Mother's Day Revisited

Mother’s Day Revisited.

For Mother’s Day, I told Mark, “I don’t want anything, but I do want to be with my mom.” This proved to be quite the tall order, since my parents lived four hours away, and we were still obligated to picking up kids from college, staying put for other kids to work, and in general, wanting to give my dad a break from the winter winds of Amherst, which, as it was everywhere, had not turned yet to Spring.

I drove to Amherst and spent the night with my parents. It was rather late when I arrived, but both were waiting at the door, to welcome me. My mother, always happy to see me, hugged me. She will say things, “Oh Net, now, where did you come from?” And this I take to mean, where did you drive in from?

I tell her, “Cincinnati,” and she asks, “Is that with Mark Manley?” I shake my head yes, then we list all the children of the house, Cheryl, Shannon, Kaitlyn and Davis, and finally Enzo, the dog. Then she will say, “I remember Enzo was little just like this,”and she holds her hands about six inches apart. And she says, “Remember, you didn’t want that dog, that was our dog.” I agree, because its not worth wasting our time together rewiring her memory to include the fact that a few years back she and dad accompanied me to pick out what became my family’s puppy, and his first night with us was spent at my mother’s house.

We wake in the morning, and I pack for both of them. Well, my dad picks out his own clothes. I am tasked with getting mom to dress, and selecting a few clothes. She is adamant that she will wear her brown shoes, shoes that do not fit. But I figure we are traveling by car and I can encourage her to take off the shoes in the car. Days later, I would steal those shoes away and store them in the back corner of my closet, as they would become the bane of our existence throughout the entire weekend, my mother constantly asking for a shoe stretcher, and the rest of us scrambling to find out where she last left it.

The ride to Cincinnati is uneventful thankfully. We listen to (according to iTunes) 28 Frank Sinatra songs, and Mother knows every word. Sometimes, I wonder if she still dreams about Frank, the way we all did when we were teens, and had that one idol (mine was Bruce). We settle into my home, where Mom still knows where the cereal is kept, having spent a year’s worth of nights here over the years. But this time proves to be more a challenge. She does not like to be alone in a room. She forgets where the bathroom is. I sense another step in the progression of her disease. But I set that aside because this is Mother’s Day weekend.

When she is dressing the next morning, I want to get her mindset away from wearing tan so she won’t want to wear her brown shoes. I set out black pants and a black sweater. But she has pulled out the tan outfit. The confrontation begins. “Mom, you wore that yesterday.” “How do you know, are you God, that you know what I wore yesterday?’” I am arguing with a teenager here, for this I am certain. “ I tell her, “Yes, I am God and I know what you wore yesterday.” She retorts, “Well I don’t want to wear that today.” We settle on an outfit she can wear with gray pants. I am exhausted and it is only 8:30 a.m.

I take her for a pedicure. She is being pampered, with her feet soaking in the warm water. Rachel, the pedicurist whose mother is 90, is accustomed to dealing with stubborn wise women. She carefully tends to Mother’s feet, as if she is washing the feet of Jesus himself, I swear. When Rachel tends to Mom’s ingrown toe nail, Mom squirms, then tells Rachel jokingly but not, “You’re going to send me through the roof.” This gets such great laughs throughout, that Mom repeats it often.

We dine with the family three nights in a row. When we are out to dinner, she tells the waiter each time he arrives at the table, “I would like pasta and a salad,” and this is while he is only bringing waters or drinks. None of us are ready to order, but she is.

She sits in church on Sunday, and I am the one with the pursed lips, telling her to be quiet, because she is busy waving to the little children. She is enthralled by little children, wherever we are. She leans over and whispers, “ I used to be into God and Christ.” And I nod then ask, “What about now?” and she says, “Not really anymore.” Somehow her disease has freed her conscience too and for this I am thankful.

The sun comes out and in the middle of the day, we sit outside. She is the original sun worshipper, I move the sun chairs two or three times, because she wants to be where Dad is, and I am trying to give Dad a break. So, I shuttle chairs from front yard to back, to front to back. Dad soon leaves us, but I bring out the music player again, and we play more Frank. She asks, “Hey, who is that?” And I know she knows, so I wait for her to tell me. And slowly, she does.

The Summer Wind plays, so I reach for her hand and encourage her out of the chair. We dance to Frank, we are all anxious for Spring here and at her home. We cheer for the “summer wind, a fickle friend,” and sway to the breeze blowing across the patio.

It was a beautiful Mother’s Day, despite some of Mom’s physical ailments removing her from the party at times. But she ate ½ of her dessert, then went to find Dad and ate all of his. I don’t think that day had any real significance for her, except that she was with those who loved her.

When Mark and I drove Mom and Dad back to Amherst the following day, we made a few more stops than usual for gas, bathroom (Mark), bathroom again (me). We were driving in a rental van, due to car in the shop. So, I would help buckle Dad and Mom into the bucket passenger seats.

When I went to my mom’s side, she reached for me and pulled me into her chest., and says, “Love you”. “Love you too Mom. I lay there for a moment, my head resting near hers, and chills engulf my being.

Over the weekend, I had been parenting Mom, as she returns to a child like state, I am leading her to bathrooms, telling her what to wear, or what shoes not to wear.

I don’t know I that am equipped to mother my own Mom. “Mother” is not a role, a title, or for that matter a position of prominence. There are no degrees, certificates, or graduation. But I do know, in that moment of buckling Mom into her seat, what I felt wash over me was pure grace.

Laughter as Salve

Laughter as Salve 04-07-2011 Reflections from the Alois Sharing Circle

“I think this is a little crazy. What are we going to do with this? This “Jabberywocky” is crazy. What is “brillig” and a slithy tove?” F. could read well enough, but she was always leery of materials Leigh and I would bring to the Sharing Circle. Our day of silliness was no exception.

