Halloween, both a strange and wonderful tradition, conjures up mostly fond memories for me. Strange because the night before—Cabbage Night to us in New Jersey. Mischief Night to others—we smashed pumpkins, toilet-papered trees, shave-creamed front doors and egged everything in sight. And yet wonderful because the next evening we returned to those same houses—in disguise—said, “Trick or treat,” and collected a sweet reward. Since we did no serious damage, we felt no guilt.
Tag Archives: Eldercare
The First 6:00 am Wake Up Call
Mom called out my name, which was unusual. Early on, and more often than not, she forgot who I was—lending credence to my “Wiping Butt Causes Amnesia” theory. In any case, I jumped out of bed in my stocking feet and flew down the newly varnished and extremely slippery stairs. It’s a miracle I stayed right side up. I slid into her bedroom, my heart racing, my lungs gasping, only to find her in bed, wide awake, and perfectly calm.
Is That Your Picasso in the Outfield?
Springtime brought the birds, the bees, flowers, green grass, and the start of baseball season—a big deal in our house when I grew up. Dad was a Pony League coach, my two older brothers played, and in my youth, I attempted to. And while America’s pastime bonded most fathers and sons, it drove a wedge between Dad and me.
Eight Glasses
Mom wakes up all peppy. She waves her finger at me. Gen: I have not had one glass of water since I’ve been here. All they give me is that small glass with juice. Mark: I’m the “they” and I’ve tried to give you water, but you don’t like it. I’ll get you some now. Gen: Make it cold! I return with a glass. She guzzles it.) Gen: You’re supposed to drink eight glasses a day. Mark: Where did you hear that? Gen: I don’t know. A long time ago. Mark: Well, you’ve got seven more to go. Gen: (dismissing me with a wave) No thanks.
Salt, Pepper, and a Drop of Whiskey
My brother Michael, six years my senior, was the first to witness our mother’s unconditional love for the tiniest member of our family. In the late 1950s, we had plenty of cats, six by my count. So, when Mom brought home two baby mice—one white and one black—a perfectly reasonable question to ask would be, why? After all, this was enemy territory and Salt & Pepper, nothing but easy yet tasty prey. However, our cats were well-behaved and, in fact, welcomed the fresh additions with open paws, as did Michael. And so began his love affair with these furry little creatures.
Never Doubt a Mother’s Intuition
It’s not hard to empathize with others when you’ve experienced your own difficulties. I suffered from asthma as a child. Mom told me I nearly died at two years old. I remember many things, even at two, but I guess I blocked that near-death thing out. A combination of corticosteroid injections, suppositories, inhalers, and pills kept me breathing, and alive. And though wheezing and gasping for air was no fun, I did enjoy certain aspects of the disease. If an attack came in the middle of the night, Dad gave me piggyback rides in the dark. We traversed the living and dining rooms while I steered by tugging on his ears. Left, right. Right, left. My poor father kept this up until the medicine kicked in and I fell back asleep. But I fought hard to stay awake because I never wanted those rides to end.
Give Me a Break (excerpt 2)
During the darkest and most stressful moments in the snack food business, I often relied on my mantra. It also turned out to be quite useful in my new life as Mom’s caregiver. On the cusp of losing all hope, I didn’t go negative; I went positive. And if I said, “I love my job” over and over again, I just might believe it. If not, on to wine, preferably red, and plenty of it.
The Battle of the Dutch Door
The Dutch Door. Common in the Netherlands in the 17th century, Dutch settlers brought their split door to the United States, where it first appeared in rural houses in New York and New Jersey. Originally devised as an exterior door to keep children in and animals out, while allowing air and light to come and go. My dad’s homemade interior Dutch Door let air and light come and go but kept both children and pets out of the kitchen until we wiped our feet or cleaned our paws.
A Two-Year-Old Walks into a Bar
When I think of Mom, I think of shopping, and when I think of shopping, I think of Mom. They go hand in hand and remained faithful until her late eighties when her last credit card was snatched from her mighty grip. My earliest memory involved them both. At two years old, I tagged along on my first bargain hunting adventure. Her left hand held mine as her right rummaged through clothes racks at a feverish pace. I did my best to keep up, did my best to focus, but it didn’t take long for me to tire and desire to retire from this “shopping thing.” My sore back and aching feet along with my hunger to explore the unfamiliar world in my midst took over. And a momentary motherly lapse presented the perfect opportunity for me to slip free.
Our Champion of the Arts (excerpt)
I’d be hard-pressed to recall a dull moment growing up in Mom’s world, always full of surprises. Some welcome. Some, not so much. She kept herself and us busy. In between her shopping marathons and our various odds jobs, she took us on kid-friendly cultural jaunts in New York City, thirty minutes or thirty hours away depending on traffic. We’d visit Radio City Music Hall to see the latest Disney film and behold the Rockettes’ toes, in unison, pointing to the sky. Or we’d take in a Broadway play, hop on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, or cruise around Manhattan on the Circle Line. At the 1964 World’s Fair, I saw a “Jetson’s-style” future and heard for the first time but certainly not the last, “It’s A Small World After All.” And I have yet to get that damn song out of my head.