BRINGING IN THE PLANTS

First frost: bring in the plants. The dining room is now lined with blue planters: sweet peas, bush beans, carrots, lettuce, some sort of squash, radishes.  And over near the front door – hot peppers, tiny baby beets, leaves only an inch high, and Japanese eggplant.  Already, after only one day I’m attached to this indoor garden and don’t want it to return to the patio when the weather warms up. 

          Remaining in the patio is a giant flowering basil and Thai basil - way too fragrant to come inside, a scrawny, leafless cherry tomato that remarkably has four green fruits on a skinny stalk, purple cabbage which is purely decorative at this point, a profusion of Italian parsley and gorgeous yellow and red chard. These I’ve covered with the duvet cover my mother got from her French friend Josie, years ago.

          Today was the first day of in-home teaching. My adult students and I sat at the diningroom table with clear sunlight illuminating the greenery. I can’t explain now much I love absorbing their touching stories. The prompt was to write about a sibling, based on the poignant poem “Supple Chord” by Naomi Shihab Nye that I’ve been saving since I printed it out on May 26, 2007 (from American Life in Poetry Column 107). I am continually amazed at how willing my students are to pour out their hearts. I feel like a wizard – touching them with a wand. And how open they are to suggestions!  I always try to preface by saying, “this is just my opinion . . .”  I like when they agree with me, but secretly, I must say, I like it even better when they defend their writing – these who were novices just a few short months ago!

          John’s still miserable. His cold, or flu, has made a wreck out of him, poor dear.  He hacks and barks like a seal and slumps around the house looking pathetic.  I decided before my trip that I was not going to get sick. I took large doses of Vitamin B and stayed away from him.

          Now that I’ve been back from L.A. a week, I feel anchored again.  I wake up before dawn thinking about my cat and then within moments she jumps onto the bed and nuzzles me. Home is where the cat is.

          I loved today’s cold, frosty morning. The dog patiently waited as I put on a parka, scarf, hat, gloves and tucked my ear buds into my ears to keep out the cold and hear what’s going on in the world.   At 7:00 A.M. the streets were deserted. Nearly all the deciduous trees are bare. The air was extremely dry. I warmed up as I headed west with the blazing dawn sun on my back.

          I wish I could let Walter off his leash, let him run free like he did in Coarsegold. But we’re in a town now, so that won’t happen. This reminds me that there are always restrictions, we are never completely free.  I behave like the responsible law-abiding citizen I am, picking up poop, walking my dog on a leash. But there’s a part of me that’s the twenty-one-year old I was, naked at the spillway in Lagunitas . . . ah, maybe someday we’ll have a house with a private yard where I can once again be a nudist!

          Mother called me twice today. A little confused, but pretty lucid. This roller coaster of her being sane one day then out of it the next is tiring. I know it will get worse and eventually she’ll die and I’ll have to deal with what most of my friends have already gone through. But for tonight, it’s all about the plants, keeping them safe and warm, and this makes me very happy.

           

A SHORT SAD TRIP

          On Thursday I landed at LAX, rented a car and drove to Berkeley East where my mother had been recuperating from hip replacement a month ago. Lying in bed, covered with a blanket, wearing her darling blue cloche hat, her blue eyes seem even bluer. She said she was thrilled to see me, but never moved an inch. I didn’t know if she could move.

          I met her wonderful Korean caregiver, the only one of nine Comfort Keepers has provided over the last six months who has not been fired, although, she nearly quit a month ago because Mother was verbally so abusive. After pleading, and imploring, she’s stayed on, four days a week. The weekend has seen a variety of women who have all fallen short of Mother’s expectations.

          Mother surprised that I looked so good, kept repeating “I expected you to be too skinny!”

          I let her know I was here to “spring her from this joint,” move her into the lovely Ocean House for the next phase of her rehabilitation. When I left I found a $63 parking ticket on my windshield – I guess I didn’t read all the parking signs.

          The evening was uneventful in the cold, old Hightree house where the heat barely works. I put on several layers and cranked the heat up but even set at 75 it barely reached 68.  Heat is generated through copper pipes under the terrazzo. Since the water from the tap is lukewarm, my theory is that the water heater is set too low. But perhaps there is a separate system. Who knows.  Curtains are tattered, veneer on doors and cupboards is peeling, the ceiling around skylights is puckered and crumbling. 

          I opened a bottle of Chardonnay I’d bought at Pavilion’s on the way in, turned on a heater in Mother’s office so I could play my Facebook Scrabble games and went to bed early.

