Changes and other things

We aren't accustomed to old-fashioned winters. It seems like this has been one of them. There was a snow day for school children last week. And tomorrow and into next week we have a forecast for the 50s and 60s. Hopefully from now on. It's time to think about flower and vegetable gardens.

I can remember when Dad thought if you planted flowers, that was a terrible waste of money. But Mom planted her roses, begonias, petunias--whatever she wanted to look at for that summer. When the new garage went up, the elderberry bush and the lilac bush, a couple of the symbols of my very young years--those kinds of things that trigger memories--were disposed of.

We moved to Spruce Street when I was 4 years old. Mom grew up in that neighborhood. The backyard overflowed with flowers. I don't know what happened to them. Perhaps Dad mowed them down when he cut the grass.

Seasons change. Years pass. Even if we can't see the subtle changes, we age a tiny bit each day. We slowly adapt to the events that pass through our lives, adjust to the empty places that are impossible to fill yet we become involved with distractions that help us to heal from our losses and grow a little wiser, Sometimes, not so wise.

The thing is, we need to believe in something bigger than ourselves, not to sidestep reality but to improve it and the quality of life. Quality of life isn't measured in possessions. It is how we react to the events that impact us, how we process them and cope.

I just read something. Let me share it with you...

"A trust in God, the Creator, tends to alleviate stress, because it implies that he who is the Creator can handle any and all problems that may be leading to a stressful situation upon both the body and the mind...studies...show that people who have a faith in God, or even religious faith in general do better in situations of sickness and disease, and that overall improvement is associated with their faith and with prayer." 

The Biblical Foundations of Wellness

by Keith M. Henry ND 
See here

In my most challenging moments my mind automatically goes into conversation with God. Sometimes I consciously think, "I cannot find the words to say what I am feeling. Please understand without my words." 

My thoughts are brought forward from memories of the wisdoms of my mother and grandmothers and great aunts, for I was raised matrilinially. Yet patriarchy ruled. As long as I remember the women who raised me and the lessons they taught me, they will be alive for me, speak to me. And I will speak for them, stand for them, because society, their societies, would not allow them to speak unless they were willing to put in peril their good breeding, their social position.

Times have changed, but that has always been the case since the first humans settled in one place and began to collect possessions. 

(c) 2013 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved. Permission to use this or any other article in this blog is required and may be requested from the author. THIS MEANS YOU because I know there are unscrupulous people who believe that anything that appears on the Internet is free use for all. A link to this blog also is required when it IS used. 

I'm Thinking

It's raining. Such a different day than we experienced four years ago, the day Dad left this world. On the hillside behind Mary's house the evergreens and sleeping deciduous trees of various kinds wave to me. It is cold enough to chill me so I have plugged in the little electric heater to warm my feet. This is likely the warmest room in the house.

I'm thinking about changes that need to be made. Changes already made. Change that occurs constantly in our lives.

I'm thinking about life and death, living and dying—and simply floating along.

I'm thinking about what I read about the stages of a woman's life...Virgin, Mother, Crone. At the crone stage, women make a huge choice: will they accept or change the way they are living at this moment?

I'm thinking about the lives of my ancestors and the lives of my children and grandchildren from this sandwich position I am in. And I'm pondering about how our lives, our generations overlap, how we influence each others lives.

I'm thinking about how different everything is four years after my father's passing and 19 months after Mom's passing.

© 2013 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this blog or blog entry may be used without the written consent of the author.

Evolving

Evolution: 1.) A set of prescribed movements (as in a dance.) 2.) a process of change in a particular direction. 3.) ...plants and animals descended from others with the differences due to inherited changes that occurred over many generations. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary.)

She always did the best she knew how. She encouraged her children to do the same. The horrors of Mom's Alzheimered mind have left faded memories now. Mostly I recall the good moments we shared, her hugs, her encouragement, things like, "You have done so much with your life." She was my #1 fan. And it's unlikely that I would have achieved as much as I have (and there is so much more for me to do!) if it weren't for her pushing me, urging me to try: "What's the worst that can happen?"

Did she see things I couldn't see? I recall her stories from her feminine perspective. Was she a feminist? 

 Feminism: 1.) theory of the political, economic and social equality of the sexes. 2.) organized activity on behalf of women's rights and interests.

"You can do anything you want to do if you are willing to do the work it requires to get there." I believe she was telling me that my biology did not restrict me. How I perceive myself is what will restrict me.

She also understood that no matter how far society has come in recognizing the true value of women, this is still a man's world and there is a lot of work still to be done.

Her father told her, "You don't need a career. You're going to marry a man who will take care of you for the rest of your life." He died when Mom was 17 and her mother was 49. My grandmother lived to the age of 84.

Patriarch(y): 1.) a man revered as father or founder; a venerable old man; an eccleisiastical dignitary (clergyman.) 

Matriarch(y): 1.) a woman who rules or dominates the family, group or state.