We had planned to make the participants laugh. Perhaps we wanted to laugh, more so than they. So, we opened the class with the explanation about laughing. I told the residents to close their eyes and just listen to the “Jabberywocky” poem. Even if the words were made up, the rhythm still existed to help create a story. And there were enough standard nouns and verbs, they could piece together a story, regardless of whether it made sense.

But so much in their world does not make sense. Their caregivers become strangers. Their homes become deserted islands with unrecognizable inhabitants. Names for their favorite food slips away on the dirty dishes.

While I tried with a tour de force to read Jabberwocky well enough for the circle to imagine a story, my reading may have fallen a little flat. Not to be discouraged, we had planned for a second poem to read, “The Owl and the Pussycat.” They found this poem much more to their liking, apparently an owl marrying a pussycat, with a turkey as priest, and a pig as a pawn shop king with a ring to peddle, are an easier sell to this crowd. Words, real words, not made up ones, still mattered to them.

The laughs were coming about, one by one. So we continued on with our next exercise, a podcast playing of Who’s on First, with Abbott and Costello. Thought the repartee was quick, the podcast also had a laugh track in the background. Now, some people might find those offensive, as if a studio executive is telling us what is funny. But the laugh track served it purpose that day, to remind the circle that this was funny, the notion of Who’s and What being a proper noun.

The goal was to get them in the mindset of considering what makes them laugh. Made up words, made up stories, mixed up stories. So, we threw in a mad-lib, despite Leigh’s last minute anxiety over whether this was an exercise that might create undue pressure on them to retrieve words or recall them. Over the phone that morning, we revised the plan to only include one mad lib, that being a nursery rhyme of Little Miss Moffett.

We began by brainstorming, asking them to give words for fruit – apple, banana and W. produced strawberry after much prodding of naming red berries. Then, we moved on to words that rhymed with “day”, so we got gay and bay, and when we ask J. to produce a word, we offered a few that others had mentioned, and after this she arrived at her own, way.

The final group of words to collect were animals, and just like that, out of the chute, D. said, “Jackass”. The entire circle began laughing, before they understood how we would use that word. Then we collected dog, and from J., who speaks to us mostly with her eyes, we retrieved the word giraffe. At first, as she was describing an animal with her hands, I asked, does it have four legs?”, s J. answered, “yes”. “Is it a horse,” I asked. “No,” J. shook her head. J. continued to make a large motion, so I asked, “elephant?, horse?” and then finally, because a new little giraffe had been born at the zoo the other day, “A giraffe”, and she shook her head, “Yes.”

With that in mind, Leigh produced a poster board with the original Miss Moffett rhyme on it, which we all recited. Then, we picked out one word from each category, and used those words in place of others, within a new rhyme.

“Little Miss Moffett, sat on her apple” (Laugh, laugh, laugh)

“Eating her curds and gay” (Laugh, laugh, laugh)

Along came a jackass who sat down beside her

And here the laughing was loud enough to cause us to wait to complete the rhyme.

And frightened Miss Moffett away.

Now, we put them on center stage, by asking them to write, “Who or what do you think is funny?” Amazingly so, with the prolific writers we have had, no one produced a body of work longer than a sentence with the exception of G. This surprised us, until we later determined that we need to lead the circle down a narrow path when asking them to write, offering something more specifics, such as “The person in my family who is funny… or “A clown is funny because…”

We closed our circle as usual, with the naming of “how the circle felt today” and many stated that it felt good. Afterwards, we discussed who in the room was ticklish. As I asked each in turn, every resident had a smile on his or her face, and L. offered, “Well, I don’t really know if I am, but I might like to find out.” Even P. who sits stoically through class, though that is more disease than disposition, cracked a smile at the thought of her feet being tickled.

Laughter is a complex emotion and what we find funny is subjective, and also unnamable. While we admitted to ourselves having some disappointment in the output of writing that day, there could be no doubt as to the output of fun we had.

If laughter was the salve to even one cell where pain or sadness dwelled, then this work brought healing into their day.

Opening Day Signals

The weather forecast is not promising, though I have sat through a few Opening Days with long-johns beneath my jeans and Reds’ shirt. I will once again shiver until the game's end, unless it appears downright hopeless. And even in that case, I may recall a certain year, when the Reds were down by 3 going into the bottom of the ninth. We walked out, my son, aunt and sisters, all lamenting another loss on Opening Day. But soon, we heard fireworks, and other fans were running alongside of us, with radios attached to ears, jumping for joy. Barry Larkin had just hit a gram slam home run. Reds win. Reds win. (Davis - Opening Day, 2011. Reds. Win.)

So, I sit this morning, after enduring a few taunts from husband about money spent on scalping two tickets. I suspect he is jealous that I choose my son Davis, over him. But it only because of tradition that I do so. That, and a sense of obligation to honor what’s past and what is present.

I had always been a Cleveland Indian’s fan. I still am, or at least, I admire them from afar down in the reaches of the Ohio River valley. I don’t drive the four hours north to see a game, mainly because if I am to undertake that drive, I would rather spend it with my parents, heading into the ninth inning of their years here on earth.

My roommate in college was a bat girl for the baseball team. The entire team became friends, as well as potential love interests. As a bleacher creature in the old Lakefront Stadium, I was subjected to the summer wind that always felt more like Artic Blast and rooted for Doug Jones, the Stopper. I had a crush on Omar Vizquel and used to call him, Oh my, Omar. But mostly I loved how swiftly and effortlessly he moved to the field the ball and make the throw to first. I have seen ballet in the ballplayers and honestly, enjoy it more than the Ballet itself.

After moving to Cincinnati in my twenties, I went to Opening Day with my sister and a friend who would later become my husband. We hung out at Flanagans, before, during and after the game. I managed to secure a ticket to the first game of the 1990 World Series and looked hard to find a broom for the celebration that year on Fountain Square.

I have fallen off my couch while watching the Indians collapse in the World Series in 1997. I was living in Portland and it was the Fall of Devin’s diagnosis of cancer. I felt like if the Indians could overcome their troubles, then that victory would be transferrable.

