but it’s like fish.”
“What’s like fish?”
“A guest is like three day old fish.”
“What?”
“A guest.”
“What guest?”
“A guest! Me! You silly goose. A guest is like three day old fish!”
“Huh!”
“Smells bad! I’ve bin ere too long.”
“No you’ve not. Don’t be daft. This is your home.”
“Gawd it’s not at all. I ave my own ome.”

He re-appears in the kitchen, eye gouging. I feel a tad guilty. There are so many repeats that I assume he’s heard them all before. I feel a bit like a thief. She’s his mother not mine. It’s not just the repeats but the treasures of childhood, Mussolini, the war, Italy, her youth. Admittedly they’re repeats too, but I just assumed that we were singing from the same hymnal.

“I take it you’ve not heard that one before then?”
“The fish? Nope. Never heard that one before.”
“Funnily enough…….”
“O.k. Point taken. How often?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we use the same tactic.”
“Enlighten me?”
“She’s not a guest……she’s family.”
“Ugh…..that’s a bit gushy for you.”
“Only if you have to say it more than once and be sincere, then it grates a bit.”
“Pass the barf bag.”
“Believe me, I have every reason to regret the things that first come out of my mouth and are then cast in stone to be repeated, I’ve had lots of practice.”

Sharing a repeat

2009-08-25T23:04:00.000-07:00

The first time I was taken aback, as well I should be, but this is still one of my preferred repeats, even though I’m familiar with the punch line. One of our many daily exchanges. I find it quite endearing that she needs to check on each and every household member, their whereabouts, their welfare, from the highest to the lowliest. Our current exchange is much briefer than the original.

It goes as follows:-

“So den Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Wot about dis one den?”
“Which one?”
“Ow is she today?”
“Who?”
“Dah…..wot it called again…..?”
“Tortoise.”
“Ah yes. Ow is she today do you tink?”
“Very well.”
“Where is she?”
“In the tank, in the family room.”
“Not outside today den?”
“No we’ll put him out in the garden later to stretch his legs.”
“Dat’s nice. Wot iz her name again?”
“Fred.”
“Fred?”
“Yes.”
“Dat’s a strange name for a girl isn’t it?”
“He’s a boy.”
“Is he! Ow you know dat den?”
“Well…..we don’t really, not yet, we have to wait for him to get a bit bigger and then we’ll be able to tell.”
“You will! Ow?”
“If he’s a boy then the bottom of his shell will be concave, for mounting. If he’s a girl then the bottom of his shell will be convex.”
“Hmm….I see. It’ll be bad if she’s a girl……Fred.”
“Frederick for a boy. Frederica for a girl.”
“Oh…..I see. Fred…..always feminine of course.”
“Feminine? Like I said, we don’t really know yet.”
“No…..always feminine.”
“Well……like I said……we have to wait and see.”
“Feminine. Always. Tartaruga!” she announces with a flourish.
“Pardon?”
“La tartaruga, in Italian, always feminine.”

Note to self – in my next life, now that I have the benefit of hindsight, I shall study Italian instead of failing French, German and Latin, mixed in with occupational and speech therapy of course.

The new campaign

2009-08-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

The "children" return to school. I still worry about notes because they seem passive aggressive. Do I wake her to tell her I’m going out or do I risk her waking and finding herself alone and confused. Although my daughter is home, she doesn’t live in the kitchen as I do.

First off I would say that I’m not quite sure what I shall be doing but be sure that I will be doing something.

Nonna has always had two alternate versions:-
“What do you mean, I always sleep perfectly!” or
“No, I always sleep badly.”
It’s familiar territory, or at least it was.

Now it is different.

Recently we have experienced a new variation on a theme. She remains in bed for the majority of the day, dozing and reading, and dozing and reading. This seems an entirely sensible option when the weather is hot, the European Siesta option. However, lately the weather has not been true to form. Warm? Yes. Sweltering? No. I cannot be certain until I notice something else.

I knock, wait and enter with a cup of coffee. Not an early wake up call but a 9 o’clock call to action which I hope is a reasonable compromise for someone of advancing years. On my previous similar entries I had noticed that the rubber sheet had been discarded, unfortunate but perfectly reasonable. If it had been me who had be presented with a rubber sheet by my daughter in law I doubt if I would have been so tactful with the implied insult.

Since it is warm it’s also sensible just to use the duvet cover, alone and empty as a semi blanket and reject the puffy duvet’s heat. What is less understandable is the use of the fitted sheet as a top sheet where your body lies next to the bare mattress. When I see her smile back at me in greeting whilst clutching the elastic of the sheet I am at a loss to know what to say. Instead we run through our first meet and greet session before I leave on automatic pilot.

Back in the kitchen I am left with a sinking feeling, a very familiar sinking feeling. I stop worrying about why the tumble drier smells of burnt plastic. I talk to my daughter about it, another adult. She in turn tells me that she noticed the disarray on a previous occasion, meant to mention it to me. She didn’t mention it because at the time I was dealing with other matters, children’s matters, in the thick of it. She didn’t want to tip the balance, so she held it, held if for later, for now, for this moment now that the children are not here. A different moment, a different matter.

It is a matter of opposites, stark. It’s the emotion a parent experiences when their child first smiles, when it isn’t a burp or takes their first step, when it isn’t a stumble. The gasp of breathtaking delight is an anxious one, celebrating the first, anxious for the repeat. The parent of a child with special needs, who may have waited a lot longer, also knows they may have to wait much longer for a repeat, that the repeat may not come, so they hold back their expectations and practice patience, because given time and encouragement, it may just be that whatever this next skill might be, it might just, if they’re very lucky, become part of their general repertoire. It is precisely because we have these common experiences that this should be easy, plain sailing. Except. Except here, it is the exact opposite. Debatably a first step, one that I do not want repeated, or it if is repeated, to be repeated a very long time from now, and please delay inclusion in the general repertoire. The difference is the element of hope. It is hope that sustains us, the brighter future, possibly, always the possibilities, although now even that begins to wither. And that is exactly how it feels, in reverse, just so you know, and I know that you surely know.

So where does that leave us then? Whilst I’m not entirely certain, I do know that it somewhere between there and here. If we can get her up, fed, showered and dressed in a timely manner, then we’re probably not doing too badly.

Lets make believe

2009-08-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

I keep up a cracking pace all morning to get as much done as possible before the heat kicks in. The children play, noisy but happy as they have far more capabilities in the morning than later in the day. All the while Nonna sits on the sofa in the sitting room which functions like the main thoroughfare of the house. She holds a single torn sheet from a Garfield comic book. By mid morning at snack time, I’ve done just enough to get by, as good enough just has to do these days. I nip back into the sitting room just to check but she’s still there, static. I hover for a moment, indecisive as usual, bathed in early sweat. She beams and I surrender, “so Maddy!”
“Would you like a coffee and a snack?”
“No I’m quite appy ere……watching.”
“I thought you were reading?”
“No……..I just watch……it’s like watching dah tennis.”
“What is?”
“You! Back and forth and back and forth…….always so busy I tink.”
I give up and plop onto the sofa next to her. “I used to be so busy too…..” Her shaky hands finger the page the way they normally manipulate a hanky, constant movement. Hopefully calming, repetitive, familiar. I’m always fine until I stop. Because I’ve stopped I can’t help but yawn. She blinks at me, offended but up on her feet, unsteady, as she makes her way towards the kitchen. I skip after her in my size tens.

In the kitchen she is assaulted by the smell of fish, something she absolutely loathes, and mistakenly left by the coffee machine to cool. “Wot is dat terrible smell?”
“Fish pie. It’s for her birthday. It’s her favourite.”
“Disgusting. I’ll just have bread.”
“It’s o.k. I made you a chicken pot pie. This little one here.”
“Why so small?”
“It’s just for you, for one. Everyone else will have the fish pie.”
“Not me. Just bread. Where is dah bread?” She seems close to tears but I’m not sure if it’s fear or fury or frustration. I suspect it’s also mutual. I remember by “bible” readings but I am truly out of my depth.
“It’s just here, by the coffee maker, but it’s not supper time yet.”
“Only dat little bit……you will make some more?”
“Er….sure.”
“You make it now?”
“In a bit.” She rests her arms on the counter and shakes her head slowly, despair?
“I don know………I tink maybe you want me to starve!”
Dear Lord! I blink and swallow hard, close to the edge without a clue. The hub bub continues all around whilst we exist in this one tiny little bubble, stunned. Then she shoves me, gently as she breaks into a smile. “I tease you! You silly goose!” she beams as she gathers loose flesh around her midriff. “I tink I got a long way to go yet before I starve.” She’s surely saved me this time, but it’s sobering. “Why dah long face? You worry too much you do.” She walks away with a coffee, pulls a biscuit out of her pocket and calls over her shoulder “I know what you do……kill me off with sugar temptations!” chuckles the diabetic.

Circling around

2009-08-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

It is a rare occasion indeed for me to put my foot down, but sometimes I do.

A very long time ago when Nonna was a bit more with it, we enduring a very difficult period in our family life. You could call it a bit of a clash of cultures. You see for a long while, Nonna has been a diabetic, a fact that she took in her customary stride. However, when her son was also diagnosed as diabetic, a new habit occurred. Instead of checking her blood sugars within the privacy of her own room or bathroom, she and her son tested their blood together, in harmony, at the dining room table to compare notes as it were. It may sound unduly grand, however, I should point out that the dining room table is the only table in the house, central, in an open plan design.

The arrival of the testing kit was my visual cue to scurry the children away to another room. Over protective? Maybe. But at that time both the boys had a morbid fear of blood, associations with death and anything that could be remotely categorized as a dangerous weapon, which included nail clippers.

Many might view this as a perfect opportunity to up the anti on the desensitization campaign. A fair criticism but we were very, very far away from that stage of desensitization. It would have been the equivalent of marching on hot coals before you’ve mastered looking at them wearing sunglasses behind a protective barrier with your feet in a bathful of ice-cubes. Twice a day this ritual took place. Twice a day I would remove my children from view, as ever, the line of least resistance. All was well and goodish.

Good enough, until one day Nonna decided that the children should witness the ritual. Because I know her so well, I am confident that whatever her reasons might have been, and I’m sure there were many, her intentions were well meant. It was a spontaneous moment, combustible. The bedlam that ensued was catastrophic from any vantage point you could choose.

That was when I put my foot down. No more. To be fair, having witnessed the fall out first hand, Nonna was sanguine after the event. I had not been exaggerating. The fall out was grossly unfair to Nonna, as thereafter they refused point blank to go anywhere near her room which housed the instruments of torture.

Subsequently we exchanged that ritual for another. Twice a day Nonna would arrive in the kitchen together with her diary to slump against the kitchen counter, cross.
“Wot about dis ting den?”
“Ooo lets have a look. Hmm you readings are a bit high.”
“Why it is high you tink?”
“Probably the chocolate cake last night.”
“Did I ave chocolate cake?”
“Indeed you did.”
“Oh well ……forget about it den.”

Twice a day. Morning and evening.

But of course that was a very long time ago. I remember that time long ago when my son happens to saunter into the kitchen, wordless but with a trail of blood coursing from this finger, dripping down his shirt, legs and feet. He is the child that bounces of cement walls without so much as a whimper. He is expressionless as he looks around for something. A word that he can’t retrieve for the moment. I watch him circling and searching quietly in the kitchen. I know what he’s looking for and I’m ready to prompt but I wait, no interruptions. I watch until a little flinch sparks him off, off to the bathroom and the band aid. Perfect! I do not praise him because he is generally allergic to praise. He gives me a sneaky beam, because he knows, and I know that he knows. I propel him back to the bathroom so that I can clean him up, compliant. Because he did such a great job I don’t bother with coaxing him to clean up the blood trail on the floor. The 'clean up after yourself' campaign can wait.

As I clean up the blood on the floor to remove all trace elements that might spark off his little brother, a thought occurs to me as I look at my very clean floorboards, vacant. I remember that the diary ritual is absent. I recall reading in my new "bible" that quite often a change of habit in an older person may mask an underlying difficulty. An unwillingness to drive may hide an inability to drive safely. It’s something that I sort of already knew, or rather just a variation on a familiar theme.

I tip toe over to Nonna’s room where she dozes in the chair next to a pile of unread books with a Garfield comic open on her chest. Privacy versus knowledge? I dither but not for very long as her eyes open to see me and then recognize me, “ello dere. It is pill time?”
“No…….I was just wondering?”
“Yes?”
“Your diary. Do you still keep a record of your readings?”
“No……I don’t bother wiv dat any more.” She reaches over to retrieve it from the pile, opens it and riffles the blank pages.
I wonder if an unwillingness to write masks an inability or difficulty in writing? Maybe just frustration at being unable to find any one of half a dozen pairs of reading glasses? Or pencils? Too hot? Too tired? Bad day? I double check.
“How’s the crossword going?”
“I don’t bother wiv dat old ting anymore,” she adds wearily as she pats the pile, the way she pats everything. I pull out the crossword and examine it. Two across, three down, one blank space. I beam. She beams, “only dat last one to go den.”

Some things are smaller than you think

2009-08-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

The irritations in my life are "many" and "various" and unfortunately growing, daily. I find it hard to get a grip on these petty minded emotions. I find myself descending into devious ploys.

One little campaign is to confuse the post office. I put my parcels outside the front door for collection. Several minutes or hours later, Nonna will announce the arrival of a package and kindly parks it on the dining room table for me.

Another round robin is the dance we play with the coffee maker. If I leave the kitchen for any period of time, on return I shall find her at the machine, bereft because it is empty, because yes, she is one of the few people on the planet who is not affected by caffeine.

I play umpire between her and my daughter, one determined to save the environment, the other determined to quadruple the water bill single handedly. Quite frankly I have so much help about the place I hardly know what to do with myself anymore.

But I digress.

Presently I am occupied in finding different places to hide my knitting. In a previous era I had to hide it from my son in cat mode, but nower days I hide it from Nonna. She’ll sit there quietly minding her own business, which immediately arouses my suspicion and there she’ll be, watching the BBC news and knitting. Knitting my knitting.

To those who do not knit, this would seem of no import. To those of us who do knit, we know that every knitter’s technique and touch differs. Ironically this is called tension; how tightly or loosely you knit. No two are alike. It’s the current two step of my life. Nonna knits a few rows. Later, I undo a few rows and re-knit them. I have tried other devious ploys as well, such as providing a substitute, her very own set, but somehow or other we end up in the original position. I cannot understand why her knitting is always lost and yet mine, whilst hidden, is always available?

It is whilst I busy devising other devious ploys that a spot of recall worms itself into my memory bank. A time from many years ago. Back then, as a divorced single parent, I used any many of means to keep myself and my daughter afloat, financially. Although I had a full time job, I picked up little jobs on the side, here and there, for the little extras in life such as shoe leather and food. One of those little jobs was knitting. Not the most lucrative of employments I’ll grant you but not to be sniffed at either.

So it was that I received a phone call and then a visit from a couple of women, a mother and daughter. As it turned out, neither of them could knit. They brought to me a half knitted sweater and a complicated pattern. It needed completion. The original knitter was their daughter and sister respectively. The recently deceased woman had been knitting it for herself, for her own use in her very ordinary little life when her very ordinary little life came to an unexpectedly abrupt end. I still have their faces embossed in my mind. Racked with grief they handed it over, an article of such value, in trust, as they blinked away tears and spittle spattered mumblings. I covered with ramblings of my own, tutelage in tension, explanations of excuses and a tissue of trivia before they left.

Once they had left, I was left with a dilemma. I knitted a few rows, changed the needles, changed back, fiddled back and forth in an attempt to match. It was so tempting to unravel the whole thing and start from the beginning again. They’d never know but I would know. My DNA cells might cover hers but I couldn’t bear to erase those personal purls. I gave up. I completed the sweater. To the unskilled eye it would be perfect. To those who know or knew, the tidemark was all too obvious, but all the better for it.

So for the present I’ll leave it be, as there are so many other campaigns to be tackled. Maybe I should start with something more manageable. Similar yet different. Some skullduggery to find the perfect hiding place for my swimsuit. I kid you not! It hangs off me like a dish rag but it fits her just like a glove. Ooo the gall of the woman!

Windfall – the blind leading the deaf or vice versa

2009-08-15T14:41:00.000-07:00

I find myself unexpectedly child free for the first time in months. My daughter and Mr.B remove them to a fun, family friendly and completely enclosed location. As I wave good bye I am suddenly overwhelmed with a myriad of choices. I could do anything I want but what?

I watch the car turn the corner and have a clearer view of my neglected garden. Of course. The garden centre. I dash back inside for my list, buried under heaps of heaps when Nonna appears. We bimble through our ‘good morning’ routine for the seventh time but she is in an exceptionally good humour, as am I.
“Wot you do den you lucky woman?” I pause, because I am inherently selfish. Precious moments of alone time should not be wasted. At the same time I note that she wears the same set of clothes that she has been wearing for three days running. I also know that she always changes into fresh clothes if we leave the house. I do not wish to delay for 30 minutes whilst she makes herself presentable but of course there are so many different things that I do not want. I am so good at pretending to be nice but wicked thoughts are always there. Fortunately I have my other mother’s Roman Catholic sticks to beat myself with: if you can’t do it with good grace then don’t do it at all.
“Tell you what! Do you fancy a trip to the garden centre?”
“Ooo yes……no……..yes…….just a minute……let me change.” She trots off with haste as I search around for a book to read. How much can you read in 30 minutes? Not very many if someone’s nicked your book. I refuse to pout and cook instead. Before too long she reappears on full beam, “right den!” and off we plod.

At the garden centre we are at peace and at one, a joint therapy session. Her delight is a delight and I am thoroughly delighted myself. We stroll through Hibiscus, Bougainvillea, Camellias and Salvias because we enjoy the same language and have perfect recall. She marvels at the textures and scents, the abundance known as Home Depot. “Wot a size dey all are!”
“Yup, everything is bigger and better in America.”
“Look at dat ting. It is a giant I tink.” She pats the leaves as she moves her body into different viewing positions.

A youthful chap approaches Nonna to ask her something, something that she does not understand or maybe cannot hear. She flaps an arm in my direction so I whiz over to intervene or help or translate. “I don know wot ee sayz,” she stage whispers.
“Hello, can I help?”
“Dya wanna caught?” he says, nodding towards the flower pots.
“Wot ee say?”
“Er…..caught…..what’s a caught?” I beam.
“You know eee said caught. Wot it is a caught?”
“I’m not sure. What is a caught?”
“Ya know….for the flowers…….all the flowers in your cart.”
“Hmm I’m not sure what a caught is, sorry.”
“Did eee say caught or court or cart?”
“I’m not sure. I’m sorry, I don’t think I know that word.”
“Just caught, ya know, for the flowers.”
“Ow come you don know dis word? You are an American now. It is an American word I tink? Maybe ee say chord……or cord…….or cored…..wot you tink?”
“I have no idea.” It’s worse than a cross word puzzle. “Sorry I wonder if you could explain caught?”
I try lip reading but it doesn’t help one bit.
“Cawed…….I don know wot ee say. Gawd it’s impossible.” She taps her ear in the hope of sparkling life into her hearing aid, although that’s not really the issue.
“Caught!” he yells, but ever so politely. “Wait up.” He turns his back and walks away to fetch something. He returns with a plastic tray, “here……a caught.”
“Ooo is that what it’s called. Thank you. I didn’t know that.”
“Oh you stupid girl,” she giggles, and I must say that I do indeed feel very stupid. It’s odd to think that I now have a whole new source of a thousand different ways to be stupid.
“Yeah…….I just thought y’know…….which size……..but most of em are quart.”
“Quart! Oh, quart!”
“Wot ee say?”
“Quart……with a ‘q’………quart sized flower pots.”
“Dey measure dere plants by liquid volume? Not centimeters?”
“Yes……I forgot.” I thank the man who leaves, good natured but mystified by foreigners. Nonna pats the quart tray, “you’d better be careful I tink.”
“Careful? About what?”
“Dat you are not forgetting too much or you’ll be old before your time.”
“And what time would that be do you suppose?”
“Time for a coffee I tink.”