          The next day I called Mother’s weekend caregiver, who I had not yet met, to tell her I was on the way over to move Mother. When I arrived Mother, seated in a wheelchair with a tray of cold scrambled eggs before her said, “I’m freezing!”

          She had on thin linen slacks and a light long sleeved tee. I took off my sweater and wrapped it around her then went looking for the caregiver, who is very laid back and had not done any packing at all. I emptied drawers and tossed Mothers meager possessions into paper bags, went downstairs to sign release paperwork and after an hour or so, hit the road for the three-mile drive to Ocean House.

          Unfortunately Mother didn’t find the clean, pretty room we’d rented for her charming, at all.  She became upset that she was “suddenly on my own,” even though we explained that she would continue to have a twenty-four-hour “companion” plus the full time staff at Ocean House who are now considered her caregivers and will come whenever she presses the pager on her wrist.  

          “I have to get my own food!” she kept saying. No, Mother, food is provided,  I told her many times but she did not like the idea that she would not be waited on hand-and-foot, as she had been in the rehab hospital.

          I took her downstairs for lunch, which overlooks the ocean and we both had a delicious salmon salad – perfectly grilled fish with fresh greens, avocado and tomato.  I chatted with the charming Iranian maitre’d, in his crisp gray suit about international affairs.

          Afterward Mother complained that she doesn’t like people watching her eat – sometimes her hand shakes and she eats extremely slowly – so she wants meals in her room, which can be done but we, the family, want to encourage her to get out and be more social.  In my many visits to Ocean House I found both the staff and residents charming and friendly.

          I made two trips to the house, bringing the “commode”  - the toilet was too low – and other things.  In my absence, the companion’s roll-away bed was delivered, and she’d set it up so that Mother could not access the table. She also reeked of cigarettes.

          We received a “surprise” visit from her doctor – I’d called him and asked him to stop bym since Mother had it in her mind that he was the one to admit her to this new place.  He brought a little vase of roses from his garden, stayed five minutes and split.  But at least he showed up.

          Also done on Friday: nurse received the plastic bag of medications Mother takes – they will administer them now. I asked for a copy of the list and tucked it into my purse.  Quick tour of the facility – tenth floor has spectacular views of the ocean, north and south, an outdoor deck protected by glass, a grand piano, card room, screening room, library.

          “This is where I’ll be spending most of my time!” Mother said and I heaved a sigh of relief, thinking we had made a wise choice.

          I left Mother and her caregiver and returned to the house to send an email to the family about the days events and slept well for the first time in weeks, now that the Big Move had been accomplished.

          Things deteriorated after that and are somewhat of a blur. The gist of it is that Mother experienced a psychotic breakdown, brought on, I suspect by a bout of incontinence which is due to her chronic bladder infection.  A call to her doctor proved fruitless since he said “take an extra such-and-such pill” because, doing a little detective work, I discovered that the pills for this are not included in her medication list.  Her doctor’s recommendation – give her a sedative and if that doesn’t work, admit her to the psyche ward at UCLA.

          I was so furious at this point I decided to call a meeting: the caregiver agent, a representative of Ocean House, myself, my niece and Mother.   I placated Mother by telling the caregiver to please leave us alone, and tried to reach the agency to see if the Korean caregiver could start right away, not Monday morning.  

          I ordered room service for both of us – I needed food and lots of coffee for the meeting I had convened. The beautiful rubber tree outside her window shook in the lashing rain, as the five of us sat in a circle. I explained the situation, asked questions and recorded information about who exactly is in charge of what.

          Mother listened for a while and then, angry that we were talking about her, began a tirade:  this is the worst room I’ve ever been in, there is no food provided, my family doesn’t give a shit about me, etc.  My niece cried. I tried to counter with strength and conviction, telling her not to be so mean - because in the past when she’s gotten cuckoo I can usually back her down and get her to apologize. But not this time.  She ranted on I’ve been traumatized, I lost my husband unexpectedly, no one understands what I’m going through, etc.

          The Ocean House rep agreed that this display was most likely a result of her Urinary Tract Infection (UTI), but, being that it as Sunday there was no way to reach her urologist. I left an emergency message but got no call back.

          In the lobby I talked to the caregiver agent who said the family must back off – let him handle things. We keep getting sucked in to her insanity, trying to make her happy. My goal for now is to get her back to the urologist, try to find her a better primary care physician and see if I can get the lovely psychiatrist I’ve talked to on the phone, to visit her.