After reluctantly moving back to Cincinnati, Opening Day came with a joyful memory attached – Despite his cancer relapsing, Devin attended the game with his friends from Dayton. It was rainy and cold, and I dropped him off and picked him up. I would have pinch-hit or been designated batter or swept the field to be a part of that moment. Devin would pass away that September.

That is where memory leaves off and tradition begins. Devin’s family, including grandparents, uncles and aunts were n Red’s fans. Grandpa Howard attended most Opening Days, of his 80 some years. A part of me wanted Davis to experience that connection to his extended family. Another part of me felt like I could stop time, by standing in the place where Devin stood, and continue the streak he began, to march on, in his place. We would watch the parade, cheering for Marge Schott, because I adored who I knew she was on the inside, and not who many appeared to think she was on the outside. I understood the need for her persona in a male dominated world.

But what occurred to me this morning, as I read many quotes about baseball, was this. I started going to Opening Day to embrace a city I never wanted to come back to, because I did not want to leave my beloved Oregon. I committed to Opening Day, as a way to put my stake in the ground in this southwestern Ohio town and say, I’ll live here - until I go back.

I continued going to Opening Day, in recognition of time spent in my youthful twenties, beginning a career, meeting Devin, life filled with promises, cup filled with beer. And then, as a homage to Devin and his legacy. As always, this final loss caused me to act most passionately.

So, I came to be a Red’s fan, reluctantly, the way I come to most things in my life - a hesitant, reluctant widow then writer, wife to a Cincinnatian, a stepmother of teenage stepdaughters, mother to teenage son.

I could wax poetically about the time I spend with Davis each year, and how I usually find something about the game and the day that reflect on where we are in our relationship. While that is all true, I buy my tickets each year, now in my eleventh because Oregon is a plane ride away, if I need to touch base with sea. Because my new husband Mark and I are close to signing a piece of paper that will put me in close proximity to the start of the parade at Findlay Market, a purchase that will challenge and solidify our marriage for certain. Finally, I buy those tickets because it is not baseball the game that beckons me each year, but the constancy of the tradition that signals I am here to stay.

Luck or Healing?

2011-03-30 Luck or Healing?
Reflections on the Alois sharing circle.


Leigh and I sit in a coffee shop every few weeks, contemplating our next sessions for our sharing circle at the Alois Alzheimer Center. While we first began calling these sessions writing circles, we changed course, so as not to cause undue pressure on the participants to perform.

Sharing circle seemed appropriate in ways that date back to indigenous cultures who use the “sharing circle” to resolve issues for or amongst its members. These issues can often be contentious, emotional. The circle helps in healing by encouraging the opening of the heart, telling the small truths or the big secrets, unburdening themselves. Everyone is allowed to speak, with no particular time limit and no interruptions are permitted.

The elders hold the space, while souls spill out their deepest troubles. Men and women alike take part. Throughout the time of the circle, prayers are continuously offered up for the sufferer, to find relief from their emotional or physical pain.

This image comes to mind when we facilitate the sharing circle at the Alois. While roles are reversed, and we, the younger, take on the role of elders in the indigenous tradition, we recognized that we are not always the wiser.

Our most recent circle fell on St. Patrick’s Day, so we created a circle around this theme. The activities director directed the room be decorated with green balloons and a cake with a shamrock on it. I carried in a potted shamrock plant, which enthralled each participant, as they held it in their hands, said their name, then passed the “luck” on to the next person.

The poem for the day was The Shamrock, by Andre Cherry, written in the late 1700’s. How fun it was to read this poem to them with my fake Irish brogue. Several times I had to stop myself from slipping into an English accent instead. If I sang some of the words, the brogue flowed much more smoothly. My daughter Shannon, a petite red-hair, accompanied us that day. Dressed in green, she captivated the participants who commented routinely, “Boy she sure looks Irish.”

Following the reading of the poem, we always have a musical component. Sometimes, the residents sing along. Other times, they nod their heads in enjoyment. Danny Boy and Galway Girl streamed forth from my music player. For whatever reason, “I’m looking over a four leaf clover” did not make the transfer to my player. We warbled the words instead.

Then came our writing time. We offer a line or thought and ask them to write on that idea. We are somewhat specific, even not leading, as this helps them to focus. The residents are like me when I shop, less options make my life simpler.

The first prompt was, “I feel lucky because…” And many wrote to this beautifully.

The second prompt, devised after a few emails back and forth with Leigh, were, “At the end of the rainbow, I hope to find…” T. wrote, “my wife”, others included “my family” and yet another write, “peace and quiet.” While we had considered this an open-ended question, many of the writers had not. They were able to complete the sentence and put down their pens, with not too much thought associated with it.

I couldn’t help but wonder, how would they have responded, if I had utilized the other prompt we considered, “I feel unlucky because…” Leigh and I often joke that she likes to keep things positive. And she is the most uplifting person I know to be around. On the other hand, I like to dive deep, to push for more.

What words did the residents leave on the table that day because we didn’t use the “I feel unlucky” prompt?

I go back to the primal sharing circles. Members were encouraged to bring their deepest troubles, so that their hearts might shatter open and then heal. One of our regular “contributors” did not share that day. She pushed the paper away and kept repeating, “Its personal.” Would she have written, had she been asked to consider if she felt unlucky? Would she have found healing?

The Moon and Venus Ballroom Dance

Every once in a while, my senses are heightened by looking skyward....



The Moon and Venus Ballroom Dance


The moon and Venus climb together over the horizon,
The party soon ending,
night music quieting down.

Venus sashays past the moon coquettishly
flashing a golden dimple in a beam
that sets the core aglow.
She bats her eyelashes as she takes in
the tall cold drink that is the moon.

The moon shrinks back in her presence.
Her hold on his orbit is clear.
Aware of their pending split,
he continues his rise in the East
for the gift of one last glance

They travel their course
entwined like grapevines,
crossing behind, then in front of each other,
while sparks of star dust
fly off their heavenly forms.