Familiar Territory

2009-08-14T10:51:00.000-07:00

I reluctantly print of the “log” or documentation guide from the "Alzheimer’s Association." I read it thoroughly and make notes in a separate notebook so that I won’t bias her own son’s assessment. Later, much later in a quiet moment I take a seat beside him when we are alone. Quite alone. I explain how I think we need a base line, a starting point from which to proceed. He pulls off his glasses to gouge his eye balls with a deep and wearisome sigh. It feels like we've been here before in the space-time "continuum."

Notable quotes on Dementia

2009-08-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

In my copy of "The 36-Hour Day" I read about ‘problems with independent living’ and how different families cope. One recurring issue is an older person’s unwillingness to surrender their financial responsibilities when they become overwhelmed. The book quotes many examples. After a series of examples that make perfect sense the last one is described by the authors as ‘extreme.’ This is the example:-

‘Mrs. H…. is fiercely independent about money, so Mr. H gave her a purse with some change in it. He put her name and address in it in case she lost her purse. She insisted on paying her hairdresser by check long after she could not responsibly manage a checkbook. So Mr. H gave her some checks stamped VOID by the bank. Each week she gives one to the hairdresser. Mr. Hutchinson privately arranged with the hairdresser that these would be accepted and that he would pay the bills.’

Well done Mr. H! Now to me, from my perspective, this doesn’t seem in the least bit extreme. It’s a great idea, an accommodation, but it’s not in the least bit extreme. I take great comfort from this tale because it tells me that I am more than well enough equipped to deal with whatever lies ahead of us. I am so used to jumping through hoops, over hoops and around hoops.

Sadly, this also means that I am used to failure. The first attempt doesn’t work, so we try something else and so on, time and again until we find a good fit. I have an example of my own.

You see last year we had this "problem," what we American’s call an ‘issue.’ The issue was Nonna’s independence. I understood how frustrating it was for her to be carless, especially in America. Nonna has always been a walker so instead of being cooped up in the house she naturally decided to take a stroll. Quite often it is difficult to remember details when you’re on holiday such as your hotel room number or perhaps the name of the hotel when they all look so alike, so it was understandable that Nonna had difficulty with this too.

It was a worrisome time.

Other families might be able to allow a grandchild to accompany their Nonna but that wasn’t an option for us. Although our house has more locks and chains than the average home this did not deter Nonna. I’m sure there are many valid reasons for restricting someone’s freedom for their own safety but I was not happy with the idea of imposing such limits on my mother in law. I was not in a position to shadow her movements once she was outside the house as I had other responsibilities, not necessarily more important but certainly more immediate.

The crunch time came when a kindly neighbour returned a thoroughly disorientated Nonna to our front door, as she had found herself completely lost only a few blocks away from home.

We had already printed off the equivalent of a business card with appropriate details for her hand bag. Often she left without her hand bag. Then we tried printing off a six block map of the immediate vicinity, in extra large print, three copies, laminated, but it suffered from the same inherent problem, a map is of no use if it resides in your bedroom when you most need it.

Hence this year, this summer, these issues have been on my mind, worries. What to do? How to help? How to keep her safe? How to engineer freedom and independence? I’d guess that you too are racking your brain to come up with ideas because we all want what is best for Nonna? I feel people’s sympathy and good wishes, so I know that you’ll be as sad as me to know that this year it is no longer a problem, a non-issue. Nonna no longer ventures out of the confines of the garden, so maybe not a non-issue but a different issue entirely.

The 36-hour day*

2009-08-12T23:42:00.000-07:00

It’s my new "bible" but I’m reading it very slowly. Because I am reading it very slowly it is often skulling about the kitchen full of scribbles, notes and underlined sections. I don’t exactly hide it but even if I did I know that Nonna would find it. She likes to read whatever I read, often whilst I’m actually reading it. Put anything down for a moment and she’s all over it like a rash. Each time she comes across it, several times a day, we have the same conversation. It starts off with alarm and annoyance, the tone is un-mistakable:-
“Why you read dat den? Dat’s an orrible book.”
“Because of my dad. I’m hoping to learn some more so that I can help mum out a bit.”
“Your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Your father? Ee az dementia?”
“Yes and my mum’s looking after him all by herself.”
“Ooo dat is sad. I didn’t know dat. Dat’s very sad.” The sadness shows in her face. It’s genuine. Genuinely sad.

*"The 36-Hour Day: A Family Guide to Caring for Persons with Alzheimer's Disease, Related Dementing Illnesses, and Memory Loss in Later Life"
by Nancy L. Mace, M.A., Peter V. Rabins, M.D.,M.P.H.

Big and grateful thank you's to everyone's generous thoughts and comments.

Happy days of yore

2009-08-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

I play around with the TIVO after Nonna expresses delight at an old Clark Cable movie, name unknown. Ealing Theatre and St. Trininnas comes to mind as well as a few Miss Marple’s with Margaret Rutherford, the original actress in the role. It turns out to be quite a pleasant romp down memory lane for me as I have a soft spot for old Black and White films. Eventually I am all set up with the children in bed, asleep. I reach for the microwave pop corn and plump the cushions into a little nest for Nonna as we take a seat in the circle of our very own family room.

“Are you ready?”
“Ready for wot?”
“We thought you might like to watch a movie…….a film?”
“Ooo yes. I like dat. Wot you got den?”
The MGM Lion roars but there are no fearful hiding children to spoil the view.
“Ooo it’s an old one den?”
“Yes. You’re going to love it!”
“Ooo good…….wot…..Third Man! We are going to watch the Third Man?”
“Yes. A real treasure.”
“Wot?”
“It’s his favourite. Is it your favourite too?”
“Gawd no! I’m off then.”
“Off where? Don’t you want to watch with us?”
“No tank you. Why you want to watch doz old tings? I’m going to watch Wall E in my own room. Don’t worry……dat one doesn’t need subtitles either.”
“!”

Bare your soul

2009-08-09T23:09:00.000-07:00

Whilst I’m in the mood, I have another confession but this time I have a much better excuse, and believe me when I tell you that I am in great need of excuses, although I’m trying hard to pull myself out of the lake of guilt.

Just stop wallowing woman!

You see the other thing I missed was that lack of bath room use. My mother shares this experience caring for my father. It’s more difficult for her. Far more difficult with a spouse. This is especially so because of the type of man she married. She basically married an Edwardian, although I don’t think she fully appreciated the consequences at the time. Soft spoken, dignified and polite, they both had their traditional roles etched on the marriage certificate. All that has now changed. Nobody tossed her the reins as such but there she is, in charge of the horses.

Bathing became a big issue, an issue that I unfortunately had to mention. It was one of many bug bears. She knew it was an issue but only one of many. A different order of magnitude. So I tried my best to be gentle but my mother is oh so very different from me. A gentle prod was more than enough to beget action. She told me on the phone the following week. She was remarkably cheerful, far more cheerful than I’d heard for a long time. “I did it!” she beamed. “Did what?” I asked. “I phoned social services and got the ball rolling. Sometime next week a nurse will call to give him a bath. I’m done with it. Problem solved.” And solved it duly was but my predicament is far more delicate if not precarious. Nonna has been with us almost five weeks. It is the height of summer and yet not so much as a trickle of water or a smear of soap has been in contact.

I do have an explanation. Let me explain for us both, as they’re inter-weaved. It has always been Nonna habit to swim, daily. For some while last year this was difficult to negotiate since the boys couldn’t really swim, although they believed that they really could swim. We fell into a habit. I would open the pool, bring back the cover very quietly, half an hour in advance so that Nonna could enjoy thirty minutes of exclusive alone time. After that, she would sit on the side of the pool better able to watch her grandchildren, one natural seal, two flailing whales and me trying to keep everyone afloat. It was the cause of much amusement, to her at least. During the kerfuffle she would amble away to have a shower before the deluge of children ousted her.

This year, things are different. They are different but I didn’t notice particularly at first because other events obscured the true scene. The scene was basically green, a pool full of abundant, blooming algae. Technically it was safe to swim but swimming in pea soup is not a very attractive option. So, no swim equated to no shower, not daily, nor weekly, not ever. Once again I completely failed to connect the dots because it would appear that I am far more of a creature of habit that I should generally care to admit.

So there you have it, or rather I have it, or rather, she doesn’t have it, but have it she must. It’s just the ‘how to’ bit that I’m searching for but I have a tentative plan or two. It’s the how to approach with diplomacy that eludes me. I can think of few things more galling than to suffer such a personal attack from a daughter in law.

Since the pool is recovering, slowly, I could just wait a few more days, but that smacks too much of avoidance on my part. One tentative plan is to prompt, something like, ‘can I turn the shower on for you?’ The other tentative plan is to suggest that I do her hair again. If she’s going to wash her hair she might as well wash it in the shower rather than the sink. Lastly, if all else fails I shall use my trump card, the grandmother one. I shall exploit my son’s aversion to showers and ask if Nonna will don her swimsuit and accompany him into the shower to supervise. I am reluctant to use this one as I fear for Nonna’s safety in such slippy conditions but at least she won’t need her hearing aid to protect her from his agonizing screams. Needless to say, I still wear my learner plates and would welcome advice from all quarters. I’m tempted to trust my instincts but I’m not overly confident in this [new] department. Mistakes are inevitable but I’d prefer them not to be big ones nor permanent, as I suspect we all have a long road ahead of us.

You take the high road and I’ll take the low road

2009-08-07T23:45:00.000-07:00

To be honest, my knowledge of "deafness" and "hearing loss" is both minimal and vicarious. In an ideal world I would research the subject in detail but I am short on time, so I make do with an emotional yet entertaining version, 'Deaf Sentence,' by David Lodge. I learn about pitch or more accurately, 'frequency,' which proves startlingly helpful.

We gather at the table in the garden for dinner under the pergola. My youngest son squalks in protest. He is very, very loud, perched on his hunkers in a carver chair for containment. Nonna sits two spaces down in the semi rocker chair. As she rocks she admires the Honeysuckle above, abuzz with bees, huge, black workers. She is deep in contemplation as she tears small puffs of warm bread. I attempt to drag her back into the conversation, or what passes for conversation around here. I already knew that many voices all talking at once, is especially difficult for the hard of hearing. It’s another added incentive to move the campaign forward, the campaign, for us all to take turns. Until recently this has not been a priority. The priority was to extract as many words from each child as possible, but times change.

There are lots of ways to describe it. One way to describe it is that the brain has little hot spots, near the surface for easier access but they are also fragile and semi-transparent. These spots are the ones that are used most frequently, but because they’re so hazy the brain can’t figure out whether they’ve already been used that day. Hence the repeats as they float around, bumping into consciousness. It’s a bit like at the end of the day when partners meet up with a whole list of important matters to cover. We ask the other one, just to make sure, “did I tell you already about……?” It’s because we’re so busy, it’s because we’re not certain, it’s because it’s just hovering, the reminder. But that’s just the scientific version. The reality is far more obvious. It’s just like when I nip to the supermarket to pick up a prescription together with a short list of necessities. I don’t write ‘prescription’ on the list, because that’s the main purpose of the trip. When I return home, I have everything on the list, but not the prescription, too busy, too harassed, too pressured, too scrambled.

So we live with repeats.

One of the repeats, one of the many, is the absence of Hummingbirds. I’ve added to the list. It’s one of my many pre-emptive strikes to stave off the repeats. I wait until I spot one. I don’t have to wait long.
“Look!” I tap her on the forearm and point, “look! A Hummingbird!”
“Ooo yes. Look at dat. Such a pretty little ting. Dat’s dah first one I see dis year. Such a shame you ave no Hummingbirds dis year.” We beam at each other, each with our own different sadnesses, bitter sweet. She rocks and returns her gaze to the foliage on high.
“Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Why you ave so many bees?”
“Well the top side, the other side of the pergola is full of blooming Honeysuckle.”
“Hmmm but why they are working now? In dah evening?”
“They’ll keep at it whilst it’s light.”
“Dey are so loud aren’t dey?”
“Yes indeedy.”
“Shame I ave not eard dah parrots dis year. Did dey get rid of dem?”
“No they’re still there, four doors down. They still put them out in their garden in the evening, on their perch, all three of them.”
“Dats funny. I wonder why I din ear dem no more?”
“Hmm……maybe we should walk up there later…..take a peek?”
“No dats alright……no need really……..we ave im don’t we!” she beams as she flaps a hand at her grandson, still squalking in protest as he submits to the last spoonful of veggies.

Armed but hopefully not too dangerous

2009-08-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

After far too much “thought,” I reach a conclusion. It is the sort of conclusion that my Dad would call ‘the bleeding obvious,’ now that he also has Alzheimer's, now that he has mis-filed his diplomacy corps. Alzheimer's and Dementia come in many different forms. I can liken it to a spectrum, which is “familiar” territory. Also, you don’t just wake up one day and find that the mind is lost. It’s much more gradual, spiky with dips. These two facts, although stark, give me just the toe hold I need.

I leap into action.

I delegate the “tough job” to my “daughter” and her partner Mr.B. They are volunteered to take the "children" and Thatcher the dog, to the park for at least an hour whilst I tackle Nonna. I tackle Nonna in what I hope will be the road of least resistance, hegemonic.

I set her up in the family room, the room furthest from her own bedroom, with the television that works, coffee, snacks, her glasses, handkerchief and make excuses. After making excuses at 50 decibels I excuse myself. Myself then litters the pathway from the family room to Nonna’s room with a series of obstacles, the kind of obstacles that will make noise and warn me of her impending approach. I am dubious that this, my new ‘self,’ demonstrates deviousness. Although I am often devious, I am usually devious with my children, not adults.

I creep into her room, draw the blinds and take in the full picture. The full picture is much worse than my initial fears. I unpack her suitcase and hang three quarters of her clothes in the closet on the new hangers that she has apparently ignored or possibly missed. I remove all other clothing from wherever I discover it, change the bed linen, clean every nook and cranny, vacuum and remove as much superfluous furniture as possible to aid ease of movement. I am just about finished when I hear a woof as the troops announce their return. I pick up all my props and leg it back into the family room to adopt an innocent air in front of Nonna who is enjoying a deep and well earned sleep.

We continue our day as usual, or as usual as is possible under our newly minted version but I wait. I fear that she will be angry at the invasion. I worry that she might be upset. I wonder if it will cause even further confusion. I wait for the shoe to drop or possibly the penny. I have to wait a very long time until my husband comes home. I explain our doings to him in unnecessarily hushed tones before he ventures off to the lioness’s den. I hover, within ear-wigging distance.
“Hello mum! Did you have a good day?”
“Alright….I suppose?”
“Are you ready for some dinner?”
“Wot?”
“I said, are you ready for some dinner?”
“No……I said wot?”
“What about what?”
“Dis ting?”
“What thing?”
“This……..room…….wot as appened ere?”
“I’m not sure………but it all looks very neat and tidy.”
“I know……..but ow it is all neat and tidy?”
“Hmm good question.”
“I tink maybe a fairy az come and tidy it all up for me, no?”
“!”
I can't see them but I feel the flinch, hear the silence, smell the breathing of hot air.
“Don look like dat……I know ow it is done…..it woz Maddy…….I am teasing you! You silly goose!”

Earthquake country. What to do?

2009-08-04T23:24:00.000-07:00

I have an internal debate as to whether to broach the subject of his mother’s declining health?

On the one hand, she is his mother.

On the other hand, she is his mother.

It’s my birthday so I am older, we both are, and he has noticed that we are middle aged. It is a sad day for him. He is sad with frustration because Nonna’s new television doesn’t work, nor the TIVO, nor the fire alarm, nor any number of household items in disrepair. He worries greatly about these things in part because they are all fixable but other things are not. It is easier to worry about the unfixed things that are fixable. I would be inclined to say ‘denial’ but I’m not a very good American. Feeble Americans would say grief stricken. It’s not as if he doesn’t know. I know he knows. I heard him just yesterday in controlled yell mode, “where is your hearing aid?” But of course a hearing aid doesn’t mend hearing, nor does it restore memory, “I’ve just told you a hundred times, they are married.”

I glanced into the garden where my daughter and her partner sat cringing under the pergola.

There was a catch in his voice. I recognized that catch as I hear it coming out of my own mouth sometimes too. Sometimes it’s the catch of despair other times mere annoyance and I can tell the difference. I’ve had more practice, much more practice. I think I’ve already mastered controlled, cheerful yell for approximately 95% of the day, even when it’s night time. I’m working towards a 100% clearance rate but it’s not easy.

There are only two repeats that cut me to the quick. The first one is the ‘married? / who is that man?’ question and the other is the ‘are they still autistic?’ question, but I’ve learned my stock answer by heart, the words, the tone, the delivery and that helps a lot.

But it’s different for him. I have the degree of separation, no blood, but he’s her only child, very bloody. All the onus is on him, I’m just a bystander in the headlights. I don’t know how to get the balance right between interference and privacy? I’m on unfamiliar territory and the ground is shifting fast.

Traveling light

2009-08-03T23:42:00.000-07:00

I moan to my mother on the telephone about laundry. My mother moans to me on the telephone about Alzheimer’s, my father’s current state of health. It’s a form of international therapy for care givers, the cheap option, the time saving option, the option that relieves us of the problem of actually leaving the house. As we pause for reflection about our lot in life a very small shard of knowledge pokes me in the brain, two inches above my left temple, sharp, pointy with a nasty little thorn on the edge. We say our good byes and hang up.

I hover by the phone and think.

We have been back in the States for a month, four weeks just over, with Nonna, her tiny suitcase and her small collection of personal belongings. I had noticed that she has been more accident prone. I had noticed that her clothing was less than pristine. I had noticed she hadn’t been handing me presents of her clothing to add to the load. I had not connected the dots. I had noticed the lack of complaints, relieved. I had not noticed that her prompt was absent:-

“Why you not change my sheets today?”
“Because I try and stagger the loads.”
“It’s not my turn today?”
“No…..your turn is on Wednesday.”

A two liner exchange imprinted in my inventory of replies but I’ve not used it, not once, in four weeks. I skip along to her room and peek inside. I have not been inside for four weeks. I have respected her privacy or so I thought. Nonna naps on the bed because of a sleepless night. I know it was a sleepless night because I asked how she slept. She replied with the second of her alternating responses:- “me? I always sleep perfectly!” but the coffee machine full of spent grounds doesn’t lie. I watch her sleep, curled over tousled bedclothes. A picture of innocent neglect or overlooked failings. Someone must do something. Something must be done. I am the someone, but what to do? Or maybe, just how and when and which way?