          The thought keeps going through my mind: I’m glad I didn’t have children to torture in my decrepitude.

          Did good things happen on the trip: absolutely. My friend Christina, who I hadn’t seen in six years, and I enjoyed a delicious  dinner at the Golden Bull in Santa Monica Canyon. The fact that it’s exactly as it has always been countered my anxiety over how Santa Monica has changed – no longer the sleepy beach town I remember, it’s full of pretentious, rude people, huge houses, traffic, and ridiculously expensive shops. Chrissie looks better than ever and is enjoying her resurrected career as a designer of upscale loungewear (Hermosa Creek, available at Nordstrom’s). 

          The cold, staid Unity service, where the minister read her whole talk, made me appreciate my exuberant, love-filled church in Kerrville.

          I saw my friend Tracy and her kids on the way to the airport. She always makes me laugh and the day sparkled after the storm. The views of the Santa Monica Mountains and the ocean were stunning.

          But the strongest image of my trip is of my teeny mother, seated in the dining room where I left her yesterday morning, in her white parka, and pretty blue cap, her clear blue eyes vacant, searching, lost. 

The Solace of Food

         

          One of the worst things about moving to Kerrville is there’s no good Chinese restaurant. Oh, there are restaurants that say they serve Chinese food (and a Japanese one, too) but the food is truly awful. I know, how can you go wrong with Chinese? Well, you can.

          For over a year I’ve been pining for the chow mein at new Jade Gazebo in Oakhurst. My taste buds have not forgotten the scintillating tastes - thin slices of sweet Chinese pork, velvety chicken, succulent beef,  scrumptious shrimp married to chewy noodles and crisp bean sprouts, all cavorting in a delectable sauce. 

          Here, when I ordered Lo Mein, I got a salty, gloppy mass of linguine-like pasta drowning in a nondescript salty brown sauce with slices of meat. Yuck.

          So tonight I decided to cook my own Chow Mein and I want to tell you how I made it:

          First I cut “match sticks” of firm tofu, which I’d pressed between paper towels, so some of the moisture came out.   I also peeled and sliced the last remaining Japanese eggplant from our garden.

          I heated our electric griddle and added a little peanut oil. Then I carefully laid the slices of tofu and eggplant with plenty of space between them.  I left then alone while I cooked – for 3 minutes only – store-bought Chow Mein noodles, which I drained, rinsed in cold water and set aside.

          In the meantime, I added a little peanut oil to a non-stick skillet and when it was almost smoking, threw in one sliced baby bok choy and one sliced scallion. After a minute I added a pound of bean sprouts.

          While these cooked I placed the cooked noodles, in three little mounds, on the griddle. I turned and rotated the eggplant and tofu.

          I heated a cup of water in the microwave and when it boiled added a teaspoon of unsalted chicken broth concentrate.   To this I added about a teaspoon of soy sauce.   From the refrigerator I took my last packet of Panda Express hot sauce – the best! – and squeezed in about half a teaspoon, and for good measure added a little sugar.

          I added the eggplant and tofu to the bean sprout mixture in the pan, poured in the flavored broth and after a minute or so, added some watered-down cornstarch to thicken it.

          I placed some of the griddle-fried noodles on my plate and topped it with heaps of steaming vegetables and tofu. The aroma alone sent shivers up my spine.

          I poured a glass of crisp white wine and with my beloved teak chopsticks dug in.

          Why I love Chinese food so much is a mystery. Perhaps I was Chinese in a past life – which also explains why I studied Chinese for three years in the 1970s. Who knows. Who cares.

          I knock on the door of John’s office. He’s at his computer. I show him my plate and thank him for growing the eggplant for me, and for buying the griddle.   He says I should make this for company but there’s no way I would. When company comes I make sure everything is prepared well in advance so I can be a gracious hostess.

          Tonight I’m sweaty, my hair is wild, the kitchen is a mess but I’m content to devour my private meal one crunchy bite at a time until its gone.

          John, by the way, declines an invitation to share this meal. He had his 5:00 snack – summer sausage on Ritz crackers with mayonnaise scooped from the jar with a fork, washed down with a Fat Tire.  By 7:30 he reheats the leftovers of his Hungry Man Salisbury steak meal he had for lunch yesterday.

          When he’s done he returns to the garage to work on a new speaker design and I plant my contented ass in my desk chair to write about the solace of food. Maybe not a typical marriage. But it works for us.    