How We Stand Is Important

A few weeks ago, I had the honor of interviewing Jeff Smith, a writer in one of the WWFC co-ed classes. Jeff had come to WWFC while his son, Whit, had been incarcerated at a federal penitentiary. While in prison, Whit became a victim of an erroneous assault charge, and deciding he could take no more of his present condition, took his own life. Jeff and his son had exchanged a multitude of letters and thus, Jeff’s name had been mentioned as a podcast guest last summer. His grief, the most recent portion of it, would have only been a year old.

When Jeff first dropped off a copy of the compilation of letters he and his son traded, it was the holiday season. Following the buzz of the season, I stopped one bright cold January day, when the New Year was just rolling over and answering the wake up call, to read these words.

Jeff and I met for coffee following my reading and together, we developed an outline that would encompass letters, blogs and eulogies. The day of the interview unfolded with a quiet hum as opposed to the usual buzz on the day we produce a show. The circle opened with candle, intentions, introductions and a poem.

William Stafford wrote, How you stand here is important. How you

listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe

And the show began. Through a grueling hour, with breaks for tears, and water, Jeff and I created a container to hold what was precious to him, the words of Whit, their relationship, Whit’s death, how others viewed his death.

Whit had experienced challenges as a young man, a rampant mind trapped in a body that was supposed to sit in school all day. The more he was contained, the more he wanted to be free. Until finally, he was forced, via incarceration, to make peace and bring his old self in line with the new. He used letters to his father, and blog postings to the outside world to do so.

Though Whit’s voice had been silenced in solitary confinement, Jeff’s authenticity in dealing with his son helped form Whit’s voice, a voice filled with anticipation and imagination.

As we wrapped the production, we read the poem again. How you listen for the next thing to happen.

A yogi friend had shared a Ganges River meditation that involved ridding oneself of the non-essentials in life to come closer to one’s core, imagining those trimmings had been turned to ashes and encapsulated in a vessel that would be placed in the river. Toss flowers in the river, alongside the vessel, as a send-off and watch it float away.

Whit knew how he stood would be important later on, for his father, for those who loved him. In this interview, listeners will hear how Whit pared down his life to the essentials of forgiveness, compassion, and yes, love. The audience will be rooting for Whit to persevere.

Listen, breathe, and take in this podcast, as an extraordinary man courageously calls forth words of wisdom while standing in the river of his grief.

Brainstorming on Love

Valentine’s at the Alois

There is a suspended moment in time from when we instruct participants in our writing circle on the activity that we are about to embark upon, to the time in which they take the pen to paper and begin to write. Even those that cannot physically write will attempt to compose a line that might correlate to what has been offered as a prompt. Some writers call that moment inspiration. Others call it breath or soul. As observer, as well as facilitator, one might also call it love.

The theme for this February morning is Valentine’s Day. Most participants, suffering from a broad range of memory loss symptoms, do not know Valentines’ Day is four calendar days away. When escorted into the activity room, surprised residents catch glimpses of red and purple balloons, a pink tablecloth and boxed candies on the table.

We greet each in turn, with a smile and a nametag, for us to remember. We too are memory challenged, and the roster often changes just enough to throw us off. Brief discussions occurred – “J: It’s cold in here”, “M: Don’t those balloons look fancy.” L: “What is the topic today?”

Poetry and Valentines. We are careful not to refer to this hour as a writing class, for writing brings up memories of crass teachers rapping knuckles with rulers or marking up one’s life story or belabored poem with a red pen. We are also sensitive when using the word “Love.” There is so much emotion in that word, which we want to encourage, but not inflict pain.

When L. is informed we will be reading Anne Bradstreet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Edgar A. Guest, he responds with enthusiasm in his radio voice, “I know Edgar Guest. He was a poet from Detroit, had his own show for a while, colleagues didn’t like him too well.” L. is also aware he may be asked about love. The theme is evident to some. He speaks aloud, “I wonder if I am an emotional man. You know, I enjoy learning, but I don’t know if I exhibit a lot of emotions.” But L. will stay because of Edgar. Only minutes later, when L is asked to share with the group about Edgar Guest, L. will draw a blank. We capture in the moment what we can.

We open the circle with a candle, asking each participant to say his or her name. Some are prankish. F. calls herself Pete. P. states her full name. J. struggles to speak her name so we name her into the circle. We begin reciting the poetry, first Anne, then Elizabeth, then Edgar, selecting works that represent not only spousal love but universal love and friendship.

Next, we begin brainstorming about people to whom they might like to write a Valentine. Brainstorm when written out seems an ironic word choice as during the past months or years of the participants’ lives, they have experienced their own brain storms when memories are trapped in the tangles of their mind. Their only hope is staying rooted in the present and being supported by those who will weather the storm with them. Ideas begin to flow and extend from grandmother, teacher and brother, to the obligatory spouse or children. We write these down for all to see.

Then, the real brainstorm occurs. We instruct participants to begin writing at the top of their homemade Valentine, Dear _______. “Let’s write a letter to this person. Tell them what you loved them for, why you are thankful for them.”

In this instant we hold our breath, and dive into the waters of memory with them. Some begin immediately. Some look confused. We sit and review and write with each contributor who needs us. We prompt, we cajole. We mourn and celebrate. Twenty minutes pass.

We step away from the tables and turn down the volume on Louis Armstrong singing, “I can’t give you anything but love.” Whether through our transcribing or their own movement of pen across paper, in front of each participant lies a body of work.

Each contributor is asked to read his or her Valentine aloud. Those who cannot read will entrust their words to us to share. When the circle makes its way to L., he is not too proud to ask, “Well, I would like someone to read this for me.” His eyes are pooling with a tear or two, so one of us lifts his Valentine to read, careful to breathe before giving a voice to his words.

“Dear Grandma,

Thanks for all the love that you expressed to me when I was just a small boy growing up in the grocery.”