I was raised in a matriarchy under patriarchy. Where were the male role models in my life? I was influenced by my mother, my grandmothers, a great grandmother and great aunts. Only one man in the family stepped forward when I was 14 and he realized my need, my mother's cousin, "Sonny." He came to our house nearly every evening. He always took time to talk to me, to encourage me, to joke and laugh with me, God bless him!

Why am I speaking of these things? Because now, with all of my foremothers gone from this world I am the role model for the generations that follow me. I am seeking to know who I am and why I am. How can I go forward if I have any doubts at all about those two things? I don't have Alzheimer's, as far as I know. Please, God, I pray that never happens. I only hope I can be an encourager to my children and grandchildren as my mother was to all of us.

Thank you, Mom. I'm going to try my best not to let you down, not to drop the ball. There is work to be done. 

(c) 2013 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved. This means no use of any of my material without my expressed consent. That means, ask before you borrow. 

Family continues on

            My Brother #1 texted me. “Can Cathy come out to play?” Only he would be able to make me chuckle over a remark like that. Brother #1 has always been a Goodtime Charlie.

            I didn’t get that message right away. When I found it and texted back, “Hahahahahahahaha!” he asked why it was funny. Well, he was back home sitting on his front porch. Earlier he and his daughter were riding their bikes and were at my front door—which we NEVER use. Either I was in the kitchen putting groceries away or I hadn’t arrived home yet. He told me they might come around again later. And they did.

            We sat at the table on the patio. It used to be Mom’s glass top table. I brought it to my house. Eventually we got around to talking about Mom.

            “It’s hard to believe it was two years, five months and five days between when Dad died and when Mom passed away,” he said. “And in the same hour of the night!” He said he still hasn’t been up to her grave. He didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. It hasn’t been quite 10 months since Mom died. I know everyone grieves differently, takes different lengths of time. So, I don’t want to intrude on his feelings as he comes to grips with Mom’s passing. I guess I just want him to know he’s not alone. None of us who loved “Honey” is alone.

            I said, “Derf said as long as I’m alive Dad will never be dead,” I said.

            Brother #1 looked at me, appearing pretty doubtful about that. “No, you look like Mom. You act like Mom. As long as you are alive, Mom will never be dead. The older you get, the more like her you look!”

            That’s what my children said. Then another thought occurred to me and I nearly cried.

            “Does that upset anyone? That I look so much like Mom? Does it hurt everyone?” When I look in the mirror I often see Mom’s face looking back at me.

            “No,” Brother #1 answered. “It doesn’t.”

            We are our parents’ children, products of their union. Half of our genes come from our dad and half from our mom. And sometimes I say, “I hope I got Mom’s smart genes, but not her Alzheimer’s genes, and I hope I have Dad’s sharp brain to the end genes but not his chronic lung disease genes. I hope I got the best of both of them.” Well, I hope my brothers got the best, too. Brother #1 is two years younger than me. Brother #2 is seven-and-a-half years younger than me. Brother #2 said to me a number of years ago, “You have to live to 107-1/2 so you can attend my 100^th birthday party. Then we can die together.” That will be January 1, 2061. I don’t know why he even thought of it, but it meant a lot to me that he said it. It still does.

            I remember when Brother #2 was born. Dad came to Aunt Mary’s to get Brother #1 and me and bring us home. I saw that beautiful baby sleeping on a receiving blanket spread over the sofa. I claimed him immediately. I was 7-1/2 years old, a grown-up little person.

            I didn’t grow up with sisters. I always was protective of my brothers until Mom told me I needed to step back and not put my brothers in a position where they had to choose between their sister and their love interests, later their wives.

            It’s true. When we grow up we are still brothers and sisters, but we must respect our siblings and step out of their business. If they need our help, our siblings will ask for it.

            We’re older now. In two years, five months and five days, at the same wee hour, we lost both of our parents. Now there are the three of us and our families, and we strive to maintain the close ties, the close family ties, Mom inspired. Mom…the hummingbird.

(c) 2012 Cathy Thomas Brownfield


If you enjoyed reading this entry, please leave a comment. Come back to visit my family again as we work our way through our journey after Mom's Alzheimer's journey.

A Letter from My Heart

Dear Mom and Dad,

It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes. In 12 days, Dad, you will be gone three years. Did you listen to that nurse make the call to me? How I made sure everyone in the family was called to get there? Did you watch my speedometer as I pushed past 80 mph on Route 45? And you were already gone. I should have stayed with you that night.

And did you gather with Ashley, Beth, Christie and me as we sat in Beth’s living room drinking French vanilla cappuccino so none of us would be alone? And Leslie had taken off on foot to walk across Salem to her apartment. Richard and Dawn made sure she got there. And I wished she was with us at Beth’s house.