11-11-11

          My stinky dog lies dejected at my feet because I’m typing instead of feeding him. He has a growth, big as a jawbreaker coming out of his leg, black and shiny. On top of his head another one sprouts, a bright pink pearl. When it first appeared last summer, I thought it was a tick and  tried to yank it out.  The vet calls these “little warty things.” I wonder if they hurt him. How would I know? He seems so sad now, but that’s because he thinks it’s six thirty, time for dinner. But Sunday the time changed, so he has to wait.

          Does he stink from old age or from rolling in who-knows-what? When we moved from rural California to a mid-sized Texas town, I wondered if he would become a civilized dog. He didn’t. I spend half our morning walks yanking him away from deer poop, which he loves to eat. Then he finds a spot on someone’s lawn to roll in, until he’s camouflaged in an acrid, feral scent.  He sniffs some shrubs like a wine connoisseur, then licks the leaves.  I needn’t have worried that he’d be bored here.  Obviously he isn’t.

          I love to say good morning to the white-tailed deer who stare at us with big surprised eyes.  They’re much smaller than California Mule deer; delicate and dainty, they skitter off when I stare too long. I’ll miss them when we move from this neighborhood, which I hope will be next year. I need to have something to look forward to – a private yard, a pool where I can float on my back and look up at the sky.

          I need to look past the present which I’ve decided to think of as my holy duty – helping my mother die.  Not that she’s on death’s door, yet. But the decline since she broke her hip is dramatic. She might as well have been crushed under a garbage truck, smashed and glued back together with flimsy glue.

           I wish I could bring her back to Texas with me, move her into a rest home here, so I could visit her every day. But she’s still too frail.

          The full moon is as round as that thing on my poor dog’s leg. It looks like it’s about to burst. It floods us with a thick yellow light and creates shadows that hide my missing cat who doesn’t come when I call.  She threw up today, like my mother threw up three times yesterday.  I stand in my zories on this desolate dead-end street calling, “Kitty! Kitty!” but there is no answer. 

          Back inside my odiferous dog raises his head. I ignore him and bury my face into certainty – my other, warm, sleeping cat on the couch, who half-heartedly purrs as I inhale her sweetness.    

HAPPY TEARS

          I should call yesterday The Day of Happy Tears.  First, in my adult writing class many of the pieces made me cry, not just because the stories were sad and touching but because the writing was so good. I particularly love to see these writers grow and learn from each other.        The assignment was based on Edward Hirsch’s poem “Second Story Warehouse.” I used this before and was inspired to write about my first real job at Charlie’s Girls in 1968.  I love the way Hirsch says, “Come with me . . .” and takes us on a visual tour, describing the warehouse and the people he worked with. For me it immediately brought back that long skinny showroom in the California Clothing Mart and I could smell the sickly sweet perfume my boss had me rub on the telephone with a ball of cotton. 

          It was fascinating to hear how my students got their first jobs, as children or teens, in the nineteen thirties through the sixties, and not just what they did but what they learned from them. The happiest part of my life is being able to help people – adults and kids alike – release their stories.

          Then, in the evening, sitting on the couch with my cat, watching Dancing with the Stars, I was emotional again. When I see Ricky Lake’s wide eyes taking in the judges comments, J.R. gallantly leading Karina around the dance floor, Nancy Grace’s tiny fifty-year old-feet kicking and flicking – I fill up with pride for their achievements, and the tears flow again. I guess I’m just too damn empathetic!

          It’s always been easier for me to cry over something I watch on TV, or read, than to cry over problems in my own life. Mostly I go round and round, thinking of all the possibilities that lie ahead, particularly now when I’ll be making a trip to Los Angeles next week to move my mother from rehab into a nicer facility.

          I don’t feel sad about the state of my mother.  She spent the first eighty-five years of her life doing pretty much exactly what she wanted.

True, the last few years of my father’s life were harder for her – she became his caregiver. But we, the family, hoped that after he passed she would have more time for herself, but he lived so long – he was just shy of ninety-four when he died on St. Patrick’s day in 2010 – that by then Mother was ninety and her own health was fragile.

          Even in the midst of turmoil, part of me stands back and surveys the situation.  It’s so strange that some people live long happy lives, while others are struck down in their youth or live their lives in misery.  When I look at the entire planet and realize what a privileged life I and those I know have led, I can only be grateful and remind myself to appreciate every moment that I am free to choose what and when to eat, that I can get up and walk whenever I want, that I can run of political office, for goodness sake.