There is more from others:

“Dear R. - You have a smile that cannot be forgotten.”

“Dear T. - I love your quietness at times.”

“Dear Mom – Thank you for encouraging me to be a nurse.”

“Dear D. - The best son and helper that anyone can be.”

“Dear T. & K. - I wish you lived closer.”

There is never a full narrative elicited from these writings, only the fascinating fragments of the participants’ stories that come to life on paper.

We have incorporated various themes in our (not a) writing circle, including The Secret of the Sea, I’ll Fly Away, What I Would Dress as for Halloween, all producing smiles, sighs and admiration. But only love could let loose these fragments that float in the space between idea and paper, in a way no other subject could.

On Enzo Turning Two (Times Seven)

Happy birthday Enzo. This is my ode to you today!

Ruler of the Home

Early morning, 5 a.m.
I cannot sleep
A headache rouses me from bed
My husband rolls over
asks what he can do
I tell him nothing
grab my fuzzy pink robe
and tumble down the stairs.

I open the crate
where the dog has been detained
to keep him from chewing
teenager leftovers
To entice him out, I reach in
scratch his curly white belly fur
Enzo opens one eye, then the next

His coffee colored eyes remind me
I too need caffeine
but first, sleep
I carelessly toss couch pillows to the floor
grab the sheepskin blanket
and sink into the sofa
Enzo comes to me
his tags jingling in the dark
He leaps onto my lap
then settles his nose near mine
as if to chase away the demons
hammering my head.

I touch his fur,
feeling the rush of my blood
settle into a rhythm
in sync with my breath
Somewhere in my mind
I have fallen fast asleep
dreaming of ski slopes
and friends I have not called.

My son once called Enzo “a peacemaker”
Family members reach for him
before they extend a hug to me
and I don’t blame them

His name means home ruler yet
he has not chased away my headache
nor protected me at all odds
but he has created a harmony I never knew

“People Living Near One Another”

A large Cincinnati-based corporation, Western-Southern, wants to relocate a downtown shelter for homeless and recovering women, the Anna Louise Inn, owned by Cincinnati Union Bethel. W-S is willing to pay CUB $3million to move the Inn. Their claim, if they have a rightful one, is the shelter is located in a non-descript part of downtown where W-S would like to form a neighborhood.

There are many definitions of neighborhood. From New Urbanism – one where a community is walkable, and designed to contain a diverse range of jobs and housing. Another few from Merriam Webster – 1: in a neighborly relationship, the quality or state of being neighbors, 2: proximity: a place or region near : vicinity, 3: an approximate amount, extent, or degree 4, a : the people living near one another, b : a section lived in by neighbors and usually having distinguishing characteristics.

Neighborhoods are not created. They are built one sidewalk block at a time. They emerge one shop owner at a time. Neighborhoods are a work in progress and succeed best when the character is maintained, and the people who live, work and play in that area are left to define it.

Western-Southern’s first attempt was to purchase the building outright, of which two offers were been spurned because the owners of the Anna Louise Inn were awarded federal dollars to renovate. CUB simply does not want to move the Inn.

The Anna Louise Inn has long history of serving women in Cincinnati. According to the CUB website, “In the early 1900’s, young women from rural areas were coming to Cincinnati to work and could not find suitable housing. Often the cheapest rooms were in undesirable neighborhoods, or landlords would charge more because women required a sitting room for guests in addition to a bedroom, a separate bathroom, and more security. Recognizing a need for affordable and safe housing for women, the agency turned to the Tafts…who helped provide funding to erect a five-story building to accommodate 120 women in single rooms…. The Inn was filled to occupancy on its first day.

Western-Southern’s latest attempt is to force City Council to turn away federal dollars because the owners are not keeping in line with the original mission. Western-Southern is claiming the renovation of the Anna Louise Inn will also bring men into this facility, which CUB has outright denied.

Women in transition need a home. They need a bed and a safe space to allow for healing from abuse, addiction and caring for their families. They don’t need a bright shiny facility, located away from the heart of downtown where job prospects might be less so and they become isolated from “the rest of us”.

It’s essential for them to be rooted in a neighborhood, this neighborhood, which will support them, where businesspersons and residents can model for them behaviors they too are working on. Women need relationships and diversity, and neighbors who will reach out to show kindness. They need to be where they can find connections to some level of normality. They require “people living near one another” as Merriam-Webster puts it.

All of this is consistent with the concept of a neighborhood, disputing the comments in Western-Southern’s letter, “For a really successful neighborhood to develop, though, you’ve got to have a consistent experience. For that to happen, you can’t have a facility in the heart of it that is completely inconsistent with that experience.”

These women will benefit from the energy of a lively neighborhood where they can enjoy the green space in nearby Lytle Park, watch fireworks when Joey Votto hits a homer or walk the same path as those who are walking to work at Western-Southern. Women will strive more surrounded by others who are striving.

And finally, they will be standing in the place of so many women who came to Cincinnati to work for a better life. They will gain from the century of wisdom accumulated on those grounds.

The Lake Effect

It swoops down from Canada,
this legendary mongoose
with a wingspan that plasters
the downwind side of the Great Lakes.

Descends on ordinary citizens
who just want to punch their card,
get to school, or arrive in time to see
the latest high school basketball phenom
that won’t make it out of there.

The ogre wreaks havoc
on gas stations and grocery stores,
emptying shelves of substance and sustenance.
Funny though, the giant’s presence
is never unforeseen,
always arriving according to
the calendar of Old Man Winter.

Sometimes the colossal fiend
clips off a section of land
sparing Westerners as they cluck about their luck.
The tyrant travels with gusto
through eastern portions of cities
liberating layer upon layer of its wrath,

causing crashes and burned dinners,
reducing visibility into the future,
and forcing shovels from their bins.
Mittens and gloves dried by the heaters
are returned to service for the next round.

Forecasters treat the creature with reverence
praising the virtues of its might
while ordinary people combat it
with snow blowers, scrapers and picks,
digging out their dignity, only to lose it again.

It is hard to be happy here.

When finally weariness shows,
Spring comes
and the same titan
that barreled down on the populace
will gently soothe
their foreheads and tempers.
But sometimes it is too late
for the kindness that comes.

Because the Night Belongs to Us

Because the Night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us.
Bruce Springsteen, 1977.

Bruce. Musician. Poet. On a recent drive back to my hometown, I listened to an interview with The Boss at the Toronto Film Festival for the screening of The Promise, a documentary about the making of his album Darkness on the Edge of Town. Bruce’s gravely voice took me back (30 years!) to Mrs. Garfield’s English class where Monica Doslak and I used to sit, scribbling about marriage to Cleveland quarterback Brian Sipe on each other’s spiral notebooks, and penning my first real piece of fiction – Netti Spaghetti and the Meatball Kid..

When asked about his success, Bruce termed the feeling “survivor guilt”, because he and his band survived Asbury Park to achieve success. The musicians weren’t trying to be bohemian, or best the beat poets. They didn’t read or write tomes about the Road. They lived in a darkness that was simple and created one where it was safe to explore.

When The Boss sang, “They can’t hurt you now,” on the track Because the Night, I believed him, disappearing inside music emanating from the family’s turntable. I took cover from forces unseen – those that would take away the family shoe business and my father’s livelihood and those of my own teenage angst. I hid from every day which looked good on the outside – national honor society, class vp, varsity volleyball - but days which contained plentiful rumblings underneath, including the malcontent of a middle child.

In my hometown, darkness reigned. We cruised out to Gore Orphanage Road, listening for the screams of children who supposedly burned in a fire years ago. Late night, we drove past parties we weren’t invited to, in order to stalk boys we thought we might date. When dusk descended over the lake at Andy’s beach house, the gloom of the water enveloped my naked body as I skinny dipped to prove that I could be cool – and stupid too.

Tonight I ‘ll be on that hill, Bruce crooned in Darkness on the Edge of Town and I recalled the sledding hill behind the Golden Acres Nursing Home where evening would fall and bodies would tumble on top of each other. Those winter nights we spent listening to Bruce inside a Chevette, a Subaru, a Citation or a yellow Spitfire that only a few rode in, whatever magical bus was not being used by siblings or parents.

Shadows crept up on us at the sandstone quarries where there were no neon lights or glare of video games. Boys would rather fumble with a girl’s bra strap than adeptly maneuver the remote control of an Xbox. After family dinners, we would bolt from the comfort of pot roasts and NYPD Blue to get to that edge and went past it to find Newport cigarettes and stale pot, Old Milwaukee beer and petting sex, fast friendship and even faster betrayal.

There had always been darkness and we liked it that way. We could be someone else, run off, forge a new road divergent from the back streets. The Boss belonged to me, to Monica, and everyone else in that small town from which we came. Even if we never shared our miseries with each other, Bruce Springsteen’s music tapped into our anguish and became our bond.

Bruce represented our sense of place, persuading us to make a home in the darkness of backseats and craters of sandstone quarries. His music, his words, gave us the brashness to seek out our own edge and stand in it, no matter the cost.

A Prayer for the Bengals

Please Dear God –

Let the Bengals win today. For eight years, the headlines in the media have vacillated between – almost and not quite - brilliance and stupidity. Chad Ochocinco now has as many TV shows as he has receptions. And dear Marvin, that poor baby, looks like he hasn’t slept in years. Could you please send him some cucumbers for those bags under his eyes? I hear they work wonders.

Lord, you know my troubles as Cleveland fan. We stay the course, we curse our coach and we show in weather that tends to run on the negative side of the Fahrenheit and wind chill scale. Being a fan of Cleveland has always required a heavy dose of stamina, a bit of faith and Uncle Tony smoking his cigarettes cussing out Art Modell.

But week after week, as I have made Cincinnati my home, the taunts about the Cleveland Browns continue, even as the home team of the Bengals descends into madness, or at least the fans do. I turn the other cheek, as the gospels have counseled me to do.

Please take pity upon the citizens of Hamilton County who have been forced to pay for a stadium in exchange for an NFL team “to be named later”. Since I have helped pay the king’s ransom as well, Lord, help me increase my spending so that Mike Brown has more money to do less with.

Lord, only you know the challenges of living in a city where life stops, along with the traffic on the interstate whenever the Bengals play, because the fans are busy holding their breath, the sports columnists have run out of ways to phrase “another loss” and the Bengal’s receiver is all thumbs because he Tweets too much.

Please God, bring the Bengals a victory, so the rest of us can get on with our life.

Sincerely,

Annette “Little Dawg”

Things to Do - Switch Roles

In the days before cell phones, telephone calls to my parents were a source of frustration due to the interweaving of my father’s silence and my mother’s protestations, “Ette, are you there? You can say something too.” The course of the conversation would devolve to where Mom and Dad would simply forget I was on the other end. If I happened to mention that I was doing something on a Tuesday, Mom would glance down at her calendar and then begin a conversation with my father about a dentist appointment and ask when he would have time to get to the barber for haircut. Three-way calling took on a new meaning.

My mother was not only the primary communicator in the family, but the source of organization too. She would pour over the AAA books, mark the pages of hotels suitable for a family of seven, and familiarize herself with the Triptik. She organized family dinners every night for a troop of seven, and when the troops diminished, she still managed a pot of tomato sauce and meatballs. She remained the primary disciplinarian, but detested that role more than cleaning the toilets.

Except for my mother’s perseverance through a bout of breast cancer and a hip replacement when my father became caregiver, Mom gave meaning to the word caregiver. Only recently, have I come to see my father and her as having switched roles.