And other complications

2009-08-03T11:47:00.001-07:00

At 5:15 in the morning I am busy sautéing onions in the kitchen. The boys read comic books in the family room, a direct consequence of the new campaign ‘no electronics in the morning.’ Their holiday plan is to skip sleep completely to gain more electronics time. I took a leaf out of my mother’s book, the one that reads ‘do try and get some rest dear,’ with subtext that says ‘enough is enough.’ It’s not a perfect solution, more of a holding pattern when Nonna appears, “ooo wot you do dere? You’re making lunch already?”
“No ….supper. I’m trying to get ahead.”
“When you cook lunch den?”
“I won’t cook, just sandwiches.”
“Dat’s a pity. Wot we do today den?” I’m tempted to say ‘tread water’ or just ‘cope.’
“Take a swim, do some crafts……the usual.”
“Dat’s a pity. I tink I watch dah news den please?” I take a deep breath and take a small stand, “could you watch it later, when the boys aren’t here please?”
“No news? Why?” It’s my best shot, appeal to her highly superior Grandmotherly sensitivities.
“Because all that carnage upsets the boys, the children, it scares them.” I don’t mention that it probably also scares the neighbours too at 50 decibels before dawn.
“Oh yes. Of course. I see. Just a coffee den please?”
There! That was easy.

Dodos and other game old birds

2009-08-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

I am in mid thunk, toying with paper, pencil and an elusive menu plan when I am struck by a stroke of unexpected genius. 8 people in the family and only seven days in the week. Surely I just need to ask each person to come up with one dinner and I will save myself no end of brain injury? I skip the children as I already know that their choices carved in cement. I tackle Nonna in the garden. This proves to be the usual challenge, how to have a private conversation at 50 decibels?

“Name me a dinner. Anything you like.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to make a menu plan for the week. This way you’ll have at least one thing you like.”
“But I already like what you give me.”
“That’s no help at all. Think of something else that you like.”
“You know……anything……I don’t mind.”
“You’re being very un-coperative…….be helpful!”
She grins as she opens her palms in question.
“Eggs.”
“What sort of eggs?”
“Quail, duck, caviar!”
I pout. She beams.
“Anyway…..you don’t like fish.”
“I’m very easy to please apart from dah fish.”
“So you mean hard boiled eggs?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Salad.”
“What kind of salad?”
“Dah usual.”
“Anything else?”
“Some kind of meat.”
“Which kind of meat?”
“Salami.”
“And……?”
“Some kind of cheese.”
“Which kind of cheese?”
At this rate of progress it will take me a week to canvas all the troops. I begin to wonder if I really am saving time and brain power.
“Oh you know.”
“No I don’t…….that’s why I’m asking.”
“Soft.”
“Brie?”
“Not really.”
“Camembert……Edam?”
“No I hate dat rubbery stuff.”
I make an exaggerated sighing noise, loud enough for people with dodgy hearing aides.
“Don’t be such an old fossil Maddy.”
“!”
“No……not fossil…..wot is dat ting without a spine?”
“A spineless…….an amoeba?”
“No. Dat old ting? Dinosaur ting without a spine?”
“Er?”
“No…..not spineless……flightless!”
“Pteradactyl! No that can fly. An ostrich? No that’s not a dinosaur……..”
“Anyway…..wotever it iz……do wot I do…….cook wot you like and to ell with dah rest of dem.”
“!”

The old and the new

2009-07-31T14:43:00.001-07:00

“Television is the saviour of the deaf.”
from Deaf Sentence by David Lodge

I find it hard to keep up:- peanut shells on the floor, strawberry hulls in the plant pots and peach stones scattered around the garden. Nonna’s healthy diet and life style is evidenced everywhere. Small trails of detritus follow in her wake. It’s not just the small things that always irritate, it’s also the fact that it is always these things that the children choose to copy. The fall out is so much greater and long lasting. It’s not as if this is anything new. It has always been like this, a combination of absent mindedness and a total disregard for anything that might vaguely be categorized as domestic duties. Before she was widowed she had a husband who attended to such duties. Without him she is literally quite lost. In many ways this also means that so much of it is a lost cause, as it impossible if not pointless to try to curb the habits of 80 plus year’s practice. But the little annoyances can be swiftly wiped out by bigger issues:-

“Well Maddy.”
“Hmm?”
“I tink maybe I should go ome now.”
“Go home? Why go back to England when you’re perfectly happy here?”
“I need to check dah house.”
“House sitter, remember?”
“And dere are my friends.”
“Which friends?”
“Oh I don’t know…….most of dem are dead anyway.”
“Um….so there’s nothing to rush back for is there?”
“But I need to get tings done.”
“What things?”
“Oh I don’t know…….it’s so difficult to do tings here.”
“Such as?”
“When I am ome, in Poole, everyting is near.”
“What’s near?”
“Dah theatre, dah cinema, dah museums, dah library, dah art gallery……everyting.”
“When did you last go and see a film?”
“Oooooo well dat was ere, with dah children…..Ice Age 3.”
“Well then. When did you last go to the museum…….or any of those things?”
“I don’t know really……but……I could if I wanted to.”
“Ah…..I see what you mean. It’s a pain not being able to drive yourself, but I’ll drive you. Where would you like to go?” I back pedal fast as I realize the complications that will ensue. “We’ll make a plan if you like?”
“No …..it’s just if I were at ome……I can get all doz tings from dah television.”
“It’s going to be hooked up at the weekend.”
“Wot iz?”
“The new television, in your room.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You know, the black flat thing on the wall.”
“It’s a television?”
“Yes.”
“Very strange.”
“We’re just waiting for the guy to come around and connect us up.”
“Really?”
“Really. Then we’ll all have to have a crash course on how to use the remote control.”
“I’ll be able to watch my programmes?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you? Animal Planet round the clock if you like?”
“Oh good………I thought you would make me wait.”
“Wait? Why would I make you wait?”
“5:30 is electronics time.”
“!”

Freeze Frame

2009-07-25T23:35:00.000-07:00

I am on pause mode at the kitchen sink, mid morning. Five million tasks completed, five million more to do, but I do tend to exaggerate, when she appears again. We run through her usual itinerary of questions, all part of the daily routine, a check list and head count of everyone’s whereabouts and doings. I do not care to recall or count the number of times we have already started the day.
“Good morning Nonna? Good night’s sleep?”
“Sleep? Me? I never sleep.”
We continue for several minutes, same tone, same answers, careful to ensure that there are no hic-cups. As she wanders off with a cup of hot slopping coffee I feel a dip in my spirits. I stare at the empty pristine sink with a rising sense of guilt and confusion when she re-appears at my side to place the coffee mug down.

We start again.

“Good morning Nonna? Good night’s sleep?”
“Sleep? Me? I always sleep perfectly but I am you know……a bit weary.” I jump at the chance.
“I know what you mean. The boys are stuck on 4:45 a.m.”
“Wot? Dat’s morning anyway? Or is dat night time?”
“You tell me?”
“Wot you are den?”
I blink because English is a foreign language when translated from the Italian, but she unravels, “why you are so …….dirty today?”
“Gardening.”
“No…dat……..it’s white……grey?”
“Clay.”
“Oh you have a nice play wiv your pottery den?”
“Yup.”
“When you do dat den?”
“Just now.”
“So you are cook now? Wot are you cook today?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“Well……dat’s your business. Wot else?”
“Hmm?”
“You look sort of……..ow you are?”
“Tired.”
“Tired! You’re too young to be tired. Ow old you are now den?”
“48.”
“48!” She fluffs her palms in exasperation, “when I was 48…….let me see now…..?” I see her reflect upon earlier times with her one delightful child, my husband, before she continues, “yes…..maybe…….don’t worry yourself…….soon you will be really old too and den you can forget all about it.”

She has a point.

Beware of women in comfortable things

2009-07-22T18:10:00.000-07:00

Nonna and I have known each other now for a goodly number of years. As one year flows into another, at some time or other we usually bump into the summer season. As the temperatures rise Nonna is apt to don her familiar hot weather gear, a garment that she refers to as a housecoat. I cannot speak to their provenance specifically, but I would hazard a guess that those housecoats, or muu muus, have been in her possession for quite a while. They are comfortable, easy to wash and airy, just what any woman with any sense would choose to wear as the thermostat creeps into the 90’s. That sensible woman would wear cotton, which she does and being thrifty, would take gentle care to ensure that they lasted many a season, after season, after season until suddenly some busy body points out that she could do with a make-over. Burnt Sienna orange and Turquoise are not the most flattering of colours, even with the most exotic complexions, but elderly Italian persons do not share this opinion. Although Nonna was once a homegrown seamstress, latterly such fine work is tough on both the fingertips and the vision. Thus it falls to me, or rather, I choose to take matters into my own hands.

I take my daughter with me as a second opinion is always welcome. Two heads are better than one and fool’s seldom differ, especially if they share the same genes. It is imperative that we find just the right fabric to update Nonna. This is my second attempt to hit the right note as I dithered between old lady florals and inoffensive pastels, neither of which would be my first choice. I don’t want to foist a shroud upon her, merely offer a third garment for my own selfish laundry purposes. One on, one off and one in the wash is the overall goal.

Just lately we have spent an inordinate amount of time at the hobby shop now that my daughter also wishes to learn to sew, although without help. Without help, she recently made the most magnificent tunic for herself, frightfully hip and trendy but unfortunately a size or two too small. Her loss was my gain in the form of an unexpected gift for Mother’s Day. The tunic is still in need of a little tender loving care, the odd loose thread, unfinished hem and would greatly benefit from a press. Hence it hangs over the dining-room table chair, clamouring for attention but ignored. Everyone ignores it except for Nonna, who is apt to pass through the room on route only to pause, pat and comment, “dat’s lovely dat……really…….beautiful.”

Hence I am in search of beautiful but the bolt is bare. There are a whole slew of similar bolts of fabric with the same design but different colour combinations, far too many colour combinations. So I dither. The pink is too puce, the blue is too cold, the yellow is quite nauseating, the green looks like camouflage. I poke the purple but no-one really wears purple. Few people can get away with purple. My fingers run along the bolts as we pull them out for comparison. Lilac is too pastel, too soppy, too girly. The red is too garish, the grey too aging, the beige too bland, the brown is quite boring. My eyes meet my daughter’s as she glares, ‘just make a decision!’ but instead mutters, “you’ll never get it done in time.”
“Hmm.”
“When’s her birthday again? When are you going to do it?”
“Right! Purple it is.” I march up to the counter with the bolt as my daughter hovers, leading up to something.
“Mum?”
“Yes dear? Shall I buy something for you too?”
“No……..I was just thinking…….?”
“Hmmm……?”
“Those shoes……?”
“What shoes?”
“The ones on your feet, the ones you’re wearing.”
“Hmm? What about them?”
“You really should get a new pair.”
“Why? They’re the most comfortable pair I have. I’ve had them for years.”
“Exactly. They’re completely knackered.”
“!”

Not everything is bigger and better in America

2009-07-20T23:58:00.000-07:00

I imagine that the entire neighbourhood is now familiar with our nightly heated debate, in the garden. In the heat of the garden we script our way through a well worn conversational path, without malice, well rehearsed. At some stage during dinner our Italian Nonna begins to point at the fence as English words fight for supremacy.
“Look at dat!” Her surprised delight for any wildlife is always genuine, always new.
“Ooo yes!”
“It’s a squirrel?”
“Yes, it’s a squirrel,” I confirm, at 50 decibels in my controlled yell voice.
“It’s a squirrel is it?”
“Yes.”
“Mangy little ting isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Not like English squirrels.”
“No.”
“English squirrels are fat and round with big fluffy tails.”
“Yes.”
“Do you not feed dem enough?”
“No, we don’t feed the squirrels.”
“Hmm we don’t feed dah squirrels in England either.”
“Indeed.”
“But dere still fat and fluffy and you know……gorgeous. Not like deez skinny little American squirrels.”
I listen to the American crickets, American birds and baited breath of all my American neighbours. I suspect that everyone is word perfect within a five mile radius of our house.

We await deportation papers shortly, assuming we’re not lynched first.

Round the U-bend

2009-07-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

I am driven to distraction or rather, very distracted but driven, in my task to complete one simple additional salad for supper to stave off starvation for another 24 hours with the hungry hoards.

It is a busy time of the day, the time of day where each child is occupied to allow me one on one time with my son for his daily "cooking lesson." Meanwhile, Nonna has her own very important agenda. Nonna’s agenda consists of ensuring that everyone is well fed, that the Tortoise is well fed, the cat and the dog, although in no particular order of priority.

My son pokes a tomato with the point of a kitchen knife, ineffectually, whilst I hack up a bunch of coriander.
“Wot about dis one den?” she asks waving the tortoise bowl in front of my nose. I’m tempted to shout but resist as she is without her hearing aid. My precious store of tomatoes is already depleted due to forgetful, elderly, diabetic thieves. Now yet another is to be sacrificed to the tortoise. This particular tomato is roughly equivalent to half Fred’s entire body weight, but there’s no point in arguing, or rather, it is too time consuming and therefore futile.
“You tink eee will like it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Eee is a vegetarian yes?”
“Yes.”
“Wot do you tink ee likes best?”
“Grapes.”
“Grapes?”
“Yes. He loves grapes.”
“Ow you know dat den?”
“He told me at the pet shop.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I knew ee could squeak but I didn’t know eee could talk.”
“!.....the tortoise didn’t tell me, the shop assistant told me……the shop assistant in the pet shop………….you’re teasing me right?” She beams back at me over her shoulder.

Saved from the Salon

2009-07-12T18:23:00.000-07:00

“Wot about dis den?”
“What about what?”
“My air.”
“What about your hair?”
“I need to do something wiv it.”
“Such as?”
“I don know…….a perm perhaps?”
“No. Don’t perm it.”
“Wot can I do wiv it den?”
“Tell you what, you wash it and I’ll blow dry it for you.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You can do air?”
“Of course I can do hair.”
“When do you ever do air?”
“Look around you……I do everybody’s hair, wash, cut and blow dry.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Ow long you do air?”
“A whole life time it would appear.”
“Oh yes, I was forgetting.”
“What did you forget?”
“Dat you are Scottish.”
“!”
“No salon den?”
“Nope, scream bloody murder they do. We’ve been banned from everywhere in a 10 mile radius.”
“Why dey scream?”
“Why indeed?”
“Tell you wot?”
“What?”
She beams her wicked grin, “I promise not to scream if you promise not to urt me?”
“Deal!”

Nag, Nag, Nag – what an old hag

2009-07-08T13:52:00.000-07:00

I fret about the children who stink of dog and algae as the swimming pool turns a hideous shade of Emerald.

So what with one thing and another and another [ish] it takes me a while before I notice but once the jet lag has fizzled out it becomes obvious. It is quite obvious that Nonna is approximately 95% less annoying than usual. I consider the lack of annoyingness and wonder why this might be?

Before too long I can compose a lengthy list of all the absent annoying things, such as plaguing me for book recommendations, uprooting weeds all over the garden in helpful little piles, dead heading the roses bare handed, requesting additional pencils, erasers, paper and pens, suggesting recipes and ingredients for any given meal, to name but a few, and last but by no means least, her daily swim. Whilst in principal I’m all in favour or retirement and the easy life, I do not regard this as good trend. My mental arithmetic is poor but it all adds up to a Nonna below par, alarmingly so.

Generally speaking I believe it would be unwise to put a bonfire under any elderly relative but I know that I need to do something, although I’m not entirely sure what?

I spend a wee while rummaging around upstairs to scrape together an acceptable collection of art materials. Whilst I shouldn’t like her to exert herself, I worry about her lack of usual activities. I have no choice but to adopt another campaign in my permanent role as family nag.

Since subtly is my middle name I invade her room and launch, “how come you don’t paint any more?”
“Eh?”
“Paint! Why aren’t you painting?”
“Ooo I don know……..too much bother I suppose.”
“Here, why don’t you have a go with these?”
“!”
“See what you can up with……..before lunch.” I give her the look, the look that I often give other family members. It’s a warning with a not so veiled implication of starvation for failure to comply.

After detailed discussions with her son, we decide that only way forward is to set the plague upon her. I enlist everyone’s help, 5 of whom seem to be permanently at home, skulling around and otherwise being useless and unoccupied. It’s almost a rota. “Go and ask Nonna if she’s painted anything yet dear, …….nicely…….. and loudly.” The compliance ratio is quite stunning to witness, as I listen to each individual trot off on request and yell at Nonna. I hope that 15 minute intervals will suffice.

She has yet to pick up a pencil but I hope to restore her to her usual standards, as illustrated above, soonishly.

For now, it’s work in progress, but I’ll keep you posted.

Deprivation diet

2009-07-07T23:41:00.000-07:00

“So Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“What we do about im den?”
“Who?”
“Dat ting?”
“Which thing?”
“Er wot ee called? Astaire!”
“Fred!”
“Ah yes. Fred. Wot we do about im?”
“What would you like to do?”
“I mean…..wot doz ee like to eat den?”
“His favourite food is grapes but he also likes cherries and celery tops.”
“Salad and fruit salad den?”
“More or less.”
“Eee is so lucky.”
“Is he?”
“Yes……..eee gets fruit. I do so "miss fruit.”

Bam boo hoo!

2009-07-06T09:23:00.000-07:00

“So Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you so……exotic den?”
“Exotic? Me?”
“No not you…….everyting?”
“Such as?”
“Well here…….in America……in California……you know…….even the weeds they are so exotic. Not like Dandelions and daisies but more…….exotic. Dey’re not like weeds at all. What are dey called?”
“I have no idea……I just rip them out.”
“What about dis ting den?”
“Which thing?”
“Dis……?”
“Mug or Koala bear.”
“Dat’s it. I was forgetting what it is called again. It’s all very…..wot is dat word?”
“Australian? She brought it back from Australia......her visit.”
“NO!.......exotic.”
“What’s exotic?”
“Well…..first it was hermit crabs, those skinks, dah Blue Bellied Lizards, den Praying Mantis, den now you have dah Tortoise. Wot next?”
“I have no idea.”
“And now wiv dis ting!”
“The Koala bear mug?”
“NO! Dah plant…….dah bamboo! Very exotic.”
“Hmm I suppose so.”
“Wot you get now den?”
“No idea.”
“How about dat ting?”
“Which thing?”
“Dah exotic pet.”
“Which exotic pet?”
“Er……wot is it called again…..?”
“?”
“Ah! Yes! You’re going to buy it to eat invasive Bamboo.”
“I don’t think Koala’s eat bamboo, do they?”
“NO! You want to buy a Panda!”
“I think I can say with absolute certainty that there is absolutely no possibility of us buying a Panda…….even if there were one available. Absolutely not, never, impossible.”
“I don’t know…….?”
“No. No chance. Not going to happen.”
“You used to say dat before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you got dah dog.”
"!"

Magic Mushrooms - feeding the 5000

2009-07-04T07:23:00.001-07:00

I pull out fresh croutons from the blazing oven and pause to think what next to do when Nonna steps into the kitchen, “so you didn’t burn dem dis time.” I suppress a pout.
“Yes, croutons and lots of garlic.”
“Dats good den! Although I don’t mind them burnt. Dah squirrels like dem too.”
“Hmm I wondered why they were scattered all over the garden.”
“Ooo look at dat!”
“What?”
“Doz tings.”
“Which things?”
“Doz……..mushrooms dat you made. Dey are very realistic.”
“Ah……they’re supposed to be acorns.”
“Are dey? Well dats no good den as you can’t eat acorns. Acorns are poisonous. Did you know dat?”
“Er yes. I did. But as they’re not real so you can’t eat them anyway.”
“You can’t?”
“No.”
“What a shame. Maybe you could buy some real ones?”
“Happy to add them to the list for the next shopping list.”
“Are you going to write dem on dah list?”
“Yes…..so I don’t forget.”
“Good. You do dat and I’ll go feed dah squirrels.”
“They’re not real acorns.”
“I know.”
“So you can’t feed the acorns to the squirrels.”
“Of course not. I’m going to feed dem dah some of doz croutons, the left overs.”
“But they aren’t left overs…… yet.”
“Dey are now!”
"!"

Conspiracy theory

2009-06-30T13:24:00.000-07:00

Around this neck of the woods we encourage stunningly high standards of cleanliness.

A few basic rules are immutable such as eat/drink at the table, as this limits the square footage of cleaning required thereafter. Even after all these years, fine and gross motor skills are approximate. Patience and cleaning skills are limited but reminders and prompts help to keep us all on track, or they do until external forces put a spanner in the works.

The spanner beams at me from the sofa, "I tink day are try to copy me!"

Muddle

2009-05-21T11:02:00.000-07:00

I think it’s the changing gears that I find most tricky. Switching between generations, abilities and deficits all at the same time.

“Am I lost?”
“I don’t know? Are you?”
“No.”
“Er.”
“I am losted my magic wand.”
“Ah well magic it back then.”
“You are joke me?”
“Yes!”
“Aha! I be joke you! Ta dah!” he produces the wand from the back of his waistband, complete with flourish.

“Where’s the timer?”
“Which one?”
“The count down one?”
“The one you said I shouldn’t buy because we have too many already?”
“Hmmmmm …….so where is it then?”
“Here. Want do you want it for?”
“To count down.”
“Count down to what exactly?”
“My bid on e-bay.”
“Dare I ask what you’re bidding upon?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’ll take that as code for more junk that I don’t want.”
“There are ‘wants’ and ‘needs.’ This is something we need.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“What is nucleuses?”
“Nuclei. Plural. Nucleus is one, nuclei for more than one, Latin like cactus, cacti, remember?”
“I am love the latins.”

“But these darned socks are so uncomfortable.”
“Then put on some comfortable ones instead.”
“But I’ve only got pink or frilly.”
“Borrow some of mine….bottom drawer.”
“Here guys……dya want my old socks?”
“Sure. I’m gonna be have dah beautiful feet too.”
“!”

“Nonna’s on the phone. She wants to know the name of the guy that gave her the builder’s estimate last June?”
“?”

My "daughter" bowls into the kitchen to heap further criticisms upon my chipped shoulder.
“These shoes are ridiculous mum. They’re so uncomfortable. I don’t know why you buy them? Look at them. Cheap rubbish! These one’s squish your toes and those flip flops just dig in.”
“Maybe you should wear your own…..instead.”
“You’ve put me off now. I wanted to ask you something…..er……?”
“No rush.”
“Ah! What’s the opposite of communication?”
“Silence.”
“No…..that’s wishful thinking. The opposite of communication is mis-communication but it’s not in the dictionary. Can you believe it?”
“Probably because mis-understanding is so much better.”

Leftovers

2009-04-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

My eldest daughter set off first thing in the morning, armed with a sack of leftovers for lunch, most of my gardening tools and the dog. I advised her to throw away the two three day old barbequed burgers as being unfit for human consumption, but she scoffed with the constitution of an ox. She had won a full day of paid employment in these hard financial times, where beggars can’t be choosers. She was dressed in her father’s coveralls with boots and gloves, to clear poison oak from a field in Santa Cruz. I reminded her to take care as a single woman, as she planned to pick up a couple of day labourers en route to help, and split the money with them. She didn’t sneer but I felt like an old mother hen, as she is such a seasoned and experienced traveler.

I busied about my business for the duration.

At the end of the day she returned to our home of chaos, weary, as she headed off to shower before dinner. I remained in the kitchen cremating a wide variety of dishes, laying the table and yelling five minute warning to the electronic game players. As I continued to crash about the kitchen, hot, testy and short tempered she returned to lean against the counter, arms folded as her fingers picked as the inevitable scratches on her arms and wrists where the poisonous oak had infiltrated.

“Oh dear, that does look painful.”
“I’m used to it,” she smiled weakly.
“What is it? Did you have any trouble? Is everything o.k.?”
“Sure.”
“You must be starving.”
“Not really.”
“Not really? You’re always ravenous. Did you eat your lunch?” She frowns and so do I, because old habits appear to die very hard.
“I did eat the pasta, the sandwiches, the fruit……but I didn’t eat the burgers.”
“Thank god for that. You didn’t give them to Thatcher did you? He has enough tummy troubles as it is?”
“No……..I gave them to the day labourers.”
“What! You’ve probably poisoned them! What possessed you?”
“Well you see I took all the food out of the rucksack and laid it on the rug but when I pulled out the hamburgers their eyes just popped out on stalks. I explained that they were old but they were just ecstatic……..I couldn’t say no.”
“?”
“One of them hadn’t eaten for 4 days mum.”

Another fine mess

2009-02-26T10:00:00.000-08:00

“Wot about it den Maddy?”
“What about what Nonna?”
“Dis ting?”
“Which thing?”
“Dah tiger?”
“What tiger?”
“Dah tiger in dah garden.” I can’t help myself as I dash to the window.
“There’s no tiger in the garden.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“Not our garden.”
“Which garden?”
“Dah one over dere, on dah other side of the fence.” I pull a face, despite myself. If she thinks I’m stupid enough to go and look over the fence she’s got another thing coming.
“Don’t look like dat! It’s dah truth.”
“A tiger…….in the garden over the fence…..”
“No…….not a real tiger.”
“A imaginary tiger?”
“No….a toy tiger. Did you throw it over the fence?”
“I can assure you that I have not thrown a tiger, real or toy over my own fence into my neighbour’s garden.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Quite. Quite sure!”
“You don believe me do you?”
“I’ll come and look later, I have to get this pie in the oven or we’ll all starve.”
“Shall I go and get it den?”
“Get what?”
“Dah tiger.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you were going to mend it for her.”
“I know, but I haven’t had time to mend it. It’s still upstairs……waiting.”
“No it’s not. It’s over dah fence in the garden.”
“It can’t be.”
“It must be…….dere can’t be two tigers can dere?” I blink. She has a point. It’s highly unlikely that there would be two four foot plush tigers in a five mile radius of this house. “I wonder who threw it over the fence?”
“Don’t worry. I get it for you…….you cook…..I fetch.” I follow her unsteady steps with my eyes. I almost expect her to climb over the fence, but thankfully she sets off to walk around the block to the other side. I decide to interrogate the boys on their return. The tiger has already been waiting over 18 months in it’s decapitated form, I shall not permit any further indignities upon the poor benighted tiger.

As I mash the potatoes Nonna plants the filthy beast on the counter, just as the owner of the tiger appears, “Mom, why didya buy another broken tiger, can’t ya just fix the old one?”
“What do you mean?” I pary, peeler poised. Nonna beams at her grand-daughter, “I got it back for you,” and noted her puzzled face. She looks at me, at Nonna, at the tiger, “it’s not my tiger. My tiger’s still upstairs, with his head.”
“Wot she say?”
“She says it’s not hers.” We women look at one another dumbfounded.
“Go get it for me,” Nonna demands. She returns in seconds, the tiger under one arm his head under the other, “see!”
“Well dere’s a funny ting. Two tigers……two heads.” She dumps her tiger next to the imposter and leaves with a sigh of someone surrounded by fools. Nonna pats the tigers deep in thought. Her hands run over the matted fur as her finger’s search out the labels on the same side seam, “ah! Not from India, nor Siberia, ……. Dat explains it den.”
“Explains what?”
“Why both their heads came off, in da same way.”
“Why?”
“It used to be Taiwan of course.”
“Are the Taiwanese renowned for tigers?”
“I don’t know.”
“?”
“Same manufacturer Maddy. Probably from the same factory, perhaps by dah same person. Made in China? Get me a needle and thread please.”
“Don’t you think…….we ought to put it back…….you know.....in case someone’s lost it?”
“Finders keepers!”

The Wedding March

2009-02-22T16:16:00.000-08:00

From a few weeks ago.

“Maddy?”
“Yes Nonna?”
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Der is a man in dah garden?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. B.”
“Mr. B?”
“Yes, her boyfriend.”
“Oh. Is he black?”
“Yes.”
“Az ee always been black?”
“Um…….as far as I know.”
“Oh. Dat’s good den. I like iz Italian name."
"Hmm....me too."
"Wot about dah other one?”
“Which other one?”
“The other boyfriend?”
“Which one?”
“The shorter one?”
“She blew him off.”
“Blew? Oh right, yes. What about dah other one then?”
“The skinny one?”
“Yes.”
“No he’s just a friend.”
“She’s not marry dat one den?”
“No. He’s gay.”
“Oh! Dat’s good den.”
“Quite.”
“So den Maddy……..ow come she az so many admirers?”
“She has a beautiful mind, amongst her many other "assets.”
“So eez dah one den?”
“So it would appear.”
“So ow you feel about dat den?”
“Old….....…very old.”
“You’ll be a lot older soon.”
“When soon?”
“When she az babies.”
“Oh I don’t think that’s on the cards any time soon.”
“Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know?”
“Know what?”
“When we first met……..dat is wot you said to me!”
“!”

I’m sure everyone will be glad to know that Mr. B is now in residence and has been duly added to Nonna’s attendance register.

A Shared experience

2009-02-18T11:30:00.001-08:00

I listen to a fascinating snippet from the BBC Best of Today on my i-pod as I prepare dinner for the masses. It is so reassuring to learn that millions of people have similar experiences of care giving to relatives with dementia and share similar frustrations. I relate to people who stand on the fringe to watch dirty plates dried with hand towels, people who put dirty plates back with the clean and so many other tiny details. I learn that other people have also learned to do the same things, to let the person with dementia do their own thing, the way they need to do it, and then when they’re finished, afterwards to step in and correct.

I suspect that this is easier for me than for some other people because of my experiences with my own children and because Nonna is not my own mother, father or partner. I am one step removed from that tie that colours perspective.

Nonna is curious about everything, which I consider to be a positive asset. That said, her short term memory is not what it used to be, which in turn means that most things remain new and therefore still noteworthy, of interest. My constant dilemma is whether to give the same answers to the same questions, or whether to answer as if it were the first time?

So often it is difficult to judge what is for the best. Every once in a while Nonna wishes to be helpful. It is difficult to be helpful in someone else’s household, even when it has become your own. I refrain from my first instinct, “it’s o.k. I’ll do it myself.” Instead I adopt a different tactic. I rearrange the kitchen shelves so that someone who is much shorter than me, has easier access. I refresh all the labels on all the doors and drawers that used to help my children.

Whilst Nonna visits the doctor accompanied by her son, I spend a few moments contemplating how to overcome some of our communication difficulties. I am more accustomed to the company of people who think differently. All I need to do is think a bit more differently, probably in a different direction.

Nonna has a whole stream of questions that need to be answered at regular intervals throughout the day. Every so often she adds a new one to her string. A longer piece of string is in many ways commendable, because it means that there are more things that she needs to keep tabs on, such as the new dog. This is infinitely preferable to the question that preceded it, just a few weeks ago:- “Did you know there is a dog in the garden?” Yes, Thatcher has entered her lexicon, which is a thoroughly good thing. It is so much better to hear “where is Thatcher?” fifty times a day, because a strange, unknown dog in the garden is a cause for concern, if not alarm.

Now that I know what to expect, it is far easier to respond to the list of queries in a calm manner. My performance faulters somewhat when we have a houseful, but during the school hours, I am usually able to keep on track.

Our home is full of trip wires for the unwary. The new fridge is an added nuisance. For ten years we have had a fridge that opens out to the left, when it wasn’t frozen shut or broken. The new one opens to the right. It’s an adjustment that flummoxes her every day. It annoys her every day because she knows that she makes the same mistake every day, many, many times. I avert my gaze as she swears under her breath. I ignore it because as yet I have no answer and I sympathise with a body that doesn’t obey.

I learn to be more observant, notice the signs. A bad and sleepless night reveals itself in the overflowing coffee grounds, the dirty plates of the night eater, the snacks of diabetes.

Other hic-cups can be addressed. The new calendar is at just the right height, not for the children, nor for the adults, stuck in a prominent position which is also free from onlookers. I check off the passing days with a thick black marker. She can check out the calendar as she passes, a quick glance without pause, in the passage way, between her bedroom and the kitchen, her regular route. The milk carton is kept half full. Half full because a gallon is too heavy for independence.

The fruit is still a foil. Although we live in the fruit basket of America, the abundance lives in the fridge because it is also warm. The label marks the drawer but as yet, it is still off radar. Nonna is used to easy access fruit, on the table, prominent. Her lament is pitiful, “yes……I do miss fruit,” which prompts me to adjust.

I dig out the three tier contraption, a buried mishap to small children, fill it with fruit and plonk it in the middle of the dining room table. A beacon in an open plan house, the roundabout to all traffic.

I’m in two minds about this change. The sight and smell of the bananas is abhorrent to my son. It evokes his gag reflex, before they’re even opened. It’s all a question of balance and I’m not sure how tot get it right? With seven for dinner around the crowded table, the fruit tier is relegated to the floor where it is open season for Thatcher who is more than partial to apples and not averse to some stealthy theft. I seem to fix one thing and snap another at every turn.

I think these things as Nonna returns from the doctor with a clean bill of health and a bag of nectarines that she bought whilst waiting for her prescription to be filled. Her son is a picture of stress and angst after only an hour and a half of one on one, first hand experience in a public forum. I wonder how many times he lost her, but I don’t like to ask. “There!” she announces with a triumph, “fruit! At last!” as she drops the bag on the table, approximately six inches from the overflowing, three tiered fruit bowl. As she leaves to change into something more comfortable, we exchange glances. His expression of despair and exasperation is strangely reassuring. I’d like to prompt him to greet his children but ‘overload’ is plastered to his furrowed brow. We prop each other up in the kitchen in the semblance of a silent hug. A few seconds later, Nonna appears in the kitchen with a face of fury waving something with violent incandescence, “look! Look at dat!”
“What is it?”
“Peach! Peach! Stone!”
“Oh dear.”
“Gawd dat dog is a thief!”
So often the truth hurts. Frequently the truth is a painless pleasant pin prick that marks a moment forever.

Cross words

2009-02-14T09:05:00.000-08:00

During dinner Nonna entertains the children with fascinating facts about their father’s boyhood. How initially, he only spoke Italian. How, permanently, he was a bad and lazy student. How, for some unknown reason, he loathed reading. How, despite all odds she succeeded in her mission to make him graduate. Her message captivates the children's attention. They gaze at their father as they try to join the dots.

Later, I clean up in the kitchen in the evening when all the children are asleep. Nonna and her useless son sit opposite each other at the dining room table. He stares at his computer screen. She examines her crossword puzzle.
“So Maddy!”
“Hmm?”
“Wot about dis one den? Third president of the United States of America?”
“Er…..not Lincoln, not Washington…..it’s…..on the tip of my tongue….”
“Thomas Jefferson,” he mutters.
“Eh? Wot he say?”
“He said Thomas Jefferson,” I yell from 20 paces distance.
“Let me see……yes…….dat fits.”

Silence falls again, apart from the clatter of tidy and keystrokes on the computer. I nip into the dining room and squeeze his shoulder, “I thought you were going to play scrabble with your mother?”
“Hmm……in a minute.” I glance at the graphs on the screen. Fat chance. Nonna’s pencil begins to tap, a pre-cusor to speech.
“So Maddy!”
“Yup?”
“Wot about dis one den? Classless or classic?”
“Thinkpad!” he spurts without a pause.
“Wot?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m none the wiser.” We both look towards him, non responsive. Nonna throws up her arms in a gesture of despair, I shrug in return.

“So Maddy!”
“Yes?”
“Wot about dis one den? A novel without a hero?”
“Er……Makepeace Thackeray………what is it again?”
“Vanity fair,” speaks the man with eyes elsewhere.
“He’s right you know,” I nod.
“I know he’s right,” she nods back. We both stare at him, the illiterate one. The heat of our collective stare force him to look up, “what?” A nervous sneaky rabbit expression. I dash to catch a glimpse of the google search screen, “you cheat!”
“Wot?”
“He’s cheating! He’s finding the answers on the computer.” She leans back in her chair and clasps the arms with a grin. She pats both arm rests as the words percolate, “I knew dat…..I just wondered ow long it would take you to catch on too?”

Inadvertent cruelty

2009-02-12T20:17:00.000-08:00

I find Nonna at the dining room table where she enjoys her routine breakfast of flakes, prunes and walnuts. I plop seven empty laundry hampers on the counter. On second glance I detect a spot of ‘down in the mouth,’ so I park myself next to her to investigate.
“Cold today!” I bellow, because British people always talk about the weather as a neutral introduction.
“Wot?”
“Cold!”
“Wot is cold?”
“The weather!”
She shrugs her shoulder, dismissive, as 66 degrees is nothing by comparison to the usual English climate. She munches steadily, with an air of resignation before I notice, dry cereal.
“Are you not having milk either?”
“Wot?”
“Milk? No milk………on your cereal.”
“No. No milk.”
“Have you given it up?”
“Eh?”
“Given up having milk on your cereal?”
“No……..I be good today.”
“Good? Is it something to do with the diabetes?”
“No. It is gone.”
“Gone where? What’s gone?”
“Dah milk.”
“Are you sure? I thought there were gallons?” I nip over to the fridge which is full of milk. “Ah…..only fat free." I see the empty carton on the counter, marked for her as it saves confusion, and saves me from yet another question. "You should give it a try, it’s not too bad, better than dry cereal,” I yell across the kitchen.
“I can ave de other ones den?”
“Of course! Why not?”
“Well……you write on dah one for me……..I thought…….”

Twinkle, twinkle, little Star

2009-02-06T22:11:00.000-08:00

Alzheimer’s can be a wicked thing. Meanwhile we take the good and the bad, and stave off the ugly. Amid the morass, little sparks keep shining through, but we never know from one day to the next where we truly are.

Not so long back we celebrated Christmas day as a family, together. Nonna displayed genuine surprise when she unwrapped her nightgown, double checked the gift label and then beamed. She was equally as surprised by the sexy, black lace shower cap. She pulled it on to check the size and then yanked it down over her chin, the red rosebud mid nose. I could already spot the chink of mischief that she is always only too willing to share.

But it wasn’t until later, after she disappeared into her room, that we had cause to exchange meaningful glances over tight button downed lips, because the British is still steadfast, despite an American veneer.

“Ta dah!” she announced as she flounced into the kitchen. I stood mid-baste over a steaming turkey carcass. Her son blanched but remained silent.
“Wot do you tink den?” she twinkled as she curtsied, spreading the nightgown out to the sides.
“Mum?” he bleated. Still she smiled as she managed an unsteady pirouette, “I am all dressed for luncheon……in my gown.” Her son fumbled for words as I hastily shoved the bird back into the oven, to mop my brow and regain ground. “Well…….at least it fits you…….I wasn’t quite sure what size…..” I trailed off and caught him dumbfounded out of the corner of my eye.
“Wot den?” she said as she placed both feet carefully together with an accompanying bob of expectation. “Look at im! Gawd wot a face,” she chuckled, “I am pull your leg, you silly goose.”

Is this what you do all day?

2009-02-05T09:27:00.000-08:00

At 9:00 when the children have been taken to school, I tackle the carpet, post puppy accident. It’s a noisy machine but I’m quite content moving backwards and forwards, still in my dressing gown, unwashed and not dressed. As I clean, I debate whether to hide in the garage or hide in the garden. She yells at me over the din, whilst Nonna reads the subtitles on the BBC world news, “hey Mum!”
I still startle, as much from the bomb blasts from the telly, “yes dear?”
“Have you walked Thatcher yet?” I try not to glare, but open my arms to draw attention to my déshabillez.
“Ah…….did you give Thatcher his tranquilizers yet?"
"I'll do it in a minute."
"Did you know Thatcher’s on the sofa in the other room?” Although I am renowned for my eyes in the back of my head, I have get to advance to x-ray vision. "I just thought you'd want to know. Shall I take him off for you?" Before I am able to answer, Nonna pipes up, “wot is dat ting den?” I look from telly to Nonna and back again, mining for clues. Her arm shakes towards the machine.
“Oh it’s a carpet cleaner.”
“Ooo dats nice. Wot you do?”
“Clean the carpet.”
“Why you clean it when it is already clean den?”
“Dog accident.”
“Does it clean udder tings?”
“Just carpets.”
“Ooo dats a shame.”
I pause as I think. It’s tempting to ask but I’m not sure that I really want to know. “Why is it a shame?”
“Well……coz if it cleaned udder tings den it could clean the dog vomit on the sofa…….next door.”

I shall be hiding in the garage out of the rain, with stolen tranquilizers, just in case anyone needs me, I'll be under the car.

Pass the parcel

2009-02-03T13:55:00.000-08:00

I pause with my knitting in one hand and a cup of tea in the other as I chat with my daughter on the sofa. We discuss meaningful adult issues, quietly, whilst all the children are asleep. Thirty minutes in, close to the pivotal moment of decision making, we hear the garage door open as Nonna and her son return home from their pottery class, flushed with success and failure.

“Look at dis!” she flourishes a broken bisqued bowl before thrusting it into my body. I drop the knitting to the open space on the sofa to the left and the cup of tea to my daughter on the right so as to save the already broken bowl that’s dropped into my hands.
“Ooo that’s a shame.”
“E broke it, butter fingers!”
“Hmm yes that’s really beyond hope I’m afraid.”
“It snapped like a biscuit.”
“Yes they’re very fragile at the bisque stage.”
“Wot about dis one den?” she murmurs as she scoops up the cat. After many years of tender training, this is a cat who has learned that inertia is the best defense. He lies in any position, a saggy bag. She shuffles forward, I can see it coming but I’m powerless as I hold the bowl. The cat is repositioned, upside down, one handed, this way and that, a pliant bean bag of purring fur. Her delight is joyful and child like, “look at dat!” Closer and closer. A feline without a gyroscope. As she extends her arms and the cat towards me I pass the bowl to my daughter, but not fast enough as she lays the cat in the open space to the side, with his claws, plop, onto the knitting, “ooo ee likes dat doesn’t ee! Good night den.”

Now that’s just the kind of thing that drives me completely potty, if not crackers or ever so slightly crumbly. Clearly she's made a full "recovery."

ROLF Award

2009-02-03T10:27:00.000-08:00

"Jessica" explains the rules as follows:-

"To award someone a ROFL Award:

1. Pick a post from the current month that made you laugh.
[Please only choose original material written or developed by a blogger - i.e., not a YouTube video, cartoon, or joke circling the Net.]

2. E-mail me a link to the post that you are nominating AND a link to your blog by the deadline.
[I will send you the award button so you can share it with the blogger you've nominated.]

3. I will send you the award button code a day or so before the awards are to be posted.

4. Send the person you are awarding the award button code and let them know when the ROFL Awards will be posted for the month.

5. On the first Friday of the month, write a post on your blog about the post you nominated.
[Please link back to this blog (Oh, The Joys) and to Tania at Chicky Chicky Baby so that people can see the full list of award winning funny posts.]

6. Read all the funny posts for the month and enjoy!

Feel free to e-mail me with questions.

I look forward to laughing with you!"

Not sure about the 'first Friday' versus the deadline, but here is my offering in any case:-

"Jocelyn" from "O Might Crisis" or more specifically this post called "Four Days Out." A bitter sweet tale that a few of us, hopefully lots of us, can relate to, both boys and girls.

Cheers Dears

Light the blue touchpaper and retire, with grace

2009-01-27T20:21:00.000-08:00

I am not the most observant of persons when I am busy. Quite often I am very busy when my children are at school, and quite often when they come home too, come to think of it. Nevertheless I notice a new development. I would be difficult not to notice. As I busy about, playing catch up, Nonna offers her assistance. Her assistance takes the form of presenting me with a wide variety of items that she has selected from the great choice available on the carpet and on various pieces of furniture.
“Wot shall we do wiv dis den?” she asks waving a palmful of sawdust, tracked in from the pen by Thatcher the dog.
“Er……..” I pause mid potato peel as I have yet to vacuum, “just pop it in the bin…..over there.”

I wait until the coast is clear to mop the filthy kitchen floor when Nonna peers cautiously around the door jam. “Wot shall we do wiv dis den?” I blink through blotchy bifocals, "um......is that your hanky or someone else's?" I lie and prompt. "Ooo.....is dat mine?"
"I think it is. Pass it over, I'll put it in the bucket so you don't break your neck."
"Break my wot?"
"Er.....slippy floor," I bellow. Her hands fluffy as she beetles off to safety.

As I bend over the toilet with the recently found plunger, she appears again. “Wot we do wiv dis den?” I pause mid dunk in the very crampt bathroom, brush my hair back from my face, “er……well he’s chewed it now……you might as well give it back to him so he doesn’t chew something else.”
“Oh alright…….do you know?”
“Know what?”
“You ave toilet paper and poo on your face?”

I dash down from the shower and a redress to bung on the next load of laundry when I skid into Nonna. “Wot we do wiv dis den?” I examine the Christmas tree bauble hook in her hand, “er……….?” I take it and pop it in my pocket as all the decorations have already been stored, in the attic.

I dash back into the house after clearing up doggy vomit where Nonna waits patiently, “Wot we do wiv dis den?” Her hand flaps with a single grey, solid sock, “see……..it is ard!”
“Bucket! Over there…….in the utility room.”

I rush out with the recycling before the lorry comes for the collection and then hurtle back inside where Nonna is poised with a pin prick of something or other, “Wot we do wiv dis den?”
“Um….trash.”
“Wot? You can’t recycle it?”
“Er yes……give it here.”
“Urry…….dah lorry will be ere soon.”

I hover an the back door trying to decide whether to kill myself now or wait? Nonna opens the door, “wot you do dere den?”
“Er……breathing…….thinking…..maybe I’ll do some gardening?”
“Iz too cold, come in wiv your skinny bones.”
I submit and we do the soft shoe shuffle back inside, a clumsy two step.
“Well Maddy……I tink I rest now, ……I am a bit tired from all my work…….but as dey say…….wot is it……I ave to do my bit……..earn my keep!” she emphasizes with just the merest glint of sarcasm.

Bless her cotton socks, just shoot me now, wicked woman that I am.

The Good Neighbour

2009-01-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

Every day it’s the same. Every day Nonna goes for a stroll to the local shops. Everyday she returns home exasperated as the location of the shops eludes her. Three laminated copied maps of the immediate locale are of no assistance, as the maps insist upon hiding themselves. For me, this was the solution, for her independence. For her, this was ‘dependent,’ writ large. It was a foolish and tactless error on my part, especially as I have no back up plan.

We whiz and plod through the daily routines. Whilst I hack onions I avert my eyes from Nonna’s little ritual, run the hot water to boiling point, half rinse the single breakfast bowl, wipe half clean and half dry with a hand towel, return mucky bowl to the wrong cupboard, replace wet dirty hand towel to further contaminate everyone else, nearly turn off the steaming faucet, completely ignore the dishwasher. I accept that it is pointless to attempt to change this habit. A habit of 80 plus years is ingrained. Far better to bite the bullet and focus on the far more important, back up plan.

My personal quality of life has improved greatly over time, as I have gradually learned to interpret and memorize the many hand signals, gestures and single word prompts that Nonna uses prior to word production. This in turn makes word production redundant which saves us both a great deal of time and frustration. We are now able to navigate the average day with a whisk of the hand here and nod of the head there, harmony enhanced. In fact, depending upon the time of day, I can almost guess the right conclusion as Nonna is a creature of habit, just like so many other people, who "thrive on routine."

Every time I catch myself cursing the absence of her “hearing aid” I remember that it doesn’t really qualify as aid in the true sense of the word. It is merely poor tool, that helps addresses some elements of "hearing impairment" but does not restore hearing loss.

When she sets off again, at one in the afternoon, without having eaten any lunch, I am powerless to prevent her. I debate. Should I phone her son? I never phone my husband at work, as he is only able to divert one brain cell to a conversation. I admit defeat, temporarily, and hope that we will merely repeat the previous days’ failures.

I spend the twenty minutes after two at the window, hoping I can catch a glimpse of her. Two twenty is time for the school run. I have twenty minutes to locate my husband’s mother. Each minute increases my sense of panic. As usual I am "torn."

There’s nothing for it, I gallop off to school and scan the locale for signs of Nonna.

Nothing.

We gallop home from school. We try to play ‘spot the Nonna’ en route but the resulting panic was entirely predictable.

At three o’clock I shut the garage door as the children tumble in the house. I check her room. I check for signs that she has returned, her bag, her coat?

Nothing.

I return to the window.

Nothing.

I dither. Who to phone? Personal search with children in car? I debate how to get the children back into the hated car? Since they are now undressed, unshod, un-snacked and pending homework this venture seems far too tumultuous for my tiny brain to fathom. A bolt of lighting hits me as I remember the new DVD, bribery in plastic wrap will save the day. I run around the house chasing my children with the DVD in my hand as there’s nothing like a real visual cue to prompt action.

“Mom…….”
“Yes dear?”
“There’s someone at the door.” I am not surprised that I didn’t hear the bell as the fire alarm clashes out at random moments to paralyze my brain and incite mass panic in small people. I dash to the door.

There she is! Nonna alive and well! I grab her for a quick bear hug, the kind you give to naughty children instead of slapping them up the head and back. I blink at the stranger by her side. Introductions are made. Nonna’s hand gestures are in full flourish with very little word back up. The stranger comes inside to explain what Nonna can not.

I am inclined to believe the neighbour’s description of ‘obviously flustered and confused.’ I am inclined to believe that Nonna would indeed be flustered and confused, if invited by a stranger into their home. Many thank you’s and breathless praise are foisted upon the stranger as she wends her way back to her own home.

Nonna exhales has she leans her back against the closed front door, “gawd! Wot is dah matter wiv dat woman?”
“?”
“I only asked er which way. She din ave to drag me into er ome!”
“Oh.”
“Some people!” she beams, mystified by such hospitality.

For myself, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

January Jaunty Jest

2009-01-25T10:14:00.000-08:00

Have you read something during this month of January that made you laugh out loud? Was it something that might make other people have the same reaction? If so you may wish to leave a link to that post in the comments section here, or e-mail me or write a little note to "Jessica" over at "Oh the Joys" and her jolly good pal "Tania" at "Chicky Chicky Baby" for their "ROLF" award for January.

Maybe I could invite you to play along too?

As they say:-

'If you are willing, we'd love help spreading the word. Feel free to share the deadlines with your followers and friends on Twitter and / or Facebook .

Thanks so much!

Jessica & Tania'

I'd attempt the Twitter / Facebook option but sadly, technically challenged persons, such as myself are incapable of such feats.

What I'd really like to know is whether I can submit four suggestions or recommendations? I maintain four blogs, I read lots of other blogs. Some are quite hilarious, others draw me for different reasons. Surely I could provide four nominations, although I suspect that would constitute cheating?

Cheers dears

Neither Agenda nor a bovverer be

2009-01-20T18:36:00.001-08:00

Nonna is off colour, giddy and out of sorts.

Her son phones at frequent intervals for updates and progress reports throughout the day, in brief, as he has a busy schedule. My schedule is scrapped. No time to catch up after a long three day weekend in sole "custody" of "everybody."

I am keen that Nonna should revert to vertical as soon as possible and take great care to ensure that my wishes succeed, primarily because my worry timetable is already fully booked. My knowledge of diabetes and age related complications is sketchy. My knowledge of England in January is legendary.

When he walks through the door at the end of the day, I am all over him, like a rash. We huddle in the corner to scheme and plot and foil poor Nonna’s plan to return home. Independence is all well and good, but safety is a priority and trumps freedom every time. On completion of the debate, I then launch into my own agenda, tact, persuasion, consideration and most of all, kindness and patience. It’s a tricky one. Nonna is his mother not mine. They have their own relationship with a long and well worn history. It’s not easy to turn the tables from Mother and son, to adult man and intermittent frailty.

We wait until dinner time, when we are all at the table together. I prod him into speech. Thereafter follows a lengthy diatribe outlining the copious logical reasons why it is best that Nonna remains in permanent residency. At the end of his speech he pauses, slightly breathless with a smear of food at the corner of his lips.
“Well?”
“Well wot?”
“Do you agree?”
“Agree wiv wot?”
“Agree that it’s better for you to stay here………with us?”
“Why I stay ere?”
Much eye rolling and sighing ensues. A brief recap of the pertinent points are bellowed at poor benighted, overwhelmed and outnumbered Nonna, but she rallies.
“Look ere! If I woz at ome…….in bed all day……den der would be no laundry, no washing up and no mess……..I would be just fine……I am just fine on my own…….no bovver to anybody.” She beams, lifts a quaky arm, extends a shaky finger and dabs his mouth, “butter! You mucky pup!”

An American doll

2009-01-18T14:23:00.001-08:00

I heave 41 lbs of inert puppy into my arms, baby style.
“Wot you got dere den?”
“The puppy……..Thatcher.”
“Wot you do?”
“I’m taking him out to the pen for a piddle.”
“Eh?”
“Potty time!”
“Why you are carry im?”
“Because he won’t go on his own.”
“Of course he won’t go on iz own………ee is asleep!”
“I already know that!” I hover by the locked door with my load, as Nonna bars my exit.
I nod towards the door handle, slightly breathless as I’m out of practice at carrying half a Shetland pony.
“Wot you want den?”
“I wondered if you might be able to open the door for me, please?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No………..put im down.”
“Why?”
“Coz I’m going to elp you.” I plop a liquefied puppy carcass back onto the floor.
“What do you suggest?”
“We will wake im up first.”
“I’ve already tried that, he’s dead to the world.”
“Well we’ll ave to work someting out den coz soon ee will be too eavy to carry.”
“I don’t know what to do with him, even after having read the book.”
“I read dat "book" too you know. Dere waz nothin in it about carrying.”
“Hmm maybe we should check the index.”
“Wot you suggest we look it up under………..?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“So Maddy………..?”
“Yes?”
“Does ee do it yet?”
“Do what yet?”
“You know…….shake ands…….shake paws den?”
“No, the children are still working on that one.”
“You know…….I don’t tink dey should teach im dat?”
“Really? Why?”
She does her side step swing shuffle dance of the squirmingly uncomfortable, that exactly mimics her inner mental turmoil, otherwise know as cognitive dissonance.
“Because it’s so……such an……English gesture. Don’t you tink?”

Two minds as one.

Awards

2009-01-18T12:17:00.000-08:00

"Trish" over an "Another Piece of the Puzzle" and at "Autism Interrupted" and updates her "Twitter" more frequently than I can manage and at "5 Minutes for Special Needs Mums".......... and who knows wherever else she manages to put her mark[!] what a busy body she must be[!] has given this blog it's first ever blog award! Thank you so much for including us. I feel the need to share this event with Nonna, without whose co-operation.......or non-co-operation, this blog would not have been possible!

The rules are as follows:-
'Copy, save and add the blog photo to your blog, share the love with 7 of your favorite blogs and be sure to mention who gave it to you (ahem…that would be me…)'

Firstly to "Sandra" at "Add Humor and Faith" who always lifts my spirits even though her humour lacks a 'u.' I think I shall probably be de-listed if I mention that I'd kill for a favion like hers.

Then to "Aspie Mom" at "Aspie Days" yet another body that needs a tutorial on the art of the use of 'u's........

Also for "Chris H" at "Diet Coke Rocks" as her irreverant brand of humour is right up my street, even if I prefer a lightly chilled Chablis. Cheers

Then to the thoroughly gorgeous and highly prolific "Angela" at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy,"
who spends an inordinate amount of time whizzing around the blogosphere providing "Inspiration", "assistance" and "support" in oh so many different flavours. Another one that can't manage a simple 'u.'

Also for the tantalizing "Tanya" at "Teen Autism," if only she'd adopt that tagline who knows how many followers she might lure[?] or maybe not? Anyone who can mother teens and still have the face of an angel is someone I refuse to share my cream with......there again, Vaseline isn't everyone's first choice in the beauty department.

Then to "Anne" at "Anne's House" as she has almost as many peeves as me but is a more willing sharer, whereas I just keep grumbling.

Also for "Jewel Girl" at "Sandwiched Mom." What can I say? I know that there must be millions of people out there who are similarly situated but so far we are very few and far between.

Then to "Osh" at "The House that Osh Built," paving the way a few miles ahead on the bell curve, blazing a trail and leading the way.

Also to "Tut tut" who blogs at "Inside the Shell" . Whilst as she says herself, her postings are 'occasional' they are certainly worth waiting for.

And lastly to "Joker" at "The musings of a lurcher," who has experienced ever such a troublesome year and so hopefully will enjoy a far better one this year. You never know, "Thatcher" and "Joker" may become pen pals!

Cheers dears

p.s. I would have loved to have included all the 'anonymouses' but sadly you have not made yourselves know to me.

Best wishes

The wrath of Nonna

2009-01-17T19:01:00.000-08:00

To be fair, I would have to say that for an Italian she is a remarkably even tempered woman, but every once in a while something sparks her ire.

***

It's late in the afternoon when I toss frozen peas into boiling water with my back turned away from the turmoil. Supper is a fiasco since the play dates have over run. As I scurry around the kitchen with Nonna’s assistance, I hear the familiar puffing sounds prior to word production. I catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye, wooden spoon flailing the air in time with her left arm, circling and flapping. I squeak as she taps me on the bottom, more from surprise than any pain, “look at dat!” she growls.
“What?” I follow the spoon’s quaking line. Outside in the garden I see my cat cornered under a lounge chair, backed against a wall. He hisses and spits in response to repeated pokes with the end of a broken fork, I drop the spatula and make for the door but Nonna’s ahead of me, yelling and marching full steam ahead, “wot you tink you do! Hey! Stop dat right dis minute.” I watch from the door way as Nonna charges towards the child still clutching the wooden spoon, valiant defender of all creatures, both great and small. It’s difficult to describe his facial expression, blanched in the shadow of Nonna, in the early evening of twilight.

Now that’s one child that won’t be invited for a return visit.

Cluck, cluck, cluck, playing chicken

2009-01-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

We suffer yet another mishap with our Safeway delivery. Safeway tell me in turn, that it isn’t really a hic-cup, merely a cock up, because I have a Mac rather than a PC, although their comment is far more PC than my translation. It has taken me many days to complete the order, always dashing away from the computer to tend to some domestic crisis or other. The lap top has remained permanently open and subject to all kinds of mischief from several different contributors. Nonna’s Mac lesson has meant that use of my laptop has become a free for all. Until recently no-one dared to touch it, but the visual cue of Nonna's usage was noted by one and all. Once seen, the witnesses never forget, because they are quick learners.

I learn that it is unwise to combine on-line shopping, teaching a family game of Scrabble and menu planning.

As a result, my daughter is delighted by the windfall of white flatulent bread, the type that never graces our wholesome home, where whole-meal is de rigeur and enforced with rigour. I also cannot account for the duck sitting in the fridge, since I ordered chicken. I can’t even remember when I last ate duck or how to cook it come to think of it? I can only assume that I hit the wrong button in haste. We now also have enough salted peanuts to see us through to 2010.

Suddenly everyone is hell bent upon sandwich making, self initiated by the visual cue of fluffy white dough. Lashings of peanut butter and jam, slather the kitchen and the children when Nonna appears in the kitchen. “Ooo are we going to feed the ducks?”
“Ducks?”
“Dah white bread….isn’t it for dah ducks?”
“Not really……it’s for the children……a snack.”
“Wot appened to dah ducks den?”
“What ducks?”
“Dah ducks? Dah ducks you used to ave?”
“We’ve never kept ducks……or any other fowl for that matter.”
“No……not real ducks………doz other tings?”
“Which other things?”
“Oh……you know…….ducks…….yellow…..”
“Plastic ducks? Bath ducks?”
“Yes! Ooo you used to have hundreds of ducks. Where are they now?”
“You know……..now that they’ve all learned to swim, we don’t need the ducks to entice them into the pool any more…….I gave them to charity.”
“Ooo dats sad…….so are you going to cook it den?”
“Cook what?”
“Dah duck.”
“How did you know about the duck?”
“Well…….I order it for you…….on dah computer.......make a nice change from chicken don’t you tink?”
“!”

Note to self:- save time, cancel the Mac lessons, she’s graduated.

What a wit!

2009-01-13T10:20:00.000-08:00

I sign the PC&E forms and chat to the chap collecting the dead fridge.
“Your rebate in maybe......…four to six weeks.”
“Super. Thank you so much.”
“You.......er……foreign?”
“English.”
“Ah…..Angleterre!”
“Indeed.”
“Ave a nice day,” he beams to reveal his lack of dental insurance.
“Have a better one!” I hope, as I wave. I dash back into the house with soggy fluff muffs where I greet my bedraggled, dozy, unemployed daughter in the kitchen.
“Have you fed "Thatcher" yet Mum?”
“Fed, watered, walked, pooped, pooped again, poop cleaned up.”
“Ah.”
“In addition I’ve got them all off to school on time, washed the floor, completed three loads of laundry, changed one wet bed, made supper and pudding for seven, run through Nonna’s check list of the day, updated the school’s ‘I love to read’ programme for three classes, phoned mum and I’ve just signed off the fridge, at last.”
“Blimey……..and it’s only just gone ten.”
“Indeed.”
“Still that’s one less thing.”
“What’s one less thing?”
“The fridge.”
“Hmm…?”
“One less thing on Nonna’s check list for you to run through every day.”
“Good point.”
Nonna times her arrival to perfection, “look at dat,” she says waggling her arm towards the window.
“What?”
“The fridge?”
“Yes, they collected it this morning, at last.”
“They collected the fridge today?”
“They did.”
“Ow many days az it bin den?”
“Only ten days.”
“Ow we manage wivout a fridge den?”
“We have a new one, one that works.”
“Where?”
“Where is what?”
“Dah new fridge.”
“There in the kitchen, next to the big cupboard.”
“Ooo, is dat new?”
“Yes.”
“Ow new it is?”
“10 days old.”
“Ooo dats nice. Where is dah old fridge den?”
“They took it away, this morning.”
“Who took it away?”
“PG&E, the utility company.”
“Why dey take it away?”
“It was broken.”
“You pay dem?”
“No they pay us, $35.00 to recycle it.”
“Ooo dats good den. Was it old?”
“Yes.”
“Ow old it was?”
“1986.”
“What it is?”
“Friday the 9th of January 2009.”
She pauses and rests an arm on the counter which is just as well because I’m feeling pretty dizzy myself.
“So Maddy……….?”
“Hmm?”
“Ow much?”
“How much for what?”
“Ow much you pay?”
“For the fridge?”
“No…….......….ow much you pay to ave me recycled?”
"!"

Regrette beaucoup – a stitch in time

2009-01-10T07:11:00.000-08:00

My childless day is interrupted by the presence of Nonna and Thatcher, the dog. I find it difficult to be productive with their added responsibility, ever present. The sewing machine seems like a bad idea, as Thatcher is at the chewing stage of puppy-hood and Nonna is at the helping stage of any project that is allowed to see the light of day. Whilst I’m tempted to hide from them both and steal half an hour in the garage to use the pottery wheel, I know that the step may prove hazardous to my followers and that the interior of the garage has yet to be puppy-proofed.

Instead I opt for mass food production in the kitchen where well wishers and scavengers are expected, although which is which, is debatable. Nonna and Thatcher graze and nibble collectively. Food scraps and dogs could be a slippery slope, but for the time being they are both content. I suspect that there is some un-written rule that permits grandparents to take liberties with household pets as well as their grandchildren. We trot through her traditional enquiries:-
“Where he is?”
“Work.”
“Where dey are?”
“School.”
“Where are dah cats?”
“Hiding.”
“Wot day it is?”
“The 6th Tuesday, January and now we’re in 2009.”
“We ave had New Year den?”
“Yes.”
“Did we ave fun?”
“Lots of fun. You had a little nap but we were all awake for the first time ever, all together.”
“Oh……dat’s alright den.”
We reach a natural pause, it’s the pause we have before we cycle through them all again. I grit my teeth in anticipation and attack the potatoes. The evidence of her restless night lies in the overflowing coffee dregs.
“So……..Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“You know………..I tink I go for a walk.”
“Really? Which way do you want to go?”
“Just up dah road………to dah shops and back.”
“Great idea.” I know that my agreement is far too enthusiastic but I also know that it will take about half an hour before she’s ready to go. There is an even chance that by the time she is ready to go that she’ll have forgotten that she planned to go anywhere. Either way this provides enough time to finish off preparing dinner and be ready as a companion, as well as walk Thatcher.

When she appears in the kitchen with one glove, I kick off my slippers, dash to retrieve the rest of her belongings and bellow over my shoulder, “hang on a minute, I’ll come with you.” I return with all her mislaid items to hand to her, including the little address card with all our pertinent details. As she takes her things she flutters, “no………I go on my own………you get on with your sewings and tings.”

I am immediately riddled with guilt, that she has read my mind, rebuffed. I try to think of what to say, something that isn’t condescending, something reassuring and genuine. “It’s o.k. I was going to walk Thatcher anyway, we can go together.”
“No, no, no…..I go on my own. Bye bye den.” She turns on her heel to leave, pauses and then heads off in the other direction to take the front door route. I rub my palms on my trousers. She’s an adult. At home she walks for miles on the beach, alone. How tiresome to have no independence. As the door clicks shut I glare at the sewing machine, my secret undoing. My mind is too muddled to sew, so instead I tidy Nonna’s room, which bears a strong resemblance to that of a teenager.

Only a few minutes later I hear the door click and dash to see what is amiss. Nonna rests on the door jam clutching her gloves. “Are you o.k.?”
“Yes……..I am too tired to walk today.”
“?”
“I am going to sit down.” She steps unsteadily towards the table and plops into a chair to pat the sewing machine lightly, repeatedly, rhythmically. “I’ll get you a coffee.” I watch her out of the corner of my eye, from the kitchen, count the breaths of asthma. I put a small biscuit on the saucer of the diabetic. Her hand moves to the plush toy on the table, “wot’s dis ting den?”
“Webkinz,” I bellow.
I return to the table to join her. An espresso cup for her, a vat for me. I loathe that downcast look of defeat.
“I think I’ll get on with this sewing pattern……..I don’t suppose you’re up to tackling the Webkinz for me?”
“Wot?”
“I hate hand sewing.”
“Wot?”
“The Webkinz……he’s sprung a leak. The seams bust on his tummy and I hate mending.” I push the bowl of threads towards her. She chuckles as her fingers run over the spools, “you’re not fooling me Maddy.”
“?”
“It was a very small Biscotti, probably worth six or seven stitches.”

A walk in the park

2009-01-08T13:00:00.000-08:00

Young "puppies" need supervision, training and lots of luvvies. With all the children at school, I decide to make a start, one on one.

It’s a dampish day but nothing by comparison to England.

At the door of the garage I pause. Maybe it would be good to give Nonna a breath of fresh air at the same time? Should I really rouse her from her morning nap? I pout as I already know that this will mean a considerable delay. I unhook the lead to let Thatcher free in the house and go to Nonna’s room. She agrees with alacrity.

Although she is already dressed, we both know that she prefers to change her clothing to meet the public. I remind her about the cold, to dress up warmly, lots of layers and gloves and hat and scarf. She shoes me away, pesky annoyance that I am.

I sip coffee, menu plan and make a wide variety of phone calls to leave messages. By the time she reappears I am already half way through my to do list.
“Do you want to go and get your gloves?” I bellow, nodding at her bare hands. She returns some while later, still without gloves.
“Shall I go……..” I give up, walk past her to retrieve gloves, hat, scarf, glasses, bag, sunglasses, emergency pill pot and a hanky, thus saving considerable amounts of time, confusion and irritation for us both.

Once we are all in the car, two of us are strapped in. I remind Nonna about the current legal status and safety issues, a variation on my son’s theme, every trip, every time. I have great experience in the field of unwieldy seat belts, unco-operative catches and motor co-ordination, both fine and gross. I lean across her in the passenger seat as her hands flutter ineffectually, “there! All set now?” I check, just in case there are any other last minute matters.
“Ready!” she beams back.

I check the whimpering back seat of the travel sick hound. Small and frequent town trips will hopefully help him acclimatize, given time, exposure and gradual de-sensitization. Nonna chats during the journey. She covers her familiar topics thoroughly several times. I focus on driving but keep tuned in to the vomit machine in the rear. Are the seats really covered completely? Will he manage to dislodge all the old towels? He’s already managed 7 minutes with his breakfast intact.

On arrival I park at the curb and ease my passengers onto the sidewalk, one reluctant, one unsteady. Nonna has abandoned the use of a cane, as a cane is only for elderly and infirm persons. The snazzy stick-come-crutch, left over from a skiing accident, fails to tempt her. She’s not fooled for a moment, wise to all manipulations and manouvres.

We progress up the incline of the bridge. Thatcher, a country born dog, is also learning about fearful things, skateboards, cyclists, traffic and strangers. With a firm grasp on the lead we tread forward and upward, I hope. Nonna begins to huff and puff, not because she is tired but as a pre-cusor to word production in the wrong language. If you think and speak and are Italian, then sometimes automatic translations into English need lubrication to switchover.

“So……wot you tink den?”
“About what?”
“Dez tings,” her hand gestures and body posture lead me to look down, at her feet. Her feet are sockless in a pair of backless clogs.
“Where are your socks?” I ask rhetorically.
“I din’t know we were going for a walk,” she states. My exasperation is outweighed by the need to protect diabetic digits from the cold. “Come along!” I link arms with her as we swing back towards the car, dragging Thatcher in our wake. There is no point in pursuing the matter. Better to quit whilst we’re ahead. Nonna beams amiably, “so den Maddy?” I am beyond grumpy.
“Hmm?”
“Wot you say to dat den?”
“Say to what?”
“Your nice life ere?”
“Yes………I’m very lucky.” We have already had this conversation many times, how fortunate I am to be graced by children and an exceptional husband, not necessarily in that order.
“I tort young people knew about such tings.”
“What young people?”
“You.”
“What things?”
“Birth control.”
“?”
“Now you ave such beautiful children instead of your freedom.”
“That’s not my fault it’s his………your son’s fault!”
“I tink you were a co-conspirator.”
“Me? Never. I was asleep at the time.”
We chortle together as we stride down the hill.

Knit wit

2009-01-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

I sit on the sofa knitting for the few moments prior to the arrival of the boys, first thing in the morning, whilst the kettle begins to boil.

Knit one, worry two.

The BBC News tells me of the woes of the world. It’s the changes, however small that I need to note. Until recently Nonna was up for breakfast every day amid the mayhem, another body in the way of progress. Her days ended around nine, just like most good Americans. More recently she has failed to surface until 9 in the morning, sometimes as late as ten. As soon as light falls just after 5 in the evening, there are mutterings about bed time. I know she reads. I know she needs some quiet time away from the chaos. I suspect she sleeps fitfully. In the mornings my suspicions are either confirmed or dismissed.

We have two scenarios:-

“Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Me? I always sleep well thank you.”

“Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Me? I never sleep, it’s my age.”

Like I say, it’s the change that is worrisome, but when a slightly dazed Nonna appears at the door jam, I am not particularly surprised.
“Wot you do?”
“I’m knitting and watching the news,” I bellow.
“Wot you do ere in dah middle of dah night?”
“I’m waiting for the boys, they’ll be here any minute.”
“Wot time it is?”
“Late…….5:35…….in the morning.”
“Wot day it is?”
“Saturday.”
“Gawd……..” Nonna watches the subtitles roll for her benefit on the screen.
“Wot it is?”
“The Gaza Strip.”
“Ooo dear me, dah troubles of dah world. Good night den……..I’ll see you in dah proper morning.”

It would appear that someone has more than acclimatized to the status quo.

The well laid plans of mice and many

2008-12-30T14:11:00.000-08:00

It should all go like clockwork.

7 minutes drive there, pick up the prescription, which I’ve already checked is ready and waiting, and then 7 minutes back into the garage, even if every traffic light is red. With a bit of luck in the green department, I could make the round trip in half the time. The expedition is timed to coincide with lunch, which means that Nonna is willing to hold the fort whilst small people consume welcome calories.

The table is laid in advance. All accompaniments doled out within easy reach of everyone at the table. Containment in one room is the norm, to minimize mess and engender warm family feelings of togetherness. I pop the piping hot loaf onto the board and give Nonna custody of the knife. I demand that each child verbally acknowledge that Nonna is in charge, and that each and every one of them will be good.

As I leave the house I ponder whether the term ‘good’ needed greater clarification?

I do not dally to chat with my pal the pharmacist. Instead I race home to arrive back in record time.

In the kitchen, I find Nonna, flustered and flapping a yoghourt top foil as globules fly, “wot you tink?”
“Er?”
“If it fall down…….which way?”
“Oh always soggy side down, it’s almost a scientific certainty.”
“Where it is…….dah ting?” she asks with the pot in one hand and the top in the other.
“I don’t know where the stain is but if you show me I’ll wipe it up for you, don’t worry, I’ll find a cloth.” I should probably have let her continue to search for a cloth herself, as now that I have interrupted her train of thought, we find that’s she forgotten where the blot was. A cat guards the blot, an easy visual clue under the table. Under the table there is the usual fall-out from those with poor co-ordination and weak motor skills, crumbs, slicks and slimes, a horrible sticky mess.

Strangely, no-one is at the table, just the debris. I turn to Nonna who hunts for a spoon in the kitchen. Her face shows high colour. “Are you o.k.?” I bellow.
“Ooo yes. I am just…….all worn out.”
“How come?” before she has a chance to answer I hear a small loud voice shout an unusually audible command, “more please, I am being dah hungry one still.” Even more strangely still, Nonna visibly or rather audibly, hears the request. She leans on the counter, one hand on her hip, the other outstretched shakily to point in the direction of the commander in chief, “it’s im……..he as worn me out…….I never see im eat so much……ever…….before………dey eat dah whole loaf of bread between dem…….I ave bin rushing back and forth a dozen times……or more!”

I skip to the family room where my son lolls on the carpet watching telly in the middle of the day, surrounded by his own personal nest of crumbs and smears, an empty plate at his feet, his feet, which like the rest of him, is devoid of clothing. I hear the exact same demand echoing from a different part of the house. I dash over to the different part of the house where my other son is in a similar condition in front of the computer screen in the hall. “And what exactly do you think you are doing young man?”
“I like Nonna baby sit. I good for Nonna.”

Moral :- define your terms.

Nonna gets a score of AAB* for her efforts.

I get the E for the effort to clean up.

AAB = Above And Beyond

Single serving

2008-12-28T11:32:00.000-08:00

I stumble down the stairs two hours late after a troublesome night with the boys. I am unable to calculate which is better, consecutive or simultaneous periods of nocturnal wanderings? On a Sunday morning I prepare myself mentally to cook pancakes for the masses and practice our weekly knife skills. At the foot of the stairs I note peace and quiet, aurally. Visually I note that everyone is wired into electronic devices at 7:30 in the morning, no-one is dressed. Nonna, wireless and without her hearing aid, beams in my direction as she sits next to her son at the dining room table. “Good morning Maddy. How nice to have a lie in.” I plop on the chair next to them as her son’s attention remains glued to the lap top screen. “Aren’t you so lucky to ave im as a husband?” I look at unshaven, disheveled Mr. Lucky. There are many ways to describe our relationship but ‘lucky’ doesn’t even come close right now.

I heave out of my chair to go and greet everyone individually. Each individual is unable to break their attention from their current occupation, so I leave them in peace and trundle to the kitchen. Hot air pumps out from every vent to counteract the chill open window in Nonna’s room. En route to the kitchen I find many, many empty containers of single serving cereal packets, a holiday treat and gift from one of our overly generous neighbours. I stand with armfuls, far more than six, as Nonna brightens, “dey are very nice doz, I ad some of dem for a change.” Her son awakens at the same time, “yes by the time I got down here they’d already had breakfast. Quite lucky really, so I didn’t have to try and cook.” How frightfully trying indeed. Now I have missed the only opportunity to get one weekly egg into each of my children. I acknowledge to myself privately, that I am now officially in a foul mood.

The trouble with skipping an hour is that during my absence, nothing happens. A void appears in time which means that everything has to be shunted forward, concertina style. None of these people are capable of being hurried or harried.

An extreme but fictional example may clarify.

Just suppose that the time fairy visited to scoop away most of the day. At 2:50 in the afternoon, every one has either grazed continuously or stolen food. No-one is really hungry. However, as snack time approaches at three, a hue and cry emerges. Everyone demands breakfast, morning snack, lunch and afternoon snack, which must be in the right sequential order and resemble each definitive ‘meal.’ None of them can be skipped over.

Sensible people might suggest that my compliance is foolish, and I would tend to agree. However, at the current stage of development we are unable to gloss over this hurdle. To deny designated ‘meals’ is tantamount to parental neglect, aligned and associated with starvation, regardless of bulging tummies. The tears are real. Reasoning skills are subject to too much stress. There is nothing for it but to produce mini replicas of each, if sanity and calm is to be restored.

Nonna gives them the tip off, even though technically no-one is listening. “What number it is?”
“28th, Sunday.”
“So we’ve ad Christmas den?”
“Yes.”
“So now we are ave pancakes for breakfast!”
The words ‘pancakes, pancakes, pancakes,’ echo around the room from several unacknowledged parties.

Probably just as well really.

The relief, if not joy, of being saved from a concertina day.

Sugar Plum Fairy

2008-12-27T16:48:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while I’m tempted to run from the room screaming “why can’t you all leave me alone?” and then I wake up to start another new day.

It is on just such a day that I busy myself with tidiness whilst the children play in the dog park with all other members of the family, barring Nonna. Nonna sits on the couch with her crossword puzzle yelling clues at me, not because I am deaf but because I am a rapidly moving target. In between yells devours piles of candy with glee. The stack of neatly collected candy sits on the tray on the empty seat of the sofa, within easy reach. A foolish error on my part.

As always I dither. It seems inappropriate to advise one’s elders and betters about candy consumption, even if they do happen to be diabetic. On the other hand, quite often Nonna forgets what she has consumed, towit four mugs of espresso in twenty minutes. In other circumstances I would more than welcome her wolfing her grand-children’s candy supplies, as sugar often affects their activity rates, autistic or otherwise.

After more than an hour I have made discernible dent in the mess nor have I managed to contribute usefully to the puzzle completion. On the other hand the pile of candy has disintegrated to a few crumbs.
“Wot about dis one den?” she hollers as she scrumples another wrapper. I sweep past weighed down with boxes of recycling Christmas paper, “hmm?”
“Wot dis say, it is…… ‘American seasonal treat beats the way up?’ Wot you tink den?”
“Er…..an anogram maybe?”
“I know dat……but wot is dah answer?”
“Let me think about it …….a while.”
As she sucks a finger tip she scribbles on the margin of the paper, “so we ave ‘candy’…….and…… ‘canes.’ Wot you tink den?”
“Hmm.” I remain focused on the tasks at hand, namely tidying up and formulating tonight’s menu before we are deluged with children again. I am in desperate need of more potato recipes as there are still two untouched 10 lb bags of potatoes lolling around the garage in idleness, instead of fuelling my family on the cheap. I hear another wrapper rustle. It catches my eye as it falls to a glint on the carpet between Nonna’s feet. As I reach across to pick it up Nonna’s eyes are upon me above a broad grin, a child caught in the act of mischief, “you worry too much you know. Soon you will be old and lonely, just like me.”
I gulp guilt. I pause and sit back on my hunkers, “aren’t you a bit worried about your sugar levels?” I yell.
“Phiff! No. I don’t worry. I’ll worry when I’m dead.” I know my face furrows. “Don’t look at me like dat!”
“But your test will be high tomorrow and then you’ll be……annoyed.”
“Tests! Phiff! I jus forget to do dah test.”
I roll my eyes, mock despair. I just don’t know what to do with her.
“Aha!” she beams…..I got it……ascendancy!”

My next career = the diplomatic corps

2008-12-23T20:30:00.000-08:00

After more dithering than usual, I admit defeat and hire a babysitter, such that I am able to visit the dentist without a care, or less care than I would otherwise experience.

I prep the baby sitter and demonstrate the choice of five different holiday crafts available to entertain the troops. I hand her the itemized check list regarding bolters, unexpected hazards such as toilet brushes, guide her to the snacks and generally cross all ‘i’s and dot all ‘t’s.

As I hover in the kitchen I explain that technically Nonna is in charge, that she, the baby sitter is her designated helper, but not really, although she really is. She looks at me with a quizzical expression. Clearly my earlier confirming telephone conversation fell on deaf ears, and they weren’t Nonna’s deaf ears. I am confident that I will return within the allotted time span, before the bewitching hour of 5:30 and electronics time, just in time to make a scratch supper. I dither as the minutes tick by, say my good-byes and depart.

I stagger home with a brilliantly shining set of gnashers two hours later. Two years of clag has been chiseled off my teeth, post braces and surgery. I am probably two stone lighter. The house is both calm and silent, surely it is uninhabited? At the table sits the baby sitter, cutting coupons. There is no sign of Nonna or anyone else for that matter. On the table are three tree ornaments from a remarkably creative set of hands. I wonder whose hands? I look at the baby sitter and she smiles in return. “Um…..all well?”
“Yup!”
“How are the children…….or rather……where are the children?”
“Oh they’re jus playin. If yah can sign the forms?” I scribble my illegible signature on the papers and skuttle off on the hunt for small people. All the small people are in the hall, wired into their computer games at 5:10 in the afternoon. “Did you get electronics early for making those wonderful decorations?” No-one so much as lifts an eye-brow because I am invisible, despite the flashy neon teeth. I peek in on Nonna with an open book on her chest. “Everything go o.k? Any problems?” I yell.
“No….everyting fine…..but I was bored you know….coz you can’t talk to dem when dey are doing the electronics times.”
“Oh I’m sorry about that…..how long have they been doing electronics?”
“From the moment you left…….dat was it….” she opens her arms in a gesture of defeat, one that I am all too familiar with.
“Did you like it?”
“Like what?”
“Dem…..doz tings.”
“Which things?”
“Doz…..ornaments.”
“Yes they’re perfect…….magnificent…….” I beam as the light dawns.
“You know………it’s dah first time I have ever done anyting like dat before.”
"This time next year we'll have you all set up on Etsy!"
"Wot?"
"You can knock out a dozen a day! We'll all be millionaires!"

There’s a first time for everything I suppose, although I expect 'exploitation of elders' may put a spanner in the works.

Widow’s weeds

2008-12-22T07:55:00.000-08:00

I dash around the house collecting discarded clothing for a final, last minute, emergency laundry load, but that’s the trouble with holidays.

Why everyone appears to need to drop their drawers, if not ping them to the far corners of every room, I shall never know. I think this must be the catapault stage of development: how far can single sock travel in an even trajectory, does the right sock travel further than the left sock, is cotton more pingworthy than wool? I spy a purple fluffy toe stuffed between two sofa cushions but as I pull it out I also find several tatty handkerchieves, balled up and slightly graying. It appears that Nonna has become a co-conspirator on the laundry front. Why can’t she use tissues like everyone else, although to be fair, everyone else uses various parts of their anatomy or any handy piece of upholstery. As I plop them into bucket to soak, I notice a monogramme but it’s the wrong initials. It is a large man’s hanky. Married for more than fifty years, widowed but a few short long months.

Although I am officially allergic to ironing, I may just have to make an exception.

Daily constitutional

2008-12-21T23:52:00.000-08:00

At breakfast on a Sunday the boys practice their cutting skills on their pancakes. It’s a once a week practice session, also duplicated with the occupational therapists. How to hold a knife? How to hold a fork? Generally they eat with their fingers or a spoon. It is quite remarkable how many foods fall into the category of ‘finger foods.’ It’s just another one of that self formulating habits that I need to address. It should be daily. It should be every meal but for the time being I already have too much on my plate. I would dearly love to shoot the person who said ‘every opportunity is a learning opportunity,’ mainly because I know they are right. For the time being it is a weekly tackle, sacrosanct.

We gently prompt the usual. Prompt and redirect. Find a plate. Prompt and focus. Find a knife. Prompt and remove distractions. Find a fork. Prompt and encourage executive function. Transfer pancake from the stack to your own plate. It takes forever but we have gift of time on a Sunday. I turn my attention to the ringing telephone, always a mistake. By the time I return Nonna is busy at the table, carefully cutting two sets of pancakes into bite sized squares for her grinning grandson’s, who are smug with satisfaction. I bite my lip and my tongue as Nonna enjoys her role as helper.

How will I ever get the balance right between so many competing needs? There are currently far too many ‘shoulds’ in my life, so I make do with ‘good enough.’

Whilst the boys struggle to dress upstairs, I wander the house downstairs, with Nonna, as she does every day. She notes all things of interest. Everything is of interest and effectively new and novel every day. I am unsure if this is reassuring or merely more confusing. She pauses at each weigh station to enquire with the same queries. I make the time. 20 precious minutes to accompany her, just in case. As long as the boys emerge eventually with some sort of clothing on their bodies, that will just have to do.
“Dat’s new!”
“Yes, we didn’t have that on your last visit.”
“Wot it is do?”
“It’s a motion sensor. Every time it detects movement it switches on to light the corridor, helps save accidents when people can’t find the light switch.”
“Ooo……very clever. I like it.” I’m glad that she like’s it as much today as she did yesterday and the day before. I’m glad that the unfamiliar corridor is safe for her nocturnal wanderings.
“Wot is dis ting den?”
“I’m knitting a bear.”
“Ooo dat’s so soft. Are you going to stuff it with cotton wool?”
“Too heavy. They recommend some ultra light filling but I’ve not been able to track down a supplier yet.”
“Is it a present?”
“Yes. A Christmas present.”
“Christmas. It is Christmas?”
“Not yet, Thursday, today is the 19th. 5 days to go. You can see it on the children’s tick down chart over there.”
“Ooo dat’s nice, you made a chart for dem. Did you do dat today?”
It’s a labyrinth. 19 days yet each one is effectively the same.
“Wot does dat say den?”
At last something really new!
“It says ‘chocolate pudding.’”
“He wrote dat himself?”
“Yes.”
“I see he is reversing his ‘ds’, he wrote ‘bs’ by mistake,” she chuckles with indulgence. She draws a finger through the air to demonstrate. It’s a hurdle that all children must overcome those tricky b’s and d’s. I swallow hard and blink hard. He’s written it perfectly. She reads every day, it is her main occupation, the classics, the contemporary, the Christmas cards, the same ones, every day, the humourous children’s cartoon book that I’ve failed to put away so that she comes across it at 20 minute intervals and so reads it again, just like the first time, so funny and amusing, each new time. I could weep but of course that would be foolish. Nonna is perfectly happy. I should be too.

Rose tinted spectacles

2008-12-21T13:35:00.000-08:00

Once I’ve cleaned up after lunch and mopped the floor I tackle the laundry. In less than 24 hours I need to change six beds but this will not be possible unless I catch up with last week’s laundry. I have no choice but to spill over out of the tiny utility room into the tiny kitchen to fight six double duvet covers into submission when Nonna appears.

“Oh gawd! Wot died dere den?”
“Hush! She’ll here you!”
“Eh? Oh……so…….wot it is?”
“Coconut ice, but she went a bit mad with the food colouring.”
“It’s……puce,” she chuckles. She picks up a crumb and examines it closely before she pops it in, “tastes good though!”
“And as we all know that’s all that matters.”
“Don’t look at me like dat, my lips are sealed,” she whispers as she steals another crumb on departure. She pauses, eagle eyed as ever, “take care wiv dat.”
“With what?”
“Your clean linen.”
“I am.”
“No…..I mean………don’t fold on the floor……the floor is dirty……”
“But I just……” we both look more closely. We both jam our bifocals to the bridge of noses to see a trail of neon pink coconut crumbs that travel from kitchen to family room. “Dey are a bunch of thieves your children, aren’t dey?” she beams as she shakes another palmful of crumbs into her hand. I move to thwack her with a tea towel but she can be pretty nippy sometimes!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2008-12-20T09:56:00.000-08:00

Our lives cycle through family routines. One of our routines during the festive season, is to sing before bedtime. At 7:30 every night Nonna announces to all present that she is going to bed.
“You can’t! It’s only 7:30,” he bellows at his mother pointing to the clock above her head as he tilts her by the shoulders. The whereabouts of the clock is always a mystery.
“Gawd! Only 7:30? But it’s dark!”
“Anyway, you can’t go to bed yet, we’re going to sing.”
“Sing? Can you sing?”
“Yes. We sing every night remember?”
“Wot you sing den?”
“The 12 days of Christmas.”
“It is Christmas?”
“No, not yet, not until Thursday.”
“Wot number it is today?”
“19th.”
“Can’t you sing anything else?”
“No. That’s the only one I know,” he lies. She chuckles as he herds her into the family room, each night, every evening. I always have the same mis-givings: do we stick to the familiar script to avoid confusion or should we freshen the communication with a new version that reflects the respect we should have for everyone? It seams clear to me that on the 19th day of December, this routine has not been adopted by anyone. It still requires Herculean effort to persuade everyone to join in.

On the 19th day of December I phone my father. My father sits in his wing backed chair by the afternoon coal fire. His elbows rest on the arms with his fingers interlocked under his chin as his eyes rest. When the telephone rings at full volume, his right hand drops to the receiver and he delivers his script. I am careful to ensure that my first words hit the mark, “Happy Birthday dad!”
“Oh it’s you dear. Thank you. Would you like to talk to your mother?” The same, always the same. I can see every nuance from a distance of over 5000 miles in a different time zone. I chat to my mother about her frustrations. All over the world people cope with what used to be merely elderly but what is now labeled Alzheimer’s. I have no answers nor guidance merely a willing ear. “Did he thank you for your present? I bet he didn’t, did he.”

My dad, the politest man to ever grace the planet, or so I liked to think. Not the politeness of etiquette, but the real politeness. The ability to put other people at their ease, the skill of noting the details with the precision of gentle appreciation.
“I’ll put him back on the line, I’ll make him thank you. It’s ridiculous that he can just get away with it!” I wince at her desperation, clinging to a man that no longer exists in the same form. I weep silent tears for my dad who doesn’t need them.

It’s a solo performance as he belts out the lyrics. I herd children and persuade people to follow my finger along the lines of words. One of my sons adds a noise to the end of each ditty, another places soft puffed icon on the accompanying banner. Someone has the habit of running off with the ‘five gold rings’ for nefarious purposes of his own.

Nonna taps her ears either to tune in to the song, or possibly to tune out. I snap the book shut with the crescendo of the finale, a visual and aural cue for them to scarper, a flock of birds in flight. Four adults sigh a deep breath. “Are you finished den?” she asks, her head tilted, expectant.
“Yes…..”
“I can go to bed now?” she asks her son, pulling her cardi in tight to her chest, an innocent? Maybe mischievous? I cannot tell. I prefer not to know.

Suck it up

2008-12-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

I hop between jobs, peel potatoes, knead bread, prepare supper, finish the nightgown with the aid of a persuasive iron and lay the table. Nonna is at a loose end and ever so slightly expectant. As I jump from the sewing machine to turn the bread over in the oven, Nonna reaches for the bundle of sewing, “so wot you do wiv dis den?”
“I’m just about to put the other sleeve in and then with a bit of luck I’ll be able to finish it up before she gets home.”
“Right, well I’ll put the sleeve in for you den,” she announces as she turns on her heel back to the table and sewing machine. I stand with a tea towel in my hand ready to protest but suddenly wordless. I pause. How to stall her politely? Why the sewing? Why not the potatoes or something useful? I don’t really want someone else sewing my gift for my daughter. I pout. I crash around the kitchen and my other chores, which are chores, rather that fun relief from the tedium, trying to think. Nobody does other people’s sewing, mid-sew. I mentally list Nonna’s other interventions, reading the half read book, somebody else’s book, usually my book, apparently because I make good choices, drying up one cup when there are half a dozen on the drainer, the extra row on the knitting, the last entry on the cross-word puzzle, an endless litany of minor irritations.

My ire rises as I storm around the kitchen. The nerve of the woman. I am slightly relieved by the thought that few people can fathom other people’s sewing machines, but mine is both ancient and basic. I think other evil thoughts because as always, I’ve yanked the power cord from the wall, a habit provoked by numerous small people in the vicinity. She’ll never notice, merely thwarted.

This is payback for my anal retentive nature. What does it matter anyway? Surely her showing enthusiasm is a plus? She used to sew, back in the day, but lost interest in the interim. Perhaps I should buy some knitting for her, take her to the sewing shop, pop a crossword puzzle book in her stocking? I need to be more pro-active.

This is a crash course in ‘how to be easy going’ or ‘how to let go’ or ‘how to live harmoniously.’ I swear I shall snap through my retainer if I continue to grind my teeth so viciously. I mash potatoes with venom and narrowly avoid a squirt of vented spleen. For forty minutes I tarry in the kitchen as Nonna tangles with the threads. I could have had the whole thing finished by now if only I’d had the bottle to usurp her. Instead I grow gall stones of bile. All I want to do is hide it before my daughter comes home, as I grow weary of lying to everyone about what I am making for whom, like a badly executed shell game.

Oh just say something you lilly livered land lubber, she won’t mind. But she might mind. She might not mind when I say something the first time, but the second time I’ll have to yell and it’s hard to hide annoyance if I’m also yelling at the same time. The two seem to meld together. I might burst a blood vessel just to relieve the strain. Nonna splattered with not so sanguine.

“There! All done!” she beams extending her handiwork for my inspection. I dry my hands to receive the offering. She is as pleased as punch. I’m so tempted to sit down and finish the whole thing in 7 minutes flat, but I can tell that she’s staying, has no intention of leaving. I refuse to let my petty mindedness get the better of me. How humiliating and galling to watch your daughter in law complete something with a fraction of the effort and time. Just plain mean. “That’s great, thank you so much.” I attempt a weak smile in the reflexion of more radiant beams. “I shall start dah neck now….” but I break in as I see the headlights in the driveway, “no that’s o.k., I need to hide it as she’ll be in the door any minute.” We both turn to face the entrance, shoulder to shoulder with the nightgown bundled behind her back.

Climbing the Stairway to Heaven

2008-12-19T09:39:00.000-08:00

I herd the recovered sicklies to the door ready for school. At last, finally, I shall be able to prepare for the holidays. “Bye Mom! Shurt day today!”
Dang I had forgotten that Wednesdays are half days.
I kiss foreheads and elbows and lips, as I fasten zippers, tie shoe laces and generally abandon all current ‘self help’ campaigns in the face of expediency.

As the car spurts them all away for a couple of hours, I am left in my kitchen in the middle of my house, a house devastated by the full time occupation of two sicklies for four days running. I am so behind with my preparations that it is difficult to determine where to start?

The bright gem of the day is the collection of my daughter from SFO back from an Australian summer. How delightful to have all my babies home for the holidays, peacefully aslumber in the bosom of our family.

Aslumber?

I startle as I dash towards her room, her room that has become the temporary depository for ‘things that I do not have time to do right now.’ Right now, I can barely heave back the door, full to bursting with stuff:- the futile fax machine and the passed out printer, both of which were too heavy to lug onto the overflowing “pending mending” shelf in the garage, the new and broken picture which failed to survive 24 hours and all that shattered glass, boxes and boxes of holiday decorations, broken Pokemon and confiscated toys on temporary time outs.

Nonna appears at my shoulder, "look at choo! You're like an old mudder hen!"
"Me?"
"Yes....nestin for all you're little chicks to come ome and flock together!"
"Hmm."
I pout, because she's such a little tease.
"Well……dat’s a bit of a job,” she adds peering around the room.
“You’re not kidding.”
“Eh?”
“Yes, you’re right!” I bellow.
“Didn’t dere used to be a bed in ere?”
“Yes, it’s under all that…….those……boxes.”
“Ow are you going to make dah bed with all those nonsense.”
“I’m going to stick it all up in the roof.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ave dah time……with Christmas and everything?”
“I’ll just have to make the time.”
“It’s a big job.”
“I’ll say.”
“Are you quite sure dat she wants to sleep in the attic?”
“Sleep in the attic?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s sleeping in the attic?”
“Er……I thought that’s what you said……..dat you’re going to take dah bed up into the attic for her…..because she’s coming home from Australia?”
I look at Nonna with a hint of twinkle in her eyes. “Do you know I think you’re probably right. It’ll be quicker to leave the mess down here and zap the bed into the roof than to try and clear this rubbish heap.”
“Pity though.”
“Pity?”
“The ole.”
“The hole?”
“The ole in the roof.”
“What hole in the roof?”
“You know…..dat ting?”
“What thing?”
“The ole …….it’s small.”
“I didn’t know that there was a hole in the roof, small or otherwise?”
She chuckles as she hunts for the word, the elusive one.
“I mean……what is dat ting! Dah ole in the ceiling…….dat leads to dah attic…….is too small……to fit a bed through it.”
“Hatch!”
Nonna steps back, knuckles to hips to form flapping wings before she makes one single, well timed cluck.

A Stitch in time

2008-12-18T13:06:00.000-08:00

It’s an unusual and novel experience for me. As I pretend to sew a nightgown for my daughter, Nonna assists. I have never had anyone help me sew. I have never been the centre of attention whilst engaged in such a mundane activity. It is a little like reading a book with someone else there poised to turn the pages for you. It is thoroughly disconcerting. Her devotion to the nightgown is so touching which heightens my guilt.

I have become an accomplished liar. To Nonna, I explain it is for her grand-daughter. To her grand-daughter I explain that it is for her big sister. To her big sister I explain the subterfuge, all in an attempt to be able to sew whilst a wide spectrum of persons circulate through the house at varying times of the day, and sometimes night.

She smooths the fabric, pats the pattern tissue and irons everything that isn’t nailed to the table, several times. We engage in a cyclical conversation:-
“Wot you do?”
“I’m sewing a nightgown for her.”
“When did you cut it out?”
“Yesterday.”
“Have you done the gathers yet?”
“Not quite.”

I am quite certain that I shall make some serious errors in the project as it is so difficult to concentrate whilst drowning in so much unfamiliar assistance.

I am about ready to sew my fingers together when Nonna makes an announcement.
“Maddy?”
“Yes?”
“I think I shall go for a walk, it might elp me to wake up a little.”
“What a superb idea!” I reply with far too much exaggerated enthusiasm.

Oh for a moment or two to make some progress.

As her steps leave the room I knuckle down and put the sewing machine over the speed limit in order to finish in time for the school run. I beam in my solitude, race seams, tuck and tie. I may just manage to task completion today! What a boon. As the teeny tiny light bulb on the machine flickers with it’s intermittent fault, it forces my blink mode to function.

Walk?

Alone?

Unfamiliar surroundings.

Unsteady gait.

One leg shorter than the other.

I toss the nightgown and dash to the front door scattering pins in flight. Which way did she go? I skip up the road in my fluff muffs on the off chance that she headed for the shops. At the cross roads there is no sign of her in any direction. I skuttle back the other way in soggy muffs that attract dried leaves. At the main road there is no sign of her in either direction. I scoot back to the house, coatless, flustered and Nonnaless.

I dither in the hall. 40 minutes until pick-up. 20 minutes drive to school. Maybe I could drive around for 20 minutes beforehand and hope that we bump into each other, although not literally.

This is ridiculous. She is a perfectly healthy, mature adult. She doesn’t need a nanny running around ninniless, making mountains out of molehills. There again, she is an elderly woman, who has never walked out of this house alone in all the 10 years that she has visited.

I hop in the hall, a common recent activity that I have acquired. Maybe I should phone him, although he never picks up? If he does pick up he will only be able to donate half a brain cell to the conversation. Then I shall have to ask him to sit down, which will be quite shocking at the other end of the telephone line. He will immediately be on notice that disaster has struck. Maybe I should email him instead, whereupon he will devote at least five brain cells to my message.
I dither over the phraseology:- “dearest one, I just wanted to let you know that I somewhat carelessly managed to mislay your mother today. She has been lost for approximately one and a half French Seams and 6 inches of lace.
Which would you prefer?
A] come home and search for your mother
B] collect your children so that I can continue the hunt for your mother
C] take the afternoon off so that you can visit your lawyer and file divorce papers.
Yours truly and with most sincere apologies,
Thickie, Thickie, Dumb Dumb, Snr.”

I hear the toilet flush and see Nonna appear in the hall like magic, pick up her coat and bag ready for her walk, examine them, put them down again and glance in my direction, “oh dere you are? Ave you been for a walk? Dat’s nice. Exercise helps clear dah mind. Why are you so……dirty?” We look at the leaf covered, bedraggled fluff muffs together in silence. “Well…….I’ll leave you to your sewing. I tink I’ll go and ave a little rest.”

I hit ‘delete, do not send, do not save.’

Cross over strategies

2008-12-16T12:36:00.000-08:00

During the day, Nonna and I manage reasonably well. During the weekends her son is around to help field the demands, requests and needs of everyone but when the children return from school there are more demands upon my attention without another adult to field.

On the day that two children are at home sick, it becomes immediately apparent that I am in dire need of an alternate fielder. Because there is illness, there are short fuses and fuzziness.

One huge hurdle is Nonna’s inability to hear when other people are speaking. Another huge hurdle is the children’s speech delay. Whilst they struggle to formulate a question, statement or comment, Nonna talks simultaneously. This produces a cacophony of sounds and a great deal of upset all round. Accusations of ‘interrupting’ from the young with accompanying meltdowns, and accusations of disrespect from the "older generation" with accompanying hurt feelings. Nonna can’t hear the screams of "you said dat already, "my turn." The children do not understand deafness fully. The children cannot understand why an adult would be behave in what they recognize to be a rude manner.

I am at a loss as to how to bring the two warring factions back to harmony?

I take temperatures on the hour to save confusion. “What you are do to his ear?”
“It’s a thermometer, to check on his fever?”
“Is he ill?”
“Yes.”
“When he is better?”
“Don’t know I’m afraid. We’ll just have to let it run it’s course.”
“A day off school won’t hurt.”
“No, although it’s the second day. Better this week than next week though.”
“Wot happen next week den?”
“Christmas.”
“Christmas? Already? It’s not cold enough for winter.”
“Next week.”
“Wot dah number today?”
“Tuesday the 16th of December.”

It’s the same exchange we have had every 20 minutes since early in the morning.

“When it is?” ask the sniffly one.
“Remember? Look at the timer dear.”
He jumps unsteadily off the couch to peer at the count down timer to see that there is still another six hours and 20 minutes until electronics time. We have had this same exchange every 15 minutes since early in the morning.

I pause, wipe off the end of the thermometer and reach for the white chart. It only take a few moments to cover the main pertinent points, those most persistent of recurring questions. It is important to keep elderly people engaged, included and stimulated. It’s not a permanent solution but during the times when I am tied up with other commitments, I hope I can gently guide Nonna through her own stressful world. She’s seen me use this many times with the children. With a little imagination it can easily be disguised to appear to be for their benefit, and surreptitiously help me too.

All "tips" and tricks gratefully accepted.

Baby steps and long leaps

2008-12-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

Grief is natural when a life ends. A long life, with a life partner is not made easier by platitudes. So often the survivor fails to thrive, withers or takes more drastic action.

Some days are up but still punctured with reminders that startle the unwary. Some days are down but lightened by minescule memories of past. Although I have never experienced this kind of grief, I am humbled to witness other people cope with their emotions.

As soft rain falls on a dull Monday morning I find Nonna rummaging around in the kitchen drawers.

“May I help you?”
I try again, yell, “what are you looking for?” Her startle flusters us both, “oh nothing,” she responds with a hint of furtive. She appears harried, maybe embarrassed, perhaps caught in the act?

“I can’t find it?”
“What are you looking for? I can help you?”
“No……I do it myself thank you.”

An attempt at independence in unfamiliar surroundings? Should I leave her to flounder? Why is it so difficult to know what the right thing to do? It’s undignified to be treated like a child. Has she forgotten what she’s looking for, an all too familiar problem and not restricted to the elderly? Has she mislaid the correct word or only have the Italian version available? I turn my attention away to the potatoes, all of us have eyes in the back of our heads, me, Nonna and a bag full of spuds.

“So tell me?”
“Yes?”
“Why you don’t do your pottery no more?”
“No time. You’ve seen what it’s like around here? Absolutely crazy busyness.”
“You should.”
“I know.”
“You need something……to keep your mind occupied…..something to stop…..”
“Me going completely insane?”
“Exactly.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“Me? No I’m fully occupied thank you.”
“!”
Nonna sighs with her hands on her hips, defeated, “it’s no good I don know where it is?”
“What?”
“I need a little bag.”
“You were right. They’re just there in the drawer, at the back.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Bigger……I need a bigger bag.”
“A carrier? They’re over here, do you have some trash….er…..rubbish?”
“No…..I need a big bag plastic bag to put over my head.” I turn on my heel to cast a glance over my fragile mother in law, big bones aside. “It’s o.k…....…we all have bad days….....…come and sit down….......I’ll make you a cup of coffee…….......we can talk.....…….chat….....…about…......…..him.”
“O.k………..but after……”
“After what?”
“After I’ve bathed with the bag as a shower cap.”
“!”

At least that provides the opportunity for the ideal holiday
“gift.”

Sub Zero

2008-12-15T03:42:00.000-08:00

My nightly routine before turning into bed has altered over the last decade and is far more in line with the rest of humanity:- tidy up, wash up, toilet, clean teeth, lock all doors and windows, slug the pack ice that grows like fungus in the back of the fridge with a rolling pin, turn off the lights and off to bed.

All very straight forward.

Since I am usually the last one to turn in, I can rest easy in the assurance that all is well with the world. Every so often, something occurs to upset the routine. The something that occurs this time, comes in the form of Nonna, as many elderly people suffer from insomnia. She catches me mid swing, her hands fly to her mouth to muffle the small squeak, “wot you are doing to your beautiful fridge?”
“It’s not beautiful, it’s stupid. It’s never worked properly from the first day we moved in, 13 years ago, and here it still is, the useless pile of rusty, old, steel……and it’s uneconomic,………and the freezer is permanently frozen shut…….and all the seals have perished…….I’m sure it’s a health hazard as it’s not cold enough in here despite that 6 inch deposit of ice……..….and it’s very environmentally unfriendly.”
“I’d be unfriendly I was bashed with a rolling pin every night.”

3/8th of a notion – you win some

2008-12-13T07:20:00.000-08:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I sold myself to the American Christmas pyjama trend but sold my mother in law "short." As I watch her freeze and shrivel in the cold nights, I decide that a new nightgown might be just the right "gift" under the circumstances.

I steal myself off to the store to buy a pattern and material. I dither over designs, dull, old ladyish or neon radiant, nothing in-between. I plump for a neutral floral and hope to jazz it up a little. I scour through other choices, what are referred to in the trade as ‘notions.’ It’s a curious collective noun that means all the bits and bobs you need to finish a garment. Things like zips, cotton, lace, bias binding, buttons and snaps. In the olden days these items were purchased from a Haberdashers, singly: three buttons for the neck and one for each cuff. Today we buy them in sets, 6 buttons where you need one, five buttons to a pack when you need twelve. It’s all designed to send the shabby shopper shaky. It soon becomes apparent that I will effectively spend more money on this one gown that I would if I bought 5 garments from any high street shop. The store assistant is reassuring, “but it’s so much more fun to make your own.” I am in desperate need of a little fun as I dash back to the car with my unmarked bag all ready to secret in the depths of my home, far away from prying eyes.

I make a start on the birthday cake, leave the eggs out to gain room temperature, check that my spring form pans aren’t sprung. I make a start on supper before the deluge of play date victims arrive and check that the diabetic is pilled and eaten. I phone the party guests that have not replied 24 hours prior to the date in question, and leave what I hope are polite, if somewhat breathy messages. I try to think of a way to remind myself to remember to phone my own father on his birthday. It has to be between the hours of 8 and ten in the morning here. To phone later will induce a heart attack, as phone calls after the designated hour indicate a dire emergency or sudden death, only. This thought reminds me to hang up the seventh stocking, an extravagant purchase as I’ve no time to make an additional one for Nonna, not that she minds such things.

So much for frugality.

Shortly thereafter I find that I do not have the time to complete the project, or rather, start the project. The problem with the project is that I need to make it a surprise. A surprise must be assembled in private. I opt for upstairs as the climb is beyond Nonna’s capabilities.

I lay out the fabric on the carpet and resist the urge to curl up next to it, foetal, for a quick nap. I avoid beginner mistakes such as pinning the pattern and the material to the carpet or cutting through the material and the carpet at the same time. One cat watches me, or rather, watches the yards of flimsy, attractive and crackly paper pattern.

I divide my time between two or three snips with the scissors and then two or three dashes back downstairs to administer to a wide variety of malfunctioning domestic appliances that fail to co-operate with Nonna. The cat waits patiently for each departure so as to take full advantage of the opportunity to shred the tissue with razor sharp claws.

I attempt rationale thought. I need an etiquette guru, preferably an American one. What is the correct response to the child who requests a play date at our house? Friday afternoon play dates are now fully booked, or rather just full. 6 children at once is my preferred limit. The seventh child on two consecutive weeks is a stretch. How can I avoid a third visit politely? Is it possible for me to say it out loud: ‘maybe next time, he could come to your house?’ I suspect that such outspoken foreigners are subject to instant deportation. I wonder when I became so spineless?

I pick up the phone to speak to the man with no preliminaries and even fewer social skills but my expectations of typical, normal, people are low these days.

On completion I have what appears to be a mound of fabric shapes that could amount to anything, as long as I remember to hide the pattern picture which give size details. I leave the bedroom in chaos, as it is impractical to sew upstairs even after I attempt to heave the 35 lb sewing machine to a new destination, one without a handy power outlet.

I nip downstairs to make a start, confident that I can maintain a secret or two, whip off the sewing machine cover and power up.

I finish two seams before making a dive for the car and the school run, “are you going to collect dah children?”
“Yes.”
“It is time…….already?”
“Sure is?”
“Wait a minute……..I come with you.”
I hop from foot to foot in the garage, waiting and watching the second hand. She appears at the door only to disappear again. We repeat the glimpse a few times more as she gathers sunglasses, a bag, a jacket, her hearing aides and new batteries. I practice breathing exercises.

The school collection is a success. I return home with seven children, 3 of my own and four additions, so more of a limited success depending upon the parameters. Small people flood into the house with Nonna bringing up the rear.

I decide to attempt a couple more seams whilst the children snack and regroup. Nonna wanders over clutching a bottle, “wot it means?”
I peer through dirty bifocals, “er…..kills 99% of germs.”
“I bet it’s the other 1% that kills us,” she beams. I attempt a return beam. “Wot you got der den?”
“Sewing.”
“I can see dat. Wot you sew. Wot’s it going to be?”
“A winter nightgown for her, keep her toasty and warm,” I bellow.
“Why it is so…..raggy?”
“I was in a hurry to cut it out.”
“Short cuts won’t be short cuts in the long run you know?”
“I know, believe me I know.”
“It’s a bit……”
“What?”
“You know?”
“?”
“Er…..old ladyish.”
“!”

Later, I notice the traffic of 9 people through the kitchen during the afternoon. Each of one swipes a whip of chocolate ganache frosting from the counter as I wait for it to cool, as I wait for people to collect their children.

When the last child has departed I assemble supper, lay the table, ignore the piles of devastation and tackle the cake. I finish the last slick of ganache whilst Nonna observes, “is dat for dessert tonight den?”
“No it’s for her birthday party tomorrow.”
“Oh!”
I look at her face as there’s a catch in her voice.
“What?”
“Oh nothing.”
“What?”
“Well I just eard er say dat she wanted white buttercream.”
“Oh dear. Did she say that recently?”
“Breakfast. Today. I tink.”
“Oh dear.”
“Do you think you have time……to make another one?”
“Might as well……all those fingers in the frosting more or less guarantees a plague of contamination.”

Just keep peddling

2008-12-12T08:56:00.000-08:00

I adjust to the new cycles in my life, not Alzhiemers but a combination of age, forgetfulness and jet lag. Instead of a few productive child free hours whilst they are at school, I have a constant companion with a panoply of comments and questions.

“What it is?”
“It’s Thursday.”
“No, what number?”
“Er…..12th.”
“Already?”
“Yes, time marches on.”

“Oh there you are! Where have you bin?”
“Nowhere, just here, still washing up.”

“Why the light is red?”
“I need to refill it.”

“Where dey are?”
“At school.”
“No…..dah cats?”
“Sleeping in a hidey hole somewhere, I’ll dig them out for you in a minute.”

“Wot we do today?”
“The usual…..let me see…….shall we check the calendar?”

“Can you turn it on for me please?”
“I’ll just dry my hands. Do you want a cup of coffee with the BBC News?”

“When dey are home?”
“We’ll pick the children up at 2:30, he’ll be home from work late tonight.”

We conduct these exchanges at full volume because not many people appreciate just how much hearing aides distort the world in general.

There are so many little moments, but most of them are all too familiar. I dither over whether to change my answers or merely repeat them, as I’m uncertain about the course of fairness and confusion, but before too long, at some random moment of the day, I shall be presented with a little gem.

It always has the same beginning:-

“So Maddy…….do you know? I remember when…………”

I think someone has an obligation to record them, if not exactly for posterity, at least for her grandchildren, for the future, the uncertain future. It’s just a question of carving out the time, a reshuffle.

I think I know who that someone is.

Softly, softly

2008-12-09T18:28:00.001-08:00

“Ooo dat’s nice!”
“Hmm.”
“Very soft I tink.”
“Hmmm.”
“You’re very busy…..I didn’t realize it gets so cold in California. Wot you do?”
“Er…..I’m making them pyjamas for Christmas.”
“Clothes for Christmas!”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, a bit too frugal.”
“Do you have enough?”
“Enough what?”
“Fabric?”
“Oh I’m only making the bottoms, no point in making tops. I’ll be lucky if I can just get them to wear one half.”
“Good point. Are you making da cord now?”
“No. No drawstring pulls around here, just elastic. I’m making ties so that they can tell which is the front and which is the back.”
“I like dis one, very much. Do you tink you’ll have enough left over to make one for me please?”
“But you don’t wear pyjamas.”
“True……”
“I will if you like. Which do you prefer?”
“Maybe doz green ones.”
“Ah……”
“I don’t like to say……but did you notice?”
“Yes, one leg has the material going the wrong way.”
“You don’t want to give her a ……reject do you?”
“! She’ll never notice.”
“I noticed……you noticed.”
“True.”
“I’m dah same height as her you know.”
“I suppose you are, she may even be taller.”
“And we could put a bit more elastic in.”
“Hmmm. Not quite the same as a nighty though.”
“I could always wear dem underneath.” I look at Nonna wrapped around in an oversized cardi and blue veined fingers.
“Tell you what, you take those and I’ll try and throw together a fleecy nighty with the remnants.”
“I shall be as colourful as a Christmas tree I tink!”

Would that we were all so easily pleased.

Stuff and Nonsense

2008-12-06T09:45:00.000-08:00

“So……what about all dis den?” asks Nonna with an indecipherable hand gesture.
“What about what?”
“All dis?”
“Dis…this what?”
“Dis room?”
“The family room?”
“Yes the sitting room.”
“What about the ….sitting room?”
“Well…….how you say…..it’s all…..I don’t know……how it is?”
“Oh you mean the broken curtain rail?”
“Yes and the…..wot is dis ting?”
“The sofa with all the stuffing coming out?”
“Yes.”
“Well…….I know what you mean but that’s the third curtain rail we’ve put up. We sewed up the sofa seams but they keep burrowing in there to pull out the stuffing….they pick, pick, pick until they can find some more tufts…..they’re very persistent.”
“It makes the place look so…….?”
“Tatty?”
“Lived in.”
“!”
“So……why do dey do dat den?”
“Swinging from the curtains isn’t ideal but the trampolene gave up the ghost so they find other ways of getting rid of the wigglies.”
“Wot do dey do?”
“Do?”
“Wiv dah stuffing?”
“They sort of fiddle and finger it, manipulate it. It is very soft. It does have a nice feel to it.”
“Hmmm …….it reminds me of when I was a young girl in Italy. We used to walk a lot you know. There were a lot of tracks through the fields and the fences would be covered in wool from the sheep. If you walked along the edge of the field you could collect it, handfuls…….”
“So you think we should move to Italy then?”
“No!”
“Become sheep farmers?”
“No!”
“Have a pet sheep?”
“No! You can be very silly sometimes you know?”
“I hope so.”
“No, I just think that…..well…..I can see why they do it…..I think it is quite a natural instinct.”
“Baaaaa!”