          Which reminds me – this weekend I’ve invited Kathy Glass, a Houston attorney who ran for governor last year, to speak on the principals and polities of the Libertarian Party.  I have no idea how many people will show up.  Unfortunately this coincides with a book signing event hosted by my writing instructor at the Dietert Center. I’ll ask her if she’d mind displaying my books . . .on Sunday I host the third monthly meeting of Hill Country Poets. Monday: board meeting for Friends of the Library; the last session of my ten-week writing class, then we’ll go out to lunch. (When I return from my trip, I’ll teach from home until February, when I’ll offer a series of different classes at Club Ed.) The last session of my kids’ class is next Wednesday – then off to L.A. to see my mother, niece, a few friends, breathe in the ocean air, and return to my stimulating, always interesting life in Texas.

The Dark Side of Alice

          It’s almost as if, as my mother shrinks – she’s down to eighty-four pounds – the essence of her becomes more concentrated, like aged whiskey.

          Today John said, “Alice was always so sweet and now she’s always angry.”

          I replied that I remember an angry Alice, when I was growing up. A fussy Alice.  An intolerant, judgmental Alice.  I remember how everything had to be “just so.”  But to the world – friends, neighbors, business associates, checkers at the market, perhaps even doctors – she presents a cheery bright persona.  Those sparkling blue eyes and large healthy teeth give the impression that this woman is always in a good mood, always willing to listen, to laugh, to notice pretty flowers growing along a fence.

          It’s not that she isn’t these things, she is. She looks for goodness and beauty in the world, but underneath, has always lurked a darkness, a deep sadness, a seething anger.

          Not long ago she told me that as a little girl she used to weep in bed at night.  She doesn’t remember why she wept, just that she was overcome with sadness.

          I remember the story of her being locked in a rumble seat, pounding until her knuckles bled. This, the story goes, was the beginning of her claustrophia.

          I remember the story of her being locked in a library after hours. Had she fallen asleep? The terror she felt thinking no one would rescue her.

          I remember the nightmares she had of her children being snatched by wild animals coming down from the canyon. I remember the veins popping out of her neck when she and I fought about having to visit my grandma, her mother.

          Before my father died, she complained about him. I remember a visit, where, early in the morning, she came into the kitchen where I had just sliced a sweet juicy orange. She was wearing a tattered over-sized tee-shirt, the only thing she ever slept in – no nighties or pajamas for her! She sat on the hard little stool under the phone and sobbed, “He’s driving me crazy!”

          I put my arms around my tiny mama. She was maybe ninety-nine pounds back then.  I experienced the familiar mix of emotions that churned in me like foods that shouldn’t be eaten together.  I felt sympathy for her, having to kow tow to Peter, who always had to get his way.  But I also felt a familiar disgust, that she had let it go on this long, over sixty years of feeling mistreated.

          Most of my generation had a different idea about relationships. Perhaps a different idea about love. We did not have the sense of devotion and obedience that our parents’ generation had. So when Roger sat on the loveseat his mother had give us and told me I could come to Israel with him, if I would convert, there was no question in my mind that I would refuse. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I wanted to “save” him from the demons that plagued him since being abandoned as a child. But I must have loved, or respected myself more. For I knew I could not become someone else, for someone else.

          In saying no to Roger I gave up the promise of children, which I only now vaguely regret, when I see my friends becoming grandparents.

But my sense of self-preservation was stronger that my sense of commitment to him.

          I used to hope that when my father died my mother would emerge from his shadow and do all the things she didn’t get to do when he was alive. But instead, his absence seems to have opened the gate to the demons that always lurked in her mind, ready to pounce. Now when she wakes from her nightmares his warm body is not there to give her solace, to anchor her, to reassure her that it’s only a dream.

          I feel sad about my mother. She tells me, “I really don’t want to be an angry person,” yet anger is the strongest emotion crackling between the synapses in her brain.  The rehab hospital where’s she’s been for the last two weeks is dirty, they don’t bring her a napkin with her meals, the sun is too bright, the food is terrible, her caregivers talk too much or not enough, the therapists are sadistic. . .

          I listen to my mother. I say, “oh” and “hmm.”  After thirty-five minutes of listening to her rant, she tells me she wants to end our conversation on a high note: she had a marvelous time playing Black Jack with a woman whose name she can not remember, another patient, who she hopes she’ll see tonight, if “what-her-name” takes her to the game room.