I was looking for a place to watch the sunrise with you that morning. The fairgrounds was not the highest point to watch the sun crack the horizon open. But I looked at the hillside. At the top, in the distance, was a row of trees. From one of the branches a single bird took wing. It traveled alone. I watched until it disappeared from sight, and I knew you were gone.

Ah, Dad. There were so many things I still wanted to talk about with you. I guess those things will have to wait…or maybe they don’t really matter all that much. There are only two things important: You loved me and I loved you…because you were Dad.

Mom, you’ve been gone 6-1/2 months. There are still moments when I think, “I should go see Mom today.” Or, “Mom would get a kick out of that.” Oh, how could it have slipped my mind that you were ready to move on to your next adventure.

Adventure. Do you remember telling me you woke up every morning and before you did anything else you talked to God and asked, “Lord, what wonderful adventure are we going to have today?”

It was my privilege and honor to be your daughter. I hope I have never ever caused either of you a moment’s humiliation, embarrassment or shame. Your respect for me was one of the most valuable gifts I ever earned.

Love,
Cathy

(c) 2012 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved

Missing Mom

I miss Mom. She's been gone almost six months. I could talk to her about anything. She wasn't domineering. We just got along very well, like best friends after I grew up, married and started my family. If I got in a jam, Mom was there to help me. If I wanted to go somewhere, she always said she just needed time enough to pack a bag and we could be on the way. We quilted our first quilts together. I don't think I could have done it without her. We made "cabbage patch" dolls for my daughters, Beth and Christie, and for ourselves. We did a lot of things together. If I was upset about something between my husband and me, I used Mom as a sounding board to make sure I was being fair to him. After all, my goals in marriage were to ALWAYS be a good wife.

In less than two hours time the world seems to have fallen apart. My world. It's been happening for a while. Mom and her two living brothers passed away in 2011: Uncle Ed at the end of February, Mom in August and Uncle Dale in early October. One of my adult children walked out of her marriage, nuf said. Now, another broken romance, my paycheck that for nearly 12 years has been direct deposited is no longer being direct deposited and nobody bothered to tell me about it so I don't get a payday today...and my husband gets his back up because I asked why he didn't do a menial task here and he's going to pack his stuff and leave. "Ya do what you have to do," I said. He's downstairs playing pool. I guess I'll have to fix the stupid window myself. Then I can go to Home Depot and find out how to run new water lines from the source to the water heater to the taps so I can have hot water in my kitchen after a year of living in the early 19th century instead of the 21st. And when the weather is warm enough I can get the materials and reroof the garage so it doesn't rain inside the garage as if it were outside. At this point I'm not sure why I have a man in my life.

My attitude needs a great adjustment. I am uncertain how to make that happen. And Mom is six months gone. I can go to her grave site and talk to her, but she isn't going to talk back to me. I am the matriarch now. And I don't have the answers we all need. Geez. How do I fix this?

Clarity

There are statements my mother made that struck me at the time she spoke them and now, months or years later those things still strike me. Perhaps I should write my mother's story for posterity, that is, for future generations. (I wish you could see the whiteout on the other side of my window as I type this.)

When I went back to college (2007-2009) I learned that "history" was the story more of "mankind" than "womankind." Often women have not been important enough to be mentioned by name, perhaps because of the shame of her actions that is being told? Or because someone is intimidated by her intelligence? Who knows for sure why women are less likely to be named in history? Of course, Cokie Roberts got my attention with her book, Founding Mothers: The Women Who Raised Our Nation.

Remember Lot's wife? She's the one who looked back and was turned to a pillar of salt. She didn't have a name. At least, she was not named in those scriptures.

And when you took history in public school, what did you learn about Benjamin Franklin? Did you know his wife's name was Debra? Did you know he went to Europe and lived as a diplomat for 12 years, never visiting Debra in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania USA where she oversaw his business ventures? That the only reason he returned then was because she was dead? You can read it in Cokie's book.

Women's stories DO need to be recorded for the generations of women who follow those women. How did women arrive at this modern moment in time? What did they have to suffer through simply to survive? What sacrifices did they make--have to make--to enable today's women to enjoy the opportunities that are available?

I don't know everything about Mom's life, but with my knowledge and with the assistance of recorded history, recorded herstory, perhaps I can create a composite of the chutzpah of women who have been dominated by patriarchy and rose above it. (My doctor tells me that "we don't live that way any more." I didn't say I agree with him.)

My mother did a lot of things, but she never realized the dreams she aspired to, was born to. Perhaps through me (her daughter), her granddaughters, the women who knew her, her dreams may be realized to some degree, to inspire the Self to strive for the greatest potential regardless of the biology of the body.

"You can do anything you want, achieve what you want, if you're willing to work hard to achieve it."

When did Mom become so tired? When did she realize there was no point in fighting any more because she wasn't ever going to win?

How can it be a complete white-out one moment, and just less than a second later the sun be shining and the red brick of the house across the street so sharply defined?

(c)2012 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All rights reserved.