No, he is not making meatballs, though he did always help with her cookies and raviolis. He was a willing participant in the kitchen for the Thanksgiving turkey, Wedding Soup, and the clean-up that ensued. Many nights, following parties and celebrations, the kids went to bed while the two of them stood at the sink, drying the dishes that my mother refused to let dry themselves. She never did allow for things to be left to their own devices.

Though I have done my mother a disservice in not acknowledging her as caregiver of the family earlier in my life, I am now tipping my hat to Dad.

Dad has become the primary communicator on the phone. He might say, “Hold on, let me get your mother on the phone.” Mom will ease in the occasional hello, mention something about the weather, “Oh, its cold here today. What’s it doing in Cincinnati?”, and then slip off the phone. This is typical for individuals with Alzheimer’s, as they cannot comprehend the passage of time. What was only two minutes on the phone, might feel like a lifetime to her. Of course, I recall evenings as a teen, when one of my siblings might call and relentlessly discuss the drama of the day. My mother would hold the phone away from her ear, and those of us still at home would chuckle, haltingly, wondering when she might have responded that same way to us.

These days, when Mom vacates the conversation, I imagine Dad, simply shrugging his shoulders, giving a slight chuckle and saying, “Well, Net, what are you gonna do?”

He is now keeper of the calendar, which involves a myriad of doctor and clinical appointments. They see their doctors more than their children, not necessarily by choice. And when I mention this to Mom, “Wow, that seems to occupy all your time these days,” she simply replies, “Oh, no, we’re not at the stage yet.” In the same way, in midst of telling a story where she has forgotten the flow of her words, Mom will mention, “Sometimes, I think I have that disease. What do they call it?” And I tell her, “Mom, you are doing just great.”

My father did not arrive in this role with fanfare and a ticker tape parade, though he would have welcomed the initiation. He came into the role mostly kicking and screaming. Weeks went by before he agreed to a part-time in-home caregiver for Mom, partly denying the reality of their precarious lease on life. Convincing him it was time to switch Mom over to a gerontologist, away from the convenience offered by the family doctor down the street, I watched him grit his teeth. He will occasionally confess to me that he still sees Dr. X, “just for some things”, of which no one can place blame.

When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer fourteen years ago, I mentioned a girlfriend that had battled the disease was attending a support group, which was still a newer concept. I suggested to Mom, “Have you considered a support group?” To which she promptly responded, “I don’t need a support group, what do I need one of those for?” She did recover, though I often wondered if she needed a place for her fears that none of us could house. But I also know we were her support. And we have performed admirably, but not without some hiccups ever since.

But the other day, my father called and proceeded to share on all sorts of topics that were troubling him. After my puzzled silence, he apologized, saying, “Well, Net, what am I gonna do? Your mother is the only one I have left to talk to anymore and she forgets everything I tell her.” I tried to bite my tongue, and not suggest a support group, but my tongue broke through, “Dad, what about a support group?” And he said, “Yeah, I been thinking about one.”

My father, reluctant to ask for help, silent in so many ways, always letting his actions show his love, was now talking about talking. When sharing with him that I had once been in therapy, he had asked, “Why didn’t you just go to church and confession?”

I don’t know what the Vatican says about support groups and the circles they create to hold everyone together, but they work. The reassuring uplifting compassion passed from one human being to another can only be described as the work of a Higher Power. God uses humans to do His work, so much that God perhaps orchestrated my father’s change of role and change of heart.

My father and I have grown in our relationship. I perceive him more clearly in this new role, as an avid supporter and lover of my mother, and their life. And that, though he always brought home the bacon, he has never loved her or protected her more fiercely than now.

10/15/2010

Missing Home - Scenes from the Lower Ninth

Cinder blocks
stand like prehistoric Stonehenge
holding up
the stale bayou air
as it wafts across the Lower Ninth.

Did the ancients too
undergo tragedy born of man’s desire
to conquer canals
and barren fields?

The neighborhood’s landscape
is now blemished
by broken sidewalks,
grafitti masking cash machine as art,
and a lone mailbox with contents marked
“return to sender”.

No one is left
to tell the tale
of the wooden table and chair
strewn along Flood Avenue,
knobby leg poking through wildflowers
chair seat matting down nearby weeds

Imagine,
teetering atop the chair
as flood waters rose,
then stepping onto a wobbly table
to reach the ceiling,
crawl out a hole in the roof
and wait

for rescue.

And return
to the skeleton
of a home lifted off its haunches and carried away.

The burial of what died in the Lower Ninth
comes slowly
as seasons overcome the work of man
who long ago created channels
that could not hold back the surge.

A set of steps stays behind
to welcome its ghosts home.

Things to Do - Give Pause

Four index cards sat on my car’s dash, each with their own list. Vacation loomed, and the laundry was piling up while I busied myself with lunches, work, and the exchange of a shirt for a son who didn’t fit into size 15 neck.

I had spent much of the week in the car, or behind a computer. Or writing, I was always writing. Writing a grant, writing about a writing class I teach, writing about writing - which I hated, writing the backstory for a new novel, writing emails, writing Facebook messages for friends who don’t check email, NOT writing about writing, or just plain not writing.

Earlier in the week, I could have accomplished more, but I dragged my husband from the comfortable confines of the family room to Fountain Square where we pulled into the parking garage at the EXACT moment Jay Bruce hit a home run and fireworks were let off, thereby missing THE moment in recent Reds history.

In all of that, I was told a story while on a morning walk with a friend. A young college boy at Rutgers asked his roommate for privacy. The roommate conceded, left the room and somehow turned on the webcam, to watch while the young man had sexual relations with another college boy. The video was then posted by the roommate for all to see. The boy committed suicide by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

We had been walking amidst the early fog settling heavily across the Little Miami River. The fog thickened and suddenly, my pace slowed. My feet dragged. I felt pulled into the weight of the busyness of our lives. Earlier, I had bought a shirt at JCP and KNEW the quality was poor, but I wanted the task off my list. After one washing, the sleeve hems frayed and there I was, back at the store. Like those college students, I had stopped thinking about the consequences of my actions. Intentionality had been strangled by my busyness.

Fr. Lou Gunzelman wrote of this factor, as it related to the emptiness of church pews, “The people who are not at church on Sunday are not at home … They are sleeping, shopping at the mall, working in their yard, having team practices, jogging, walking, watching football, etc.”

I was one of them, ascribing to the “need to jog” notion instead of working out my spirit. I adhered to the “other activities”, out of town on a college visit with the kids, can’t find a church, or going to celebrate a Reds’ victory, school of thought.

I arrived home, index card lists still full, and sat again at my computer to edit a podcast recording. The young man’s suicide stayed with me, as I listened to a writer speak about sandcastles as a metaphor for life, surrendering to what is, not running. So I stopped - to write this down, knowing my words gave breath to life and redefined must-do lists.

There are many types of misdeeds in our lives. In an effort to be efficient, and make it to vacation day with nary a care, I had committed a few offenses of omission. The crime in that young man’s death was not one of hate or passion. It was BIGGER. It was the crime of unconsciousness. And the only solution is to give pause. For if we don’t stop, who for God’s sake will stop the kids?

Things to Do - Bless the Young Men

When I was in high school, two young men who were older classmen were killed while driving through a railroad crossing. Paul Opheim and Steve Shannon. They had been friends of my brother’s, and, if memory serves, there was the outside chance my brother might have been riding in that same car had it not been for the interest of a young woman.

The heartbreak our high school experienced was unmatched, in that none of our friends had experienced loss before this event. We had grandparents that had died during the course of our years growing up. But somehow, their actual dying was as far removed as a third cousin. Even in my own family, my siblings and I sensed the death of my mother’s first born, as we often marked his birthday and frequented his gravesite. But we did not carry the grief that my mother and father had to bear, only the imagined loss of elder brother.

When Paul and Steve were killed that fateful day, the young men and women of our high school had to learn how to mourn in community. St. Joseph’s church held a Mass, which my brother and parents attended. I still had to go to school. I don’t know why. My girlfriends and I had been close to my brother’s class, such that any one of those boys was considered an older brother(and dating prospect) to us. But we mourned in our own way, drinking beer, sitting at Andy’s Dad’s beach house, wondering how families and friends would move forward from that day on.

Fast forward twenty years. Today, I attended a memorial service for a young man, a senior schoolmate to my freshman. A senior at Moeller, he was struck by a car and killed. He would have been 18 tomorrow, falling short by four days of his 18th birthday.

How many times had parents around the world muttered to themselves, “That kid’ll be lucky if he makes it to his 18th birthday,” when their sons didn’t pick up their room or turn in homework on time, or when they danced to the beat of their hormones and not their brains. Tragically, this young man was simply on a skateboard assuredly doing something he enjoyed.

It is in how a community mourns that we understand how a community lives. Hundreds of young men of Moeller dressed in shirt and tie, seniors in suit coat, streamed into the auditorium, prayed and sang. When the priest invited the students to pray the “Our Father”, not one hesitated to grab the other’s hand to hold in prayer.

In that moment, I felt my own gratitude – that my son had elected to come here to school, in a setting where grief was as welcome as Friday Night Football and that I too could mourn in community for the families in this tragedy, feeling again the loss from my high school years, and the ones that have been strung together since.

While the boys will rise to the challenge of this tragedy, this is perhaps their first experience with grief so close at hand. Though the students are often nicknamed “Men of Moeller”, many wore ties that touched below the belt and shirts with sleeve cuffs turned up a few times. Their youthful faces and pants that sagged in the leg were a reminder that they will learn to grieve here long before they grow. It is in this that they will need our prayers.

For Josh. 09/13/2010

To Teddy Bear, With Deep Affection

This morning, our writing circle at the Alois Alzheimer Center wrote to the theme of teddy bears, reflecting on bears they had while growing up, or stuffed animals belonging to their children. We created a group poem from their written and spoken words.


Teddy Bear, With Deep Affection

My children always had bears.
If you had children,
you had to have teddy bears.
He was given to me at Christmas,
with button eyes and soft paws.

He was a good friend.
Bobby.
My brothers would toss him in a tub,
my mother would dry him out.

I never had a teddy bear,
I was always doing adult things.

A tan teddy bear sat in a chair
by my bed at night
so he could watch over me.

He was a small bear,
I don’t remember his name.
I like the Big Bear,
he looks soft and squeezable.
I had a brown teddy
that I took to bed with me.

He reminds me of
the Mickey Mouse Show on TV.
We didn’t have a teddy bear,
we had a French poodle instead.
Winnie the Pooh
makes me think of warm weather.

Just Teddy.
Plain, medium-sized,
showing signs of wear and tear
from just plain loving.


Group Poem – September 9, 2010
Found Voices Writing Circle
Alois Alzheimer Center

Baby Steps for the Eighty Something Crowd

Last month, my eighty-two year-old mother had abdominal surgery. The operation was a result of three days of tests and an abdomen swollen to the size of a basketball.

Following surgery, she was released to a skilled nursing facility, where she could continue to recuperate, with others keeping a watchful eye. She promptly refused admittance and begged (or told) my father to take her home. He did so without hesitation.

But this left my parents in a predicament. Mother has dementia. She and Dad have lived in the same home for 30 years, until now without help. They are without clear medical oversight. Their grown children are working jobs and balancing families, some far away. Surely they had conversations about their long term health needs, enough to fill out the Health Care Power of Attorney forms and Advanced Directives. Yet none of these pertained to where they would make their home, once their home was no longer suitable for their needs.

A subset of siblings began to make phone calls, pleading with my father, who in the stubbornness associated with his generation, refused to bring in a caregiver, on the basis of money, not wanting someone else in their house, and pride. On those points, I was unable to get him to move an inch.

For two weeks conversations went back and forth between siblings and father. He would play the role of martyr to one, and play a different role to the next. I would hang up the phone wondering if I had just spoken to Jeckyll or Hