Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Just As We Suspected
Our smoke detector started going off on short random bursts the night before last. I figured the battery might be low so I retrieved a ladder from the lanai room and attempted to change it.
Attempted, I say, because the ladder was only eight feet tall and the alarm is set a good 14 feet up in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, right next to the air conditioning vent and just outside my brother's bedroom door. I'm not really happy with heights as it is and, standing on the top rung, I could barely reach the plastic disc only to find that it is not battery operated at all but attached firmly to the wall by the electrical wires that power it. I found this out by twisting the disc in a manner that would unscrew a normal battery powered model but succeeded only in wrenching it from the wall to hang dangling.
My brother came home to find the vandalized alarm hanging in a most accusatory manner, the ladder in the living room and cats resting on the lower rungs. I had thought that he, being taller than I, would want to fix the thing since the alarm was still going off on a random, if less frequent, basis but he said he had a larger ladder outside and would take care of it in the morning so I shook the cats off the rungs and dragged it back out onto the lanai.
When I came home last night, he had pulled the thing completely off the wall which means we have no smoke detector now although that doesn't bother me all that much since the only times it has ever gone off, other than this instance, is when my brother burns his supper which we already know because of the smell. (It didn't go off the night Mom draped a nylon top over her quartz heater. I woke to the smell of burning plastic, went into Mom's room, and managed to unplug the heater and pull the melting shirt off it before anything actually caught fire. Mom, who otherwise would have slept through the whole thing, was duly embarrassed and promised never to do anything like that again which, to her credit and despite the increasing dementia, she never did.)
My brother had, by then, moved the bigger, 15 foot tall ladder into his room so he could clean his ceiling fan but, before he could start, the cats found it. Mittens climbed all the way to the very top. And was obviously stuck there. The look on her face said there was no possibility of her
ever climbing down that steep slope (and this is the cat that climbs screen doors all the way to the top and back down again). Paribanour started up after her, very slowly, and only got about two thirds of the way up before she, too, froze. My brother climbed up to retrieve them but they maintained death grips on the rungs. He almost lost his balance pulling Paribanour off. He couldn't climb back down holding the cats and had to toss each one down to me as he pried them loose.
They're now banned from his room until he's done cleaning and the ladder goes back outdoors. Because they will not learn from experience. Mittens was so desperate to take a second crack at the ladder, she spent ten minutes clawing at his door to get back in.
So, yeah, after last night, I don't see a Christmas tree going up any time soon.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
I Am Legion
I have lived most of my life under the assumption, based on anecdotal evidence, that I am, in fact, only one of an indeterminate number of identical clones, although I like to flatter myself by thinking I am the original template and all the others merely copies.
My awareness of this situation began shortly after I went off to college. On my first trip home, Mom reported that she'd seen me in the local supermarket three weeks earlier and, wondering why I was AWOL from school, had approached to within six feet before realizing whoever it was was not me. Six feet! My own Mother! It happened again a couple of years later when she almost stopped to pick "me" up hitchhiking along the highway before remembering I was over 500 miles away. (I do hope that clone eventually got to wherever he was supposed to be.)
There were a number of times, when I had my game company, when I was mistaken for the owner of another game company and I do have to admit, at the time, the resemblance was uncanny.
I have been accosted on the street more than once by friends of my clones, calling out to me in their names, and inquiring as to the latest news. I have invariably both disappointed and fascinated them.
It happened again today. A woman with a gaggle of young children coming down the hallway in the library tried to shepherd them aside to make room for me and as we passed she called out, "Hello!" and then to the kids said, "That's Mister So-and-so." I was so startled I turned the corner before realizing her greeting had been addressed to me and when I turned around again she and the flock had moved on.
I hope, when she finally sees the "real" Mister So-and-so, he has the chance to explain why he was so rude as to ignore her today.
I wonder how many of me there really are?
My awareness of this situation began shortly after I went off to college. On my first trip home, Mom reported that she'd seen me in the local supermarket three weeks earlier and, wondering why I was AWOL from school, had approached to within six feet before realizing whoever it was was not me. Six feet! My own Mother! It happened again a couple of years later when she almost stopped to pick "me" up hitchhiking along the highway before remembering I was over 500 miles away. (I do hope that clone eventually got to wherever he was supposed to be.)
There were a number of times, when I had my game company, when I was mistaken for the owner of another game company and I do have to admit, at the time, the resemblance was uncanny.
I have been accosted on the street more than once by friends of my clones, calling out to me in their names, and inquiring as to the latest news. I have invariably both disappointed and fascinated them.
It happened again today. A woman with a gaggle of young children coming down the hallway in the library tried to shepherd them aside to make room for me and as we passed she called out, "Hello!" and then to the kids said, "That's Mister So-and-so." I was so startled I turned the corner before realizing her greeting had been addressed to me and when I turned around again she and the flock had moved on.
I hope, when she finally sees the "real" Mister So-and-so, he has the chance to explain why he was so rude as to ignore her today.
I wonder how many of me there really are?
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Deconstructing The Old Year
Our nephews came down for the New Year celebrations. They were down here to party with friends so, technically, they just used our house as a base of operations but they did visit for a while when their sister and mom returned from Georgia and they also helped tear up the back yard which was a good thing.
My brother has long wanted to remove the small mound out back that Dad built years ago. It originally contained a rock garden and a small working waterfall feeding a stream that emptied into a koi pond. The mound was built on a base consisting of the excavated dirt from the pond. On top of that, Dad stacked a short ton of coral boulders glued together with cement. The watercourse from the fall to the pond was lined with river stones embedded in cement. The pond was a homemade basin of cement over a sheet of black waterproof plastic liner and edged with slate cemented into place. Dad was a frustrated landscape architect and concrete was his medium.
The overall effect was very pleasant for several years but, eventually, the underlying earth sank a bit and the water didn't flow properly and the pump stopped and the whole thing was too tightly cemented together for the operating guts to be accessible to repair and so it became simply a pond with a slight rise in the background. The folks added and aerator to the pond and the fish were happy.
The fish were happy for a while, anyway. I was on the phone with Mom one day when she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, look at the great blue heron!" which, of course, being on the phone from Connecticut, I could not, but she described in detail how it had just landed in the pond. Her excitement was understandable. Great blue herons are magnificent birds and not that common, even down here, are usually spotted at long range off in a swamp somewhere, and to have one standing not more than 20 feet from the back door was extraordinary. It was only after the great blue had flown that Mom realized the visit might have been somewhat less than exceptional and that, in fact, they had invited the heron by setting out such an easily accessible goldfish buffet. A few of the smaller fish survived by hiding under the leaves overhanging the edge of the pond but they were too traumatized to ever come out of the shadows again.
Dad died and the pond and mound became overgrown. The last of the fish were eaten by some other bird (no witnesses this time) and the water was allowed to evaporate. My brother didn't make any changes while Mom was alive because she liked some of the flowers that took root there.
That all changed this past weekend. The nephews gave my brother a new sledge hammer and chain saw for Christmas. I gave him a new orange tree. On New Year's Eve day we all went out and started dismantling the pond with the sledgehammer (my brother initially claimed he didn't need a new one so the boys started off with the old one but it broke about ten minutes in (Dad always made bunker-grade concrete.)) and the overgrowth with the chain saw.
The nephews have now gone back to base. The project's not done yet. The walls of the pond are completely broken up and it is about two-thirds filled in with rubble and dirt. The mound is half gone. We will have extra volume remaining thanks to the cement fill. The coral boulders have been rolled back to the property line in preparation for we know-not-what further use. The trees and bushes are down (with the exception of the central trunk of the tree on which the mockingbirds built their nest last summer where its ruins still perch) and the branches hauled out front for disposal.
The area looks disturbingly like a mass grave. Sod or grass seed will take care of that. What's worse, we can now see the neighbors.
My brother has long wanted to remove the small mound out back that Dad built years ago. It originally contained a rock garden and a small working waterfall feeding a stream that emptied into a koi pond. The mound was built on a base consisting of the excavated dirt from the pond. On top of that, Dad stacked a short ton of coral boulders glued together with cement. The watercourse from the fall to the pond was lined with river stones embedded in cement. The pond was a homemade basin of cement over a sheet of black waterproof plastic liner and edged with slate cemented into place. Dad was a frustrated landscape architect and concrete was his medium.
The overall effect was very pleasant for several years but, eventually, the underlying earth sank a bit and the water didn't flow properly and the pump stopped and the whole thing was too tightly cemented together for the operating guts to be accessible to repair and so it became simply a pond with a slight rise in the background. The folks added and aerator to the pond and the fish were happy.
The fish were happy for a while, anyway. I was on the phone with Mom one day when she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, look at the great blue heron!" which, of course, being on the phone from Connecticut, I could not, but she described in detail how it had just landed in the pond. Her excitement was understandable. Great blue herons are magnificent birds and not that common, even down here, are usually spotted at long range off in a swamp somewhere, and to have one standing not more than 20 feet from the back door was extraordinary. It was only after the great blue had flown that Mom realized the visit might have been somewhat less than exceptional and that, in fact, they had invited the heron by setting out such an easily accessible goldfish buffet. A few of the smaller fish survived by hiding under the leaves overhanging the edge of the pond but they were too traumatized to ever come out of the shadows again.
Dad died and the pond and mound became overgrown. The last of the fish were eaten by some other bird (no witnesses this time) and the water was allowed to evaporate. My brother didn't make any changes while Mom was alive because she liked some of the flowers that took root there.
That all changed this past weekend. The nephews gave my brother a new sledge hammer and chain saw for Christmas. I gave him a new orange tree. On New Year's Eve day we all went out and started dismantling the pond with the sledgehammer (my brother initially claimed he didn't need a new one so the boys started off with the old one but it broke about ten minutes in (Dad always made bunker-grade concrete.)) and the overgrowth with the chain saw.
The nephews have now gone back to base. The project's not done yet. The walls of the pond are completely broken up and it is about two-thirds filled in with rubble and dirt. The mound is half gone. We will have extra volume remaining thanks to the cement fill. The coral boulders have been rolled back to the property line in preparation for we know-not-what further use. The trees and bushes are down (with the exception of the central trunk of the tree on which the mockingbirds built their nest last summer where its ruins still perch) and the branches hauled out front for disposal.
The area looks disturbingly like a mass grave. Sod or grass seed will take care of that. What's worse, we can now see the neighbors.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Decking the Halls
The tree itself is at least 20 years old but surprisingly realistic. It's a 7.5 foot tall replica balsam. We think Mom & Dad spent maybe $100 for it. Assembly consists of stacking foot long sections of trunk and then attaching individual branches of decreasing length as the layers accumulate. My brother saves time by stringing the lights around each layer before adding the next one. Makes it easier to get the lights into the interior.
During construction, it even realistically shed all over the living room rug. I had to vacuum the whole area . . . again.My brother had to go to work after the tree was up and lit so I spent part of the evening decorating it. I went through two large boxes of mostly hand blown glass Radko and Pandora ornaments, most of which I had not seen before. I think, toward the end (and not trusting Mom's failing fine motor skills), my brother may have kept some of the more delicate ornaments out of the mix.
I have not, so far, run across any of the animated or otherwise disturbing ornaments from previous years but, then again, there's at least one more large box that hasn't even been opened yet (and possibly more still in storage).
And, neither we nor Neighbor Dan have put any lights or decorations out on our lawns, yet.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Strange Pocket Change
My brother discovered a small oval ceramic box Mom made for him many years ago. Inside it was a small pouch and inside the pouch was a small pile of foreign coins. I've just spent a couple hours sorting and identifying them.
Most are your standard pre-euro European change, the kinds of things tourists might bring home, with an emphasis on Spain and U.K.. South and Central America are also well represented with samples from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Peru, Guatemala and Mexico. But . . . there's some kind of neat stuff here, too.
For instance, there are two coins from Bulgaria, a 1974 20 stotniki from the People's Republic version, and a 1992 2 leva from the current incarnation. Ditto a 1980 1 koruna from Czechoslovkia and a 1993 10 haleru from the Czech Republic. Also a couple of 2 pfennig coins (1979 & 1992) from West Germany and a 1969 20 pfennig from East Germany.
On the "who brought that home front," there are two 1 kyat pieces from Myanmar (both 1999), a 1933 5 piastres piece from Syria, a 1982 1 kopeck from the Soviet Union. also 2 cent and 50 cent pieces from Sri Lanka. And Vanuatu (1995 20 vatu). Nobody I know has ever been to Vanuatu.
So I learned something today.
Most are your standard pre-euro European change, the kinds of things tourists might bring home, with an emphasis on Spain and U.K.. South and Central America are also well represented with samples from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Peru, Guatemala and Mexico. But . . . there's some kind of neat stuff here, too.
 |
| (Sri Lankan 2 cent piece) |
 |
| (The oldest coin in the "collection") |
 |
| (South African penny) |
On the "who brought that home front," there are two 1 kyat pieces from Myanmar (both 1999), a 1933 5 piastres piece from Syria, a 1982 1 kopeck from the Soviet Union. also 2 cent and 50 cent pieces from Sri Lanka. And Vanuatu (1995 20 vatu). Nobody I know has ever been to Vanuatu.
The one I had virtually no clue on until I could track it down, however, was a small, 1 cent copper coin with the legend "ISEWULA AFRIKA" on the front. Turns out that's the name for South Africa in the Ndebele language.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Happy Birthday to All
It's taken some time to really sink in that, now that Mom has died, I am no longer anchored to the house. Yes, I went to Tampa for the Android developers' Meetup and we're no longer careful about making sure one or the other of us is always home, but it still feels a little . . . weird . . . to be able to just get up and go somewhere.
We had our barbecue early in the afternoon because my brother had to work yesterday evening. Ribs, sweet corn, potato and macaroni salads and cole slaw with apple pie for dessert. The fourth is one of those one-meal days. As the sun dropped behind the palm trees to the west, it occurred to me I could, for the first time, go watch the fireworks in person, up close, as opposed to the TV broadcasts of national celebrations and glimpses of the local shots half-hidden on the horizon in previous years when Mom couldn't travel.
I drove downtown in the dusk through a thin intermittent haze of barbecued meats and parked as close as I could to where the fireworks were to be launched which was about a mile away. Half that distance was due to the sheer number of vehicles taking up every conceivable parking space in the center of town and half because the authorities had blocked off the bridge to Ft. Myers (from which the fireworks were to be launched) and all the approaches and intersections.
People were massing, drawn on foot and bicycle, skateboard and stroller, to the foot of the bride, past tents offering ice cream and pizza, fries and gyros and falafel, shaved ice and bottles of water and mango peach tea. I walked past a bouncy castle and inflatable obstacle course for kids. Aisles of booths offered handyman repairs by veterans, enrollment in GED classes for Spanish speakers, sign-ups for cable TV and pool services, club-store memberships, vacation plans, and more politicians on the make than is probably safe for one's sanity (mostly Republicans since they have a primary coming up soon and are all running against each other right now but I did see one lone Democrat who will face the winner in November) all handing out fans with their names and pictures on them which, considering the heat and humidity, meant people were willing tolerate, if not approve, their presence.
And, oh, the people. Tall and short, skinny and fat, old and young. All the hues from pale pink to dark chocolate and every shade of brown in between, mostly natural but an awful lot thanks to some serious sun time. The woman in the hijab. The guy in the confederate T-shirt. All the folks in variations of flag shirts and shorts and bikinis. The black kid with the impressive dreads. The white kid in what I thought was a blue spiky mohawk threaded with flashing green LEDs but turned out to be a wig. The Germans standing next to me struggling to identify the "Star Spangled Banner" as the band up on the inflatable stage slid from a patriotic medley through military anthems to Johnny Cash. The group of children behind me who, when the show started, exclaimed "Wow!" at every starburst until it became a chant that eventually became a rhythm of its own and slid out of sync with the explosions taking on an unintentionally ironic tone. These are folks who might not run into each other on a day-to-day basis, who might not otherwise associate. all down at the foot of the bridge, together, having fun, sharing the one thing we all have in common: the freedom to be us.
If a country is the people (and that is the premise behind our whole experiment, after all), we are in great shape.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Miscellanea, (Mostly Meteorlogical)
Looks like Rainy Season is finally officially here. Haven't seen the sun since before the transit of Venus which we didn't see either. It rains at least once every day now, sometimes in the morning sometimes in the evening. At least I'm remembering to close up my car. . .and the birdbath is staying full.
Of course, now that it's raining, the grass is greening up and growing fast and the lawn mower is busted again. From the symptoms, I'm thinking the drive belt has irretrievably stretched out of shape.
You know it's humid when the weather report lists the current temperature as 87F "but feels like 100F." For the record, yes, it does.
The most active burrowing owl habitat around this season is on my way to the library. An adult is always perched on one of the little cruciform burrow-marking stakes and usually one or more of the family is on the ground nearby. I went by once and there were four of them on the ground surrounding the one on the perch. There are a number of open lots nearby so this place may have some really easy hunting.
I just heard "Car Talk" will be coming to an end this fall after 25 years. Almost everything I know automotively (which admittedly is not much) I learned from those guys.
Yesterday would've been Mom's 92nd birthday. My brother bought four pints of Ben & Jerry's, two for him and two for me. They were on sale. Happy Birthday! (I'm going to make mine last at least a month.)
Of course, now that it's raining, the grass is greening up and growing fast and the lawn mower is busted again. From the symptoms, I'm thinking the drive belt has irretrievably stretched out of shape.
You know it's humid when the weather report lists the current temperature as 87F "but feels like 100F." For the record, yes, it does.
The most active burrowing owl habitat around this season is on my way to the library. An adult is always perched on one of the little cruciform burrow-marking stakes and usually one or more of the family is on the ground nearby. I went by once and there were four of them on the ground surrounding the one on the perch. There are a number of open lots nearby so this place may have some really easy hunting.
I just heard "Car Talk" will be coming to an end this fall after 25 years. Almost everything I know automotively (which admittedly is not much) I learned from those guys.
Yesterday would've been Mom's 92nd birthday. My brother bought four pints of Ben & Jerry's, two for him and two for me. They were on sale. Happy Birthday! (I'm going to make mine last at least a month.)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Preparing to Leave Home
My brother mentioned, as we were enjoying our Memorial Day picnic, that there were no baby mockingbirds visible in the nest anymore.
No sooner were the words spoken than one mockingbird parent swooped down into some tall grass awaiting weed whacking surrounding one of Mom's life-size ceramic rabbits out back and began feeding the fledgling hidden there. The other one dove under Neighbor Mike's orange tree where a second young mockingbird was waiting. The parents each made several passes bringing insects and whatnot to the kids. The little ones were hard to see due to still being dun colored and had neither the very long tail feathers nor their black and white coloration distinctive to the species.
Eventually, the one by the bunny statue moved up under the nest tree. Shortly thereafter, the one under the orange tree flew the thirty feet back home. So all was well and they were just out exploring the big world.
No sooner were the words spoken than one mockingbird parent swooped down into some tall grass awaiting weed whacking surrounding one of Mom's life-size ceramic rabbits out back and began feeding the fledgling hidden there. The other one dove under Neighbor Mike's orange tree where a second young mockingbird was waiting. The parents each made several passes bringing insects and whatnot to the kids. The little ones were hard to see due to still being dun colored and had neither the very long tail feathers nor their black and white coloration distinctive to the species.
Eventually, the one by the bunny statue moved up under the nest tree. Shortly thereafter, the one under the orange tree flew the thirty feet back home. So all was well and they were just out exploring the big world.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Nine
Mom, A Life: Part Eight
The Final Years
Dad was in a serious car accident just as they were building the new house. That, and the fact their contractor absconded with several thousand dollars necessary for the finishing work, meant the move was delayed, drawn-out and a little traumatic. They stayed with first one son and then the other (both of whom were living in town at the time) and eventually the place was completed.
In late 1997 Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer and underwent cryogenic surgery. During follow-up another tumor was discovered and he began chemotherapy. As Mom described it from the x-rays, "It looked like a loaf of French bread wrapped around the back of his stomach." At first he responded well and they could see the tumor shrinking almost daily but suddenly something the doctors called a "wildfire" took over. In less than a month, on March 22, 1998, Dad died.
Mom continued to teach ceramics at the Senior Center and occasionally took on jobs either when she wanted extra money or just because she was bored. (She did a short stint as a dispatcher for a rental car company out at the airport one time.) She gave up driving and my brother, who had sold his house and moved in after his girlfriend died, chauffeured her around. In 2000, my brother managed to pull off a surprise 80th birthday party at the country club that included her children, grandchildren, most of her nephews and nieces, surviving sister and brother-in-law and a host of friends.
The remaining dozen years passed quietly. Mom's back had been giving her problems for decades. What with slipped and disintegrating discs and severe scoliosis she became hunched over at the waist and barely four feet tall. (She was 5' 6" most of her adult life.) As her mobility decreased she stopped going anywhere except ceramics class and doctors' appointments. We had always planned for Mom to live to at least 100, both because she thought that was a nice round number and also in hope she'd passed on longevity genes to the rest of us, but in 2008 I received a letter from her hinting at imminent problems. I moved in with Mom and my brother to help him look after her. The letter turned out to be a touch melodramatic.
Mom talked about moving to an assisted living facility but, although we got brochures and made some visits, her heart wasn't really in it and she stayed home. Her mobility became worse and she was plagued by occasional incontinence and so stopped going to ceramics out of what might best be called anticipatory embarrassment. She most definitely did not want her friends to see her deteriorating.
Mom was diagnosed with moderate Alzheimer's in 2010. She never discussed the diagnosis and I often wondered if one of the effects of the disease was that the implications never really sank in with her. She was put on a drug that noticeably slowed its progress, and for the six months immediately after the diagnosis she showed real improvement both physically and mentally. We even made one last visit to the ceramics class at the Senior Center.
Eventually, though she spent her days mostly on the couch reading and watching TV, although she no longer enjoyed watching sports as she found she didn't understand the rules or the point of the games any more and had no patience for anything lasting longer than a half hour or so. She read continuously, both magazines and large print books from the library.
She still dressed herself (with an increasingly eccentric creativity), made her own bed and did her own laundry (or tried to. We took that last chore away from her after she washed some disposables and filled the dryer with cubic feet of fluff). She had a great appetite and ate everything we made for her enjoying the occasional glass of wine with dinner. Although she had more and more trouble finding the right word, she never lost verbal capability and always recognized people. Her biggest problem was insomnia which could keep her bouncing up and down all night long and exhaustedly napping all the following day.
In February 2012, I noticed a decline in Mom's cognitive abilities. Despite the doctor's warnings about the inevitability of Alzheimer's, Mom had been so stable for so long that it came as something of a shock. During an appointment in early March, her GP noted a spike in her blood pressure and asked if she had a living will and DNR order on file. He recommended we post it on the refrigerator. Mom's insomnia was worse and she was a little more agitated than usual over the following weekend and then, sometime over night or, more likely, early Monday morning, her heart just gave out.
Mom died at home, in her room, Monday March 12, 2012, fourteen years after Dad. She was three months shy of 92.
Post Script
This sketch of Mom's life turned out to be a lot longer than I'd originally planned, yet it is still far, far too short to do her any kind of justice. I haven't mentioned her sense of adventure and willingness to try anything at least once. She'd go out in the woods with us kids to explore the "cave" we found. She had us all grilling Japanese food on hibachis and eating with chopsticks back in the '60s. She taught tolerance (no excuses) and encouraged intellectual curiosity. She's why I was listening to Stravinsky and Berlioz at age eleven and owned the complete Yale edition Shakespeare at thirteen (best junior high school graduation present ever!) and why I can cook for myself well enough to entertain in several different styles. ("You're either going to get married or stay single. If single, you're not rich enough to eat out every night so you'll starve if you don't know how to cook. And if you get married I'm not going to have some other woman complain I gave her a helpless son.")
Thanks, Mom. I love you, too.
The Final Years
Dad was in a serious car accident just as they were building the new house. That, and the fact their contractor absconded with several thousand dollars necessary for the finishing work, meant the move was delayed, drawn-out and a little traumatic. They stayed with first one son and then the other (both of whom were living in town at the time) and eventually the place was completed.
In late 1997 Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer and underwent cryogenic surgery. During follow-up another tumor was discovered and he began chemotherapy. As Mom described it from the x-rays, "It looked like a loaf of French bread wrapped around the back of his stomach." At first he responded well and they could see the tumor shrinking almost daily but suddenly something the doctors called a "wildfire" took over. In less than a month, on March 22, 1998, Dad died.
Mom continued to teach ceramics at the Senior Center and occasionally took on jobs either when she wanted extra money or just because she was bored. (She did a short stint as a dispatcher for a rental car company out at the airport one time.) She gave up driving and my brother, who had sold his house and moved in after his girlfriend died, chauffeured her around. In 2000, my brother managed to pull off a surprise 80th birthday party at the country club that included her children, grandchildren, most of her nephews and nieces, surviving sister and brother-in-law and a host of friends.
The remaining dozen years passed quietly. Mom's back had been giving her problems for decades. What with slipped and disintegrating discs and severe scoliosis she became hunched over at the waist and barely four feet tall. (She was 5' 6" most of her adult life.) As her mobility decreased she stopped going anywhere except ceramics class and doctors' appointments. We had always planned for Mom to live to at least 100, both because she thought that was a nice round number and also in hope she'd passed on longevity genes to the rest of us, but in 2008 I received a letter from her hinting at imminent problems. I moved in with Mom and my brother to help him look after her. The letter turned out to be a touch melodramatic.
Mom talked about moving to an assisted living facility but, although we got brochures and made some visits, her heart wasn't really in it and she stayed home. Her mobility became worse and she was plagued by occasional incontinence and so stopped going to ceramics out of what might best be called anticipatory embarrassment. She most definitely did not want her friends to see her deteriorating.
Mom was diagnosed with moderate Alzheimer's in 2010. She never discussed the diagnosis and I often wondered if one of the effects of the disease was that the implications never really sank in with her. She was put on a drug that noticeably slowed its progress, and for the six months immediately after the diagnosis she showed real improvement both physically and mentally. We even made one last visit to the ceramics class at the Senior Center.
Eventually, though she spent her days mostly on the couch reading and watching TV, although she no longer enjoyed watching sports as she found she didn't understand the rules or the point of the games any more and had no patience for anything lasting longer than a half hour or so. She read continuously, both magazines and large print books from the library.
She still dressed herself (with an increasingly eccentric creativity), made her own bed and did her own laundry (or tried to. We took that last chore away from her after she washed some disposables and filled the dryer with cubic feet of fluff). She had a great appetite and ate everything we made for her enjoying the occasional glass of wine with dinner. Although she had more and more trouble finding the right word, she never lost verbal capability and always recognized people. Her biggest problem was insomnia which could keep her bouncing up and down all night long and exhaustedly napping all the following day.
In February 2012, I noticed a decline in Mom's cognitive abilities. Despite the doctor's warnings about the inevitability of Alzheimer's, Mom had been so stable for so long that it came as something of a shock. During an appointment in early March, her GP noted a spike in her blood pressure and asked if she had a living will and DNR order on file. He recommended we post it on the refrigerator. Mom's insomnia was worse and she was a little more agitated than usual over the following weekend and then, sometime over night or, more likely, early Monday morning, her heart just gave out.
Mom died at home, in her room, Monday March 12, 2012, fourteen years after Dad. She was three months shy of 92.
Post Script
This sketch of Mom's life turned out to be a lot longer than I'd originally planned, yet it is still far, far too short to do her any kind of justice. I haven't mentioned her sense of adventure and willingness to try anything at least once. She'd go out in the woods with us kids to explore the "cave" we found. She had us all grilling Japanese food on hibachis and eating with chopsticks back in the '60s. She taught tolerance (no excuses) and encouraged intellectual curiosity. She's why I was listening to Stravinsky and Berlioz at age eleven and owned the complete Yale edition Shakespeare at thirteen (best junior high school graduation present ever!) and why I can cook for myself well enough to entertain in several different styles. ("You're either going to get married or stay single. If single, you're not rich enough to eat out every night so you'll starve if you don't know how to cook. And if you get married I'm not going to have some other woman complain I gave her a helpless son.")
Thanks, Mom. I love you, too.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Eight
Mom, A Life: Part Seven
Sunshine, Real Estate and Art
Using the money from the sale of the Connecticut house and the property in Arizona, Mom and Dad built a new, small ranch house on the property they had bought on the north end of town. Unfortunately, the developers had opened up huge tracts all at once and so people moving into town bought and built all over resulting in isolated houses on barren streets across the peninsula.
The city was billed as a planned community but it was really just an artificial one. No plans were made for any commercial development commensurate with the expected residential population. Hundreds of miles of canals were dug across the city but, in an attempt to save money and with total disregard for future traffic growth, bridges across the canals were intentionally built narrower than the roads. To this day the city hall, police department and post office all sit in the middle of nowhere, miles from the naturally developing center of town as does the library (but in a different direction).
So, of course, Mom and Dad got their real estate licenses. At first they sold houses and condos as agents for a larger firm. Mom's heart wasn't really in the profession and she ended up mostly sitting open houses and model condos. After a couple of years they realized it would be decades before their "neighborhood" filled in and they bought a condo in an 8-unit building "downtown." At least it was within walking distance to stores.
Mom requalified as a nurse in Florida and did some work at the local hospital but didn't enjoy it saying the profession had changed too much over the years for her to really keep up. The technical aspects were difficult as were all the new drugs to memorize.
It was about this time that Mom and Dad came back up north and kidnapped my brother and his dog. My brother had moved in with me after mustering out of the Air Force and brought the dog with him from California but he was showing symptoms of depression, partly from his military experiences, including scraping two of his pilot friends off the runway when they'd crashed, and the death of his best friend, an innocent bystander in a high-speed police chase in Connecticut. They thought a change of scene would do him good, showed up one weekend, packed him up and took off. It worked.
Dad opened his own agency but it didn't really go anywhere until he met some commercial developers and started specializing in buying up and consolidating lots into workable commercial size properties. Mom left the business and concentrated on her artwork. She had enjoyed painting over the years, mostly still lifes in oil on canvasboard although she did a huge owl with glowing yellow eyes in acrylics on cloth and hung it at the top of the back stairs in Connecticut where it scared her grandson so much he would only ever use the front stairs. They moved again, this time to a larger higher-end condo where Mom figured out how to make beads from rose petals and began creating necklaces and earrings, some of which she sold, some of which she gave away and some of which are now in the local historical society collection. It was also around this time that she became interested in ceramics.
At first Mom was content to decorate premade greenware, experimenting with paint effects and glazes. Soon, however, she started creating completely original works, mostly flowers: roses, chrysanthemums and lily pads although she also did some dessert dishes and rice bowls. She took lessons at the senior center and eventually the staff asked if she would teach the class, which she did until her fine motor skills started to go and her work became clunky. Eventually she went back to using greenware and finally stopped when her painting started getting muddy, too.
Succumbing to the Gypsy urge one last time, Mom and Dad sold the condo and built a last house, the one my brother and I now share, in a neighborhood that was finally filling in.
Sunshine, Real Estate and Art
Using the money from the sale of the Connecticut house and the property in Arizona, Mom and Dad built a new, small ranch house on the property they had bought on the north end of town. Unfortunately, the developers had opened up huge tracts all at once and so people moving into town bought and built all over resulting in isolated houses on barren streets across the peninsula.
The city was billed as a planned community but it was really just an artificial one. No plans were made for any commercial development commensurate with the expected residential population. Hundreds of miles of canals were dug across the city but, in an attempt to save money and with total disregard for future traffic growth, bridges across the canals were intentionally built narrower than the roads. To this day the city hall, police department and post office all sit in the middle of nowhere, miles from the naturally developing center of town as does the library (but in a different direction).
So, of course, Mom and Dad got their real estate licenses. At first they sold houses and condos as agents for a larger firm. Mom's heart wasn't really in the profession and she ended up mostly sitting open houses and model condos. After a couple of years they realized it would be decades before their "neighborhood" filled in and they bought a condo in an 8-unit building "downtown." At least it was within walking distance to stores.
Mom requalified as a nurse in Florida and did some work at the local hospital but didn't enjoy it saying the profession had changed too much over the years for her to really keep up. The technical aspects were difficult as were all the new drugs to memorize.
It was about this time that Mom and Dad came back up north and kidnapped my brother and his dog. My brother had moved in with me after mustering out of the Air Force and brought the dog with him from California but he was showing symptoms of depression, partly from his military experiences, including scraping two of his pilot friends off the runway when they'd crashed, and the death of his best friend, an innocent bystander in a high-speed police chase in Connecticut. They thought a change of scene would do him good, showed up one weekend, packed him up and took off. It worked.
Dad opened his own agency but it didn't really go anywhere until he met some commercial developers and started specializing in buying up and consolidating lots into workable commercial size properties. Mom left the business and concentrated on her artwork. She had enjoyed painting over the years, mostly still lifes in oil on canvasboard although she did a huge owl with glowing yellow eyes in acrylics on cloth and hung it at the top of the back stairs in Connecticut where it scared her grandson so much he would only ever use the front stairs. They moved again, this time to a larger higher-end condo where Mom figured out how to make beads from rose petals and began creating necklaces and earrings, some of which she sold, some of which she gave away and some of which are now in the local historical society collection. It was also around this time that she became interested in ceramics.
At first Mom was content to decorate premade greenware, experimenting with paint effects and glazes. Soon, however, she started creating completely original works, mostly flowers: roses, chrysanthemums and lily pads although she also did some dessert dishes and rice bowls. She took lessons at the senior center and eventually the staff asked if she would teach the class, which she did until her fine motor skills started to go and her work became clunky. Eventually she went back to using greenware and finally stopped when her painting started getting muddy, too.
Succumbing to the Gypsy urge one last time, Mom and Dad sold the condo and built a last house, the one my brother and I now share, in a neighborhood that was finally filling in.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Seven
Mom, A Life: Part Six
A Fresh Start
After the bankruptcy, we downsized for a while. The "new" house was a mid-1800s Federalist fixer, a two-story square box, three rooms down and three up. Heat came from a converted coal furnace situated in the center of the cellar with a yard-square grate directly over the furnace vent. The property was on an acre of flat land and the money from the sale of the old house (and the cheap price of the new) allowed a fresh start.
Mom, who had quit her job to raise her kids, went back to work for Dr. Adams. Dad got a job as Art Director for a large printing company in New Haven. They bought a fold down camper trailer and the family took trips throughout northern New England.
Within a few years they built an addition off one corner, making the building ell-shaped, and, although only adding one room down and one up, doubling the size of the house. By this time, I was off at college.
In the summer of my freshman year the entire family took off for a whirlwind cross country tour, camper trailer in tow, to a not-yet-realized planned community south of Tucson, Arizona, stopping at Carlsbad Caverns, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and various lesser sites along the way including camping next to a Gypsy caravan in Ohio one night and the worst steak ever in El Paso. Mom and Dad had bought building lots in both Arizona and Florida and wanted to check out the places before deciding which one to retire to. Shortly after my brothers also left for college or military service (or both).
In their spare time now that the kids were gone, Mom and Dad started a small printing business in the detached garage specializing in business cards and letterheads. Mom learned all aspects of the business, specializing in typesetting, proofreading, billing and running the hydraulic paper cutter while Dad handled sales, paste-up and plate making. They hired a journeyman printer by name of "Pinkey" to run the press.
After college and a few years in D.C., I returned home and worked with them in the printing shop before starting my own business and buying the house from them. They shut down the print shop, sold the land in Arizona and "retired" to Florida. Mom was 55 and Dad was 57.
A Fresh Start
After the bankruptcy, we downsized for a while. The "new" house was a mid-1800s Federalist fixer, a two-story square box, three rooms down and three up. Heat came from a converted coal furnace situated in the center of the cellar with a yard-square grate directly over the furnace vent. The property was on an acre of flat land and the money from the sale of the old house (and the cheap price of the new) allowed a fresh start.
Mom, who had quit her job to raise her kids, went back to work for Dr. Adams. Dad got a job as Art Director for a large printing company in New Haven. They bought a fold down camper trailer and the family took trips throughout northern New England.
Within a few years they built an addition off one corner, making the building ell-shaped, and, although only adding one room down and one up, doubling the size of the house. By this time, I was off at college.
In the summer of my freshman year the entire family took off for a whirlwind cross country tour, camper trailer in tow, to a not-yet-realized planned community south of Tucson, Arizona, stopping at Carlsbad Caverns, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and various lesser sites along the way including camping next to a Gypsy caravan in Ohio one night and the worst steak ever in El Paso. Mom and Dad had bought building lots in both Arizona and Florida and wanted to check out the places before deciding which one to retire to. Shortly after my brothers also left for college or military service (or both).
In their spare time now that the kids were gone, Mom and Dad started a small printing business in the detached garage specializing in business cards and letterheads. Mom learned all aspects of the business, specializing in typesetting, proofreading, billing and running the hydraulic paper cutter while Dad handled sales, paste-up and plate making. They hired a journeyman printer by name of "Pinkey" to run the press.
After college and a few years in D.C., I returned home and worked with them in the printing shop before starting my own business and buying the house from them. They shut down the print shop, sold the land in Arizona and "retired" to Florida. Mom was 55 and Dad was 57.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Six
Mom, A Life: Part Five
Life With Father
Mom had apparently been in love with Dad for a while, since before his truncated failed first marriage even, although she would never discuss the gap in time between Dad hitchhiking to visit while she was a nursing student before 1947 and their marriage in 1949. The thing she did know about Dad was that he was artistic, a good dancer and something of a dreamer.
Dad always thought of himself as something of an entrepreneur, an independent small businessman. When the family started to grow and they bought their first house in East Haven, Dad set up a one-man advertising agency in New Haven, using his artistic talents. It struggled at first, and money was tight, but that did not stop the romantic in Dad from buying an upright piano for Mom for an anniversary present one year. She was furious. (I only found out many, many years and many, many piano lessons later.) Mom was always the practical, accountable partner.
Mom and Dad both loved to socialize and throw parties especially if Mom could come up with a theme. They held costume parties, luaus, scavenger hunts and hallowe'en get togethers. One party in the 50s was a hobo gathering where each guest (in appropriate raggedy costume) was given a large can full of stew and a smaller can for drinks. One scavenger hunt, apparently in drag, covered five towns and may have involved the police. (Rumors vary.) There is a photo, which I have seen but can not put my hands on just now, of Dad wearing a German pickelhaube helmet from WWI, three sizes too small, and blowing a bugle of the type used by postal riders back when there were postal riders.
Dad's agency grew and was successful for a while. His largest client was the A.C. Gilbert Co. makers of American Flyer trains and Erector Sets.
With the opening of the Connecticut Turnpike (I95), the shoreline east of New Haven became available for development and the family moved to a small (12-25 houses) development deep in the woods of North Madison at the end of 1961. The house was an ugly modern split level with too small windows. Mom proceeded to paint the main wall in the living room purple and used an enormous sponge to daub large (also purple) splotches on the wall of the master bedroom. She also created a large (3 foot tall) jack of diamonds playing card to hang on the family room wall. The card was lost when we moved to our second house in town, a large post-colonial sea captains house built 1798, but it was found and appeared in the local newspaper chained to the ankle of the reporter's wife.
Unfortunately, in 1967, A.C. Gilbert went bankrupt and it turned out they were Dad's only sizable client. Both Mom and Dad tried various desperation measures to bring in income. Mom had a successful but short-lived business making pre-baked pie shells out of the house and had them in various stores along the shore line but, even with us kids assembling and labeling the boxes daily, exhaustion set in before enough capital was available for serious expansion and the project collapsed. At one point Dad sold bait to fishing supply shops along the shore. Eventually, they had to declare bankruptcy and we moved to our third house in town.
Life With Father
Mom had apparently been in love with Dad for a while, since before his truncated failed first marriage even, although she would never discuss the gap in time between Dad hitchhiking to visit while she was a nursing student before 1947 and their marriage in 1949. The thing she did know about Dad was that he was artistic, a good dancer and something of a dreamer.
Dad always thought of himself as something of an entrepreneur, an independent small businessman. When the family started to grow and they bought their first house in East Haven, Dad set up a one-man advertising agency in New Haven, using his artistic talents. It struggled at first, and money was tight, but that did not stop the romantic in Dad from buying an upright piano for Mom for an anniversary present one year. She was furious. (I only found out many, many years and many, many piano lessons later.) Mom was always the practical, accountable partner.
Mom and Dad both loved to socialize and throw parties especially if Mom could come up with a theme. They held costume parties, luaus, scavenger hunts and hallowe'en get togethers. One party in the 50s was a hobo gathering where each guest (in appropriate raggedy costume) was given a large can full of stew and a smaller can for drinks. One scavenger hunt, apparently in drag, covered five towns and may have involved the police. (Rumors vary.) There is a photo, which I have seen but can not put my hands on just now, of Dad wearing a German pickelhaube helmet from WWI, three sizes too small, and blowing a bugle of the type used by postal riders back when there were postal riders.
Dad's agency grew and was successful for a while. His largest client was the A.C. Gilbert Co. makers of American Flyer trains and Erector Sets.
With the opening of the Connecticut Turnpike (I95), the shoreline east of New Haven became available for development and the family moved to a small (12-25 houses) development deep in the woods of North Madison at the end of 1961. The house was an ugly modern split level with too small windows. Mom proceeded to paint the main wall in the living room purple and used an enormous sponge to daub large (also purple) splotches on the wall of the master bedroom. She also created a large (3 foot tall) jack of diamonds playing card to hang on the family room wall. The card was lost when we moved to our second house in town, a large post-colonial sea captains house built 1798, but it was found and appeared in the local newspaper chained to the ankle of the reporter's wife.
(The garage on the left is at street level and had a flat roof. The room at right was originally a screened in porch. The house is visible only because the huge and ancient horse chestnut tree is gone.)
Unfortunately, in 1967, A.C. Gilbert went bankrupt and it turned out they were Dad's only sizable client. Both Mom and Dad tried various desperation measures to bring in income. Mom had a successful but short-lived business making pre-baked pie shells out of the house and had them in various stores along the shore line but, even with us kids assembling and labeling the boxes daily, exhaustion set in before enough capital was available for serious expansion and the project collapsed. At one point Dad sold bait to fishing supply shops along the shore. Eventually, they had to declare bankruptcy and we moved to our third house in town.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Five
Mom A Life: Part Four
Career and Early Suburbia
Career and Early Suburbia
When Mom was pregnant (with me) she quit the hospital and went to work in the private practice of Dr. Elisabeth Adams, a GP who had just moved her office from New York City to the quiet, classically New England village of Guilford, Connecticut. Mom took the bus from New Haven where she and Dad had an apartment. Both mothers-in-law lived in the same building.
(Dr. Adams' residence and office on the NW corner of the Guilford Green.)
Dr. Adams was a bit of a character in her own right and fit in quite well with the New England tolerance and encouragement of eccentricity. She was a Christian Scientist and did not believe in doctors--for herself--but became a doctor to serve others less enlightened. She also didn't believe in pain. Mom became the office head nurse and desired administrator of all shots.
My delivery was complicated but that didn't stop Mom from having two other children, both boys. The second child, Jon, was also born in the apartment in New Haven but, when they were expecting the third child, Robert, Mom and Dad decided to buy a house of their own in a newly opened suburban development in East Haven, adjacent to New Haven and one town closer to Guilford. The development, High Ridge, was huge by the standards of the day, paving over and landscaping acres upon acres of river bottom farm land and building hundreds of houses, all variations on the theme of single story ranch.
All the families on our little cul-de-sac moved in within months of each other. All the parents were roughly the same age (Mom and Dad were the outliers, having started later) as were all the (many) children. The one notable area of diversity was in religion. Our family was Congregational Protestant (the old Puritan church of New England). Our neighbors on one side were Catholic, on the other Jewish. The kids of all three families grew up calling all the other parents aunts and uncles. We envied Larry and Debbie because they received a present every day of Hanukkah. They envied our Christmas tree.
Parenting was different then. The dog was frequently our babysitter. Fortunately, he was a smart dog. One day he came running home to get Mom and bring her and Aunt Barbara through some back yards and into the woods down to the Farm River that formed the western boundary of the development where Barbara's daughter Debbie was crying because my brother Robert was trapped in the middle of the stream with his snowsuit snagged on a branch. They were around three years old at the time. I would often ride my bike twenty miles or so round trip two towns over, mostly on back roads but occasionally on the state highway, just exploring. I never told anyone. I was eight or nine.
As the '50s came to an end, the state completed a new highway (the Connecticut Turnpike, I-95) east along the shore, opening up formerly isolated beach towns for expansion. We moved further out, leapfrogging Guilford, to Madison.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Four
Mom, A Life: Part Three
The Later War Years
The School of Nursing, in 1944, was housed in Hartford Hospital, a very large Victorian house, complete with free-flying bat, on Jefferson Street in Hartford. Students and faculty frequently chased the bat without success over the years. Standards of hygiene were . . . different . . . back then.
When patients checked out (men on one floor, women on another and surgery on still another) the beds were stripped down to the springs which the nursing students scrubbed with toothbrushes. When the beds were remade, sheets had to be cornered just so and the open ends of pillow cases were never to face the door. Nursing students poured and counted prescribed meds (with supervision).
Nursing school was not all work. It was here Mom learned to swim underwater and dive in the residence pool, two things she could never do as a child due to the mastoid infections. Because there was a war on, the local movie theaters held morning showings to accommodate shift workers, including student nurses. Mom was also selected to be editor-in-chief of the yearbook sophomore year. Her only really negative experience was coming down, along with twenty or so fellow students, with a serious case of food poisoning. They were all treated to a course of the new wonder drug penicillin, 500,000 units every four hours injected in the buttocks. Fortunately, all the girls had a crush on the male doctor who treated them.
Thanks to the atom bomb, the war ended before Mom graduated and she never had to tend casualties from an invasion of Japan.
Graduation, Career and Marriage
Mom graduated as a Registered Nurse in 1947. Shortly thereafter, she moved back to New Haven and started in the neo-natology ward at St. Raphael Hospital but left when procedural disputes between the woman running the unit and the sister in charge of the department created stress and dysfunction for all the nurses. Mom became a PRN (where needed) nurse at Yale-New Haven Hospital which at least had the advantage of never being routine.
Marshall Rosinus, who Mom had known since childhood from school and church functions, was discharged from the Army Air Force after the war and returned to West Haven. He worked for the New Haven Water Company for a while and, with a friend, would hitchhike to Hartford to visit Mom and the friend's girlfriend (also a nursing student and also a friend of Mom. The world was a smaller place back then).
(At some point, Marshall ran off on a very short lived and ill-advised marriage to someone named Rita. Mom never spoke or wrote one word about it but Dad mentioned it to me once, and I have found a Florida divorce record for them. Who she was, how they met and when (or why) they married I have not been able to determine. The divorce was recorded in Dade County in 1949. The same year Mom and Dad married.)
In 1949 Mom and Dad married in the First Congregational Church, West Haven, Connecticut. Mom was 29 and Dad 31. Mom's dress was home made and everyone was relieved when they caught her two-year-old nephew, Gerald Parsons, before he could take a pair of large shears to it while it hung on the door before the service. Gerald's older brother Douglas (four+) was ring bearer.
Since they were both older, they decided to try for children right away but had no luck. Dad went first for a check-up and then Mom but there were no physical reasons holding them back and finally the doctor just told them to forget about it and relax. That advice worked. That, and Mom managed to change shifts at the hospital.
One of their favorite pastimes was horseback riding, once Mom got used to the beasts, and they rode together on weekends right up until Dad discovered the Connecticut Governor's Horse Guard, Company B, and Mom discovered she was pregnant.
The Later War Years
The School of Nursing, in 1944, was housed in Hartford Hospital, a very large Victorian house, complete with free-flying bat, on Jefferson Street in Hartford. Students and faculty frequently chased the bat without success over the years. Standards of hygiene were . . . different . . . back then.
When patients checked out (men on one floor, women on another and surgery on still another) the beds were stripped down to the springs which the nursing students scrubbed with toothbrushes. When the beds were remade, sheets had to be cornered just so and the open ends of pillow cases were never to face the door. Nursing students poured and counted prescribed meds (with supervision).
Nursing school was not all work. It was here Mom learned to swim underwater and dive in the residence pool, two things she could never do as a child due to the mastoid infections. Because there was a war on, the local movie theaters held morning showings to accommodate shift workers, including student nurses. Mom was also selected to be editor-in-chief of the yearbook sophomore year. Her only really negative experience was coming down, along with twenty or so fellow students, with a serious case of food poisoning. They were all treated to a course of the new wonder drug penicillin, 500,000 units every four hours injected in the buttocks. Fortunately, all the girls had a crush on the male doctor who treated them.
Thanks to the atom bomb, the war ended before Mom graduated and she never had to tend casualties from an invasion of Japan.
Graduation, Career and Marriage
Mom graduated as a Registered Nurse in 1947. Shortly thereafter, she moved back to New Haven and started in the neo-natology ward at St. Raphael Hospital but left when procedural disputes between the woman running the unit and the sister in charge of the department created stress and dysfunction for all the nurses. Mom became a PRN (where needed) nurse at Yale-New Haven Hospital which at least had the advantage of never being routine.
Marshall Rosinus, who Mom had known since childhood from school and church functions, was discharged from the Army Air Force after the war and returned to West Haven. He worked for the New Haven Water Company for a while and, with a friend, would hitchhike to Hartford to visit Mom and the friend's girlfriend (also a nursing student and also a friend of Mom. The world was a smaller place back then).
(At some point, Marshall ran off on a very short lived and ill-advised marriage to someone named Rita. Mom never spoke or wrote one word about it but Dad mentioned it to me once, and I have found a Florida divorce record for them. Who she was, how they met and when (or why) they married I have not been able to determine. The divorce was recorded in Dade County in 1949. The same year Mom and Dad married.)
In 1949 Mom and Dad married in the First Congregational Church, West Haven, Connecticut. Mom was 29 and Dad 31. Mom's dress was home made and everyone was relieved when they caught her two-year-old nephew, Gerald Parsons, before he could take a pair of large shears to it while it hung on the door before the service. Gerald's older brother Douglas (four+) was ring bearer.
Since they were both older, they decided to try for children right away but had no luck. Dad went first for a check-up and then Mom but there were no physical reasons holding them back and finally the doctor just told them to forget about it and relax. That advice worked. That, and Mom managed to change shifts at the hospital.
One of their favorite pastimes was horseback riding, once Mom got used to the beasts, and they rode together on weekends right up until Dad discovered the Connecticut Governor's Horse Guard, Company B, and Mom discovered she was pregnant.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Three
Mom, A Life: Part Two
The Pre- and Early War Years
In 1938, before the war started, Mom and her sister, Shirley, experienced what they thought was a huge windstorm, what's known in New England as a Nor'easter. They saw huge trees fall and went outside across the street to the bluff overlooking the beach where a twenty-five foot storm surge had brought the ocean to within five feet of their perch. The young man who would later marry Mom was out working, delivering groceries. There being no storm forecasts in those days, it was only after the fact that anyone knew they'd been through the most destructive hurricane in the 20th Century to hit Long Island and parts of Connecticut further west.
In 1939 Mom had the chance to visit her Uncle George Matthieu in Newport News, Virginia. Uncle George had married into the family when he met Mom's Aunt Eula at a medical facility in Louisiana where she was a nurse and he'd been sent to recover after being gassed in World War I. They'd moved to Connecticut but the Depression was on and as the government geared up for war Uncle George found work as a pattern maker for the Navy. Mom's family drove to Virginia in their 1933 Hudson, a three day trip averaging 35 miles per hour and staying overnight in roadside cabins, the precursors to motels, for $3.00 per night for the entire family, including Grandma Davis. Some of the cabins even had indoor plumbing. It was in Virginia that Mom ate her first fresh fig, plucked right from the tree. They stayed for a week and then drove home for three days again.
Mom had always wanted to be a nurse, maybe because of the other nurses in the family or maybe because of her extensive exposure to the medical profession with her repeated operations as a child. The problem was, the tuition was $300, which, during the Depression, as she said, "might as well have been $3 million." So, instead, she went to work as a lab assistant for the Chief of Ophthalmology at Yale, for $20 a week.
As World War II approached, the federal government set up the Nurse Cadet Corps in anticipation of future needs. The Cadet Corps not only paid the tuition but gave the girls a stipend to live on. Her boss encouraged Mom to sign up but she had to take extra classes first in math, trigonometry and chemistry. Fortunately for her, they let her substitute her French for the Latin she never took in school. She took the classes while she continued working.
By then the war had started. Mom's brother, Chester, immediately enlisted in the Marines rather than wait to be drafted. He disappeared into the Marine Corps and no one in the family knew where he was until they received a notice saying he was recovering from being wounded on Iwo Jima. Mom's mother was frantic but apparently the wound was relatively minor.
Marshall Rosinus, the boy Mom would eventually marry, enlisted in the Air Force, or rather tried to. He had to make three attempts, because of some irregularity in his eyes, before they would take him and even then he spent the war stateside as a recruiting sergeant on college campuses.
Mom was accepted to Hartford Hospital School of Nursing in 1944 for the class of '47. All the other girls were 18 year olds fresh out of high school. Mom was 25.
The Pre- and Early War Years
In 1938, before the war started, Mom and her sister, Shirley, experienced what they thought was a huge windstorm, what's known in New England as a Nor'easter. They saw huge trees fall and went outside across the street to the bluff overlooking the beach where a twenty-five foot storm surge had brought the ocean to within five feet of their perch. The young man who would later marry Mom was out working, delivering groceries. There being no storm forecasts in those days, it was only after the fact that anyone knew they'd been through the most destructive hurricane in the 20th Century to hit Long Island and parts of Connecticut further west.
In 1939 Mom had the chance to visit her Uncle George Matthieu in Newport News, Virginia. Uncle George had married into the family when he met Mom's Aunt Eula at a medical facility in Louisiana where she was a nurse and he'd been sent to recover after being gassed in World War I. They'd moved to Connecticut but the Depression was on and as the government geared up for war Uncle George found work as a pattern maker for the Navy. Mom's family drove to Virginia in their 1933 Hudson, a three day trip averaging 35 miles per hour and staying overnight in roadside cabins, the precursors to motels, for $3.00 per night for the entire family, including Grandma Davis. Some of the cabins even had indoor plumbing. It was in Virginia that Mom ate her first fresh fig, plucked right from the tree. They stayed for a week and then drove home for three days again.
Mom had always wanted to be a nurse, maybe because of the other nurses in the family or maybe because of her extensive exposure to the medical profession with her repeated operations as a child. The problem was, the tuition was $300, which, during the Depression, as she said, "might as well have been $3 million." So, instead, she went to work as a lab assistant for the Chief of Ophthalmology at Yale, for $20 a week.
As World War II approached, the federal government set up the Nurse Cadet Corps in anticipation of future needs. The Cadet Corps not only paid the tuition but gave the girls a stipend to live on. Her boss encouraged Mom to sign up but she had to take extra classes first in math, trigonometry and chemistry. Fortunately for her, they let her substitute her French for the Latin she never took in school. She took the classes while she continued working.
By then the war had started. Mom's brother, Chester, immediately enlisted in the Marines rather than wait to be drafted. He disappeared into the Marine Corps and no one in the family knew where he was until they received a notice saying he was recovering from being wounded on Iwo Jima. Mom's mother was frantic but apparently the wound was relatively minor.
Marshall Rosinus, the boy Mom would eventually marry, enlisted in the Air Force, or rather tried to. He had to make three attempts, because of some irregularity in his eyes, before they would take him and even then he spent the war stateside as a recruiting sergeant on college campuses.
Mom was accepted to Hartford Hospital School of Nursing in 1944 for the class of '47. All the other girls were 18 year olds fresh out of high school. Mom was 25.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Coincidences
Since Mom's death the two amaryllis and one desert rose, some of Mom's favorite plants, which have not bloomed in years, have suddenly all blossomed forth with multiple flowers.
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Amaryllis (above), Desert Rose (right)
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Amaryllis (above), Desert Rose (right)
Monday, April 9, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Two
Mom, A Life: Part One
The Great Depression (continued)
Mom is unclear on when the May Day celebrations, including dancing around the Maypole, stopped. It was a school thing, most likely elementary school. She mentions a teacher running the thing and the embarrassment of the boys who ad to participate. The girls, if she is to be believed, loved it.
Much more acceptable to boys and girls alike were the Saturday matinees at the two movie theaters in town where 10c bought a double feature (maybe Hoot Gibson or Charlie Chaplin) and a free comic book on the way out. The Mohican Market, the local grocery, had penny sales: buy one pound of ground beef for 29c and get the second for a penny, one apple pie for 15c, the second for a penny. And if your timing was good the butcher would give away soup bones and spare ribs (often with meat on them) that were otherwise going to be trashed.
Every week the family, Mom, her sister, brother and parents, would drive out to Mom's maternal grandparent's farm for Sunday dinner which was invariably one of grandpa's chickens. He'd kill it and drain it just before they arrived and the girls would help dip the bird in hot water to loosen the feathers for plucking. They'd pick vegetables from the garden and, voila!, Sunday dinner. They also helped pick dandelions and elderberries for grandpa's homemade wine.
Grandpa had a cellar workshop where he created an entire working Christmas village with lighted houses, skiing skiers, skating skaters, sledding sledders and sawing sawyers all operated by a complicated serious of gears and pulleys and a motor hidden beneath the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree turned, too. Unfortunately, Grandpa hanged himself down in that workshop one day in 1933. Mom made no reference to whether some aspect of The Depression economy had brought him down or if it was something psychological but unrelated.
The family would make homemade root beer which the girls would sell at a sidewalk stand and Mom's mom would bake German cinnamon rolls which the girls would put in their wagon and sell around the neighborhood for 25c per dozen. They made their first acquaintance with margarine around 1937 and Mom's mom used it in her baking although she would never admit to it.
In high school, Mom was on the girls' gymnastic team and lettered on the varsity basketball team where she played guard. Eventually she was certified by the state to referee. She learned to drive stick on the family's 1933 Hudson.
The Great Depression (continued)
Mom is unclear on when the May Day celebrations, including dancing around the Maypole, stopped. It was a school thing, most likely elementary school. She mentions a teacher running the thing and the embarrassment of the boys who ad to participate. The girls, if she is to be believed, loved it.
Much more acceptable to boys and girls alike were the Saturday matinees at the two movie theaters in town where 10c bought a double feature (maybe Hoot Gibson or Charlie Chaplin) and a free comic book on the way out. The Mohican Market, the local grocery, had penny sales: buy one pound of ground beef for 29c and get the second for a penny, one apple pie for 15c, the second for a penny. And if your timing was good the butcher would give away soup bones and spare ribs (often with meat on them) that were otherwise going to be trashed.
Every week the family, Mom, her sister, brother and parents, would drive out to Mom's maternal grandparent's farm for Sunday dinner which was invariably one of grandpa's chickens. He'd kill it and drain it just before they arrived and the girls would help dip the bird in hot water to loosen the feathers for plucking. They'd pick vegetables from the garden and, voila!, Sunday dinner. They also helped pick dandelions and elderberries for grandpa's homemade wine.
Grandpa had a cellar workshop where he created an entire working Christmas village with lighted houses, skiing skiers, skating skaters, sledding sledders and sawing sawyers all operated by a complicated serious of gears and pulleys and a motor hidden beneath the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree turned, too. Unfortunately, Grandpa hanged himself down in that workshop one day in 1933. Mom made no reference to whether some aspect of The Depression economy had brought him down or if it was something psychological but unrelated.
The family would make homemade root beer which the girls would sell at a sidewalk stand and Mom's mom would bake German cinnamon rolls which the girls would put in their wagon and sell around the neighborhood for 25c per dozen. They made their first acquaintance with margarine around 1937 and Mom's mom used it in her baking although she would never admit to it.
In high school, Mom was on the girls' gymnastic team and lettered on the varsity basketball team where she played guard. Eventually she was certified by the state to referee. She learned to drive stick on the family's 1933 Hudson.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part One
The Roaring '20s
Woodrow Wilson was president. The average wage was $15-$20 per week. Rent (3BR, 1B) was $25 per month. Despite the availability of electricity, the house was heated by a coal-burning kitchen stove which was never allowed to go out. Coal was bought a ton at a time and delivered to the cellar in 80lb. bags. Gasoline was 5 gallons for $1.00.
Mom was born in West Haven, Connecticut, a suburb of New Haven, in a "private surgery" in a Victorian house, delivered, apparently, by a Dr. Henry Rodgers, the second (living) child and eldest (living) daughter of Charles Chester Davis and Fredericka (Freda) Farr. (Charles' and Freda's first-born daughter died in infancy.) Mom was born Katherine May Davis on June 7, 1920. She was originally supposed to be "Frances" after a grandmother but was named for an aunt instead. She hated her middle name, and especially being called "Katie May" as a child, so never used it and went by Katherine Davis Rosinus (unhyphenated) once she married.
She had an older brother, Chester a.k.a "Chet," and a kid sister, Shirley with whom she shared not just a bedroom but a bed. Her father, Charles, was originally an auto mechanic although sometime in the 1920s he became a motorman on the New Haven streetcar system which was lucky since it proved to be a steady job throughout the Depression.
Her mother, Freda, worked, after she was widowed, as a hosiery buyer for the W. T. Grant department store. (I remember, as a child, visiting her there with Mom, where she showed off the ladies' dress gloves.) Freda met Charles when they both worked in a different department store owned by Charles' father.
When Mom was four, she had her tonsils removed. Her tonsillectomy, however, was not done in hospital. Back then doctors made house calls, even for surgeries and Mom had her tonsils out at home, on the kitchen table.
Her parents got her into her pajamas, the doctor came over with his nurse anesthetist, and they laid her out on the table which had been covered with pillows and padding. The nurse put a wire cage type mask over her face and covered that with a cloth laced with ether. She woke up without tonsils but with the promise of ice cream.
Mom suffered from mastoid infections throughout her childhood and underwent four operations at ages, 7, 9, 10 and 13. All were performed in hospital.
West Haven was home to Savin Rock, a shoreline amusement park agglomeration of carnival-type games, rides, roller coasters, food vendors and a long fishing pier with a restaurant on it. Mom's grandmother would come into town once a year for a "shore dinner" consisting of chowder, lobster, little neck clams, corn, potatoes, salad, rolls and dessert. Price $1.00. One year the roller coaster, made entirely of wood, went up in a spectacular blaze. Charles, who it seems was something of a fire-bug, bundled up the kids in the middle of the night and drove down to Savin Rock so they could all watch. The fire was way beyond the capabilities of the fire department and the coaster, part of which looped out over the ocean, burned to the ground.
There was a balloon factory across the street from Mom's house but it went out of business sometime in the late twenties and was torn down in 1928 or '29. Mom and her sister would go into the empty field to pick wild strawberries for themselves and greens for their pet rabbits.
The Great Depression
Mom was nine when the market crashed. As a kid the Depression never hit her as hard as it did the adults in her life. Fortunately, her dad kept his job with the Connecticut Company as a trolley motorman. In fact, he saved enough money that the family, which had been renting until now, could afford to buy a house of their own. The downside was the girls could not keep their pet rabbits at the new location and gave them to the neighbors before moving only to find out the neighbors rather enjoyed a good rabbit stew.
Despite being employed, money was still tight. Charles owned a metal cobbler's last upon which he repaired the family shoes. Replacement half-soles were available at the local five-and-dime store. Ladies from the Eastern Star came by one day with food donations but Freda informed them in no uncertain terms that "we can take care of our own." Mom played basketball (guard) in school and triangle in the school band.
(It was around this time that Mom's future husband brought home to his mother one of the first loaves of sliced bread offered in the area. She was furious considering it an insult implying she was too lazy to slice her own bread.)
Once a year the church youth groups would all pile onto special trolleys for a day-trip to Double Beach in Branford with singing, dancing, swimming and picnicking. Literally hundreds of laughing, screaming, crying kids of all ages plus their parents/chaperons took part and Mom wondered why her father never volunteered for that run.
One winter in the mid-1930s, New Haven harbor froze over from shore to shore. If not for a shipping channel cut through the ice it would have been possible to skate across the entire harbor. Charles took his kids as far out from the West Haven side as they could manage.
(In a true "Christmas Story" moment, Mom came home one afternoon to find her mother bashing her brother Chet's BB gun to useless shards and screaming, "You'll never see another gun again!" He had shot himself in the finger. Chet later became a Marine and was wounded at Iwo Jima.)
Hallowe'en in the '30s was almost entirely tricks and very few treats. The tricks were mostly innocent (depending on the age of the perpetrators): ringing doorbells and running, peppering victims with spitballs and peashooters, and the responses usually consisted of being chased with brooms and doused with buckets of water. The older kids could get creative, however, including disassembling fencing and wagons and reassembling them elsewhere (with the favorite place for vehicles being the roofs of barns and garages).
Mom had already graduated high school and was working edging lenses and assembling eyeglasses for a local optometrist when news of Pearl Harbor came.
To be continued . . .
Woodrow Wilson was president. The average wage was $15-$20 per week. Rent (3BR, 1B) was $25 per month. Despite the availability of electricity, the house was heated by a coal-burning kitchen stove which was never allowed to go out. Coal was bought a ton at a time and delivered to the cellar in 80lb. bags. Gasoline was 5 gallons for $1.00.
Mom was born in West Haven, Connecticut, a suburb of New Haven, in a "private surgery" in a Victorian house, delivered, apparently, by a Dr. Henry Rodgers, the second (living) child and eldest (living) daughter of Charles Chester Davis and Fredericka (Freda) Farr. (Charles' and Freda's first-born daughter died in infancy.) Mom was born Katherine May Davis on June 7, 1920. She was originally supposed to be "Frances" after a grandmother but was named for an aunt instead. She hated her middle name, and especially being called "Katie May" as a child, so never used it and went by Katherine Davis Rosinus (unhyphenated) once she married.
She had an older brother, Chester a.k.a "Chet," and a kid sister, Shirley with whom she shared not just a bedroom but a bed. Her father, Charles, was originally an auto mechanic although sometime in the 1920s he became a motorman on the New Haven streetcar system which was lucky since it proved to be a steady job throughout the Depression.
Her mother, Freda, worked, after she was widowed, as a hosiery buyer for the W. T. Grant department store. (I remember, as a child, visiting her there with Mom, where she showed off the ladies' dress gloves.) Freda met Charles when they both worked in a different department store owned by Charles' father.
When Mom was four, she had her tonsils removed. Her tonsillectomy, however, was not done in hospital. Back then doctors made house calls, even for surgeries and Mom had her tonsils out at home, on the kitchen table.
Her parents got her into her pajamas, the doctor came over with his nurse anesthetist, and they laid her out on the table which had been covered with pillows and padding. The nurse put a wire cage type mask over her face and covered that with a cloth laced with ether. She woke up without tonsils but with the promise of ice cream.
Mom suffered from mastoid infections throughout her childhood and underwent four operations at ages, 7, 9, 10 and 13. All were performed in hospital.
West Haven was home to Savin Rock, a shoreline amusement park agglomeration of carnival-type games, rides, roller coasters, food vendors and a long fishing pier with a restaurant on it. Mom's grandmother would come into town once a year for a "shore dinner" consisting of chowder, lobster, little neck clams, corn, potatoes, salad, rolls and dessert. Price $1.00. One year the roller coaster, made entirely of wood, went up in a spectacular blaze. Charles, who it seems was something of a fire-bug, bundled up the kids in the middle of the night and drove down to Savin Rock so they could all watch. The fire was way beyond the capabilities of the fire department and the coaster, part of which looped out over the ocean, burned to the ground.
There was a balloon factory across the street from Mom's house but it went out of business sometime in the late twenties and was torn down in 1928 or '29. Mom and her sister would go into the empty field to pick wild strawberries for themselves and greens for their pet rabbits.
The Great Depression
Mom was nine when the market crashed. As a kid the Depression never hit her as hard as it did the adults in her life. Fortunately, her dad kept his job with the Connecticut Company as a trolley motorman. In fact, he saved enough money that the family, which had been renting until now, could afford to buy a house of their own. The downside was the girls could not keep their pet rabbits at the new location and gave them to the neighbors before moving only to find out the neighbors rather enjoyed a good rabbit stew.
Despite being employed, money was still tight. Charles owned a metal cobbler's last upon which he repaired the family shoes. Replacement half-soles were available at the local five-and-dime store. Ladies from the Eastern Star came by one day with food donations but Freda informed them in no uncertain terms that "we can take care of our own." Mom played basketball (guard) in school and triangle in the school band.
(It was around this time that Mom's future husband brought home to his mother one of the first loaves of sliced bread offered in the area. She was furious considering it an insult implying she was too lazy to slice her own bread.)
Once a year the church youth groups would all pile onto special trolleys for a day-trip to Double Beach in Branford with singing, dancing, swimming and picnicking. Literally hundreds of laughing, screaming, crying kids of all ages plus their parents/chaperons took part and Mom wondered why her father never volunteered for that run.
One winter in the mid-1930s, New Haven harbor froze over from shore to shore. If not for a shipping channel cut through the ice it would have been possible to skate across the entire harbor. Charles took his kids as far out from the West Haven side as they could manage.
(In a true "Christmas Story" moment, Mom came home one afternoon to find her mother bashing her brother Chet's BB gun to useless shards and screaming, "You'll never see another gun again!" He had shot himself in the finger. Chet later became a Marine and was wounded at Iwo Jima.)
Hallowe'en in the '30s was almost entirely tricks and very few treats. The tricks were mostly innocent (depending on the age of the perpetrators): ringing doorbells and running, peppering victims with spitballs and peashooters, and the responses usually consisted of being chased with brooms and doused with buckets of water. The older kids could get creative, however, including disassembling fencing and wagons and reassembling them elsewhere (with the favorite place for vehicles being the roofs of barns and garages).
Mom had already graduated high school and was working edging lenses and assembling eyeglasses for a local optometrist when news of Pearl Harbor came.
To be continued . . .
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Continuing Bureaucracy of Civilized Death (Now With Sweet Tea From the NASCAR Bar)
Mom's memorial service was Friday. On Saturday we picked up her ashes from the cremation society and delivered them to the cemetery. She will be interred on Tuesday.
The memorial service was held at the local Congregational church Mom and Dad had joined years ago and as far as I know never attended. At least, I know Mom never went after Dad's service fourteen years ago; they might have attended during the first few years. The minister, who was not there for Dad's service, found their names in the church records so all was well. A few of Mom's friends who live nearby and are capable of getting around came as did cousins from the Atlantic side of the state. Afterwards, almost everyone came back to the house where friends of my brother who own a NASCAR themed racing bar delivered lasagna, salad and two jugs of iced tea, sweetened and not. We mixed the teas together to forestall the diabetic coma that would have resulted from anyone drinking the sweet stuff and everyone sat around going through family pictures.
Saturday morning my brother, my Other Brother and I picked up Mom's ashes. We had to sign a number of receipts, chain-of-custody acknowledgements and permissions (including one allowing us to take her across state lines even though we were only going to take her across the river). Her temporary transportation urn had a metal seal on it to be broken only by the funeral home. This was placed in a box which was put in a bag which we took in the car for the six mile trip to the cemetery. Once there, we had to sign another stack of acknowledgements claiming the right as next of kin to be doing what we were doing, the contract for disposition of Mom's ashes and the purchase order for her personalized brick to be placed next to Dad's.
And then when Mom was legally out of our custody and her interment scheduled (subject to rain delay but the forecast is favorable) the three of us went over to the NASCAR racing bar to say thanks for the catering job and have lunch.
The memorial service was held at the local Congregational church Mom and Dad had joined years ago and as far as I know never attended. At least, I know Mom never went after Dad's service fourteen years ago; they might have attended during the first few years. The minister, who was not there for Dad's service, found their names in the church records so all was well. A few of Mom's friends who live nearby and are capable of getting around came as did cousins from the Atlantic side of the state. Afterwards, almost everyone came back to the house where friends of my brother who own a NASCAR themed racing bar delivered lasagna, salad and two jugs of iced tea, sweetened and not. We mixed the teas together to forestall the diabetic coma that would have resulted from anyone drinking the sweet stuff and everyone sat around going through family pictures.
Saturday morning my brother, my Other Brother and I picked up Mom's ashes. We had to sign a number of receipts, chain-of-custody acknowledgements and permissions (including one allowing us to take her across state lines even though we were only going to take her across the river). Her temporary transportation urn had a metal seal on it to be broken only by the funeral home. This was placed in a box which was put in a bag which we took in the car for the six mile trip to the cemetery. Once there, we had to sign another stack of acknowledgements claiming the right as next of kin to be doing what we were doing, the contract for disposition of Mom's ashes and the purchase order for her personalized brick to be placed next to Dad's.
And then when Mom was legally out of our custody and her interment scheduled (subject to rain delay but the forecast is favorable) the three of us went over to the NASCAR racing bar to say thanks for the catering job and have lunch.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
The Bureaucracy of Civilized Death
When I found Mom Monday morning it was obvious to me that she was gone. Nevertheless, I called 911 and not the regular police line. That was apparently the correct thing to do. Within minutes two EMTs and two police officers showed up. The EMTs went in to check on Mom while the officers asked about time of death/discovery and whether or not she had a DNR on file. The officers also made it politely clear that they were there for the duration.
I could not find Mom's living will or the official Do Not Resuscitate form (which we had not yet posted on the refrigerator per doctor's suggestion because, really, who expected it would happen so soon?) but after a couple of minutes the EMTs came out and said it wouldn't be necessary right now because there was nothing they could do for her anyway although I would probably need it soon or the Medical Examiner might refuse to release her to the cremation society. Everybody wanted to see a photo ID of Mom, her Social Security number and some other vital statistics like birthday, medications and such.
I called the cremation society and gave them Mom's member/contract number which she always kept in her wallet. They said their people would arrive in about forty-five minutes. My brother came home and the police asked him a couple of questions and warned him not to touch anything before letting him see Mom. The EMTs had already moved her to the floor.
The grief counselor arrived and the EMTs left. It was well choreographed. The police stood around. The grief counselor had a checklist of things we needed to remember to do such as canceling Mom's health insurance and Social Security. The Medical Examiner called the police and told them it was O.K. to release the body after which they became noticeably friendlier. Not that they were unfriendly, but they relaxed a bit after the call. Apparently, because of Mom's age, the ME decided our lack of paperwork was not a hindrance. Right after that my brother found the living will and DNR (right where they were supposed to be) but nobody was interested any more.
Two gentlemen in suitably somber attire arrived from the cremation society and we were advised to wait outside while they put Mom on the gurney (because, they did not say, the turn from her room into the hallway was too narrow for the gurney to fit into her room and they didn't want us to see them manhandling her onto it in the hall. That was fine with us).
After that we were allowed back in to say our final goodbyes to her there on the gurney before they wheeled her down the driveway and into their station wagon. The grief counselor gave us her card and left. The police gave us their cards and left.
The cat came out from wherever she'd been hiding and she and my brother and I just stood in the driveway under the warm sunlight and fluffy clouds for a while. The system had been so efficient there didn't seem to be anything else for us to do just then.
I could not find Mom's living will or the official Do Not Resuscitate form (which we had not yet posted on the refrigerator per doctor's suggestion because, really, who expected it would happen so soon?) but after a couple of minutes the EMTs came out and said it wouldn't be necessary right now because there was nothing they could do for her anyway although I would probably need it soon or the Medical Examiner might refuse to release her to the cremation society. Everybody wanted to see a photo ID of Mom, her Social Security number and some other vital statistics like birthday, medications and such.
I called the cremation society and gave them Mom's member/contract number which she always kept in her wallet. They said their people would arrive in about forty-five minutes. My brother came home and the police asked him a couple of questions and warned him not to touch anything before letting him see Mom. The EMTs had already moved her to the floor.
The grief counselor arrived and the EMTs left. It was well choreographed. The police stood around. The grief counselor had a checklist of things we needed to remember to do such as canceling Mom's health insurance and Social Security. The Medical Examiner called the police and told them it was O.K. to release the body after which they became noticeably friendlier. Not that they were unfriendly, but they relaxed a bit after the call. Apparently, because of Mom's age, the ME decided our lack of paperwork was not a hindrance. Right after that my brother found the living will and DNR (right where they were supposed to be) but nobody was interested any more.
Two gentlemen in suitably somber attire arrived from the cremation society and we were advised to wait outside while they put Mom on the gurney (because, they did not say, the turn from her room into the hallway was too narrow for the gurney to fit into her room and they didn't want us to see them manhandling her onto it in the hall. That was fine with us).
After that we were allowed back in to say our final goodbyes to her there on the gurney before they wheeled her down the driveway and into their station wagon. The grief counselor gave us her card and left. The police gave us their cards and left.
The cat came out from wherever she'd been hiding and she and my brother and I just stood in the driveway under the warm sunlight and fluffy clouds for a while. The system had been so efficient there didn't seem to be anything else for us to do just then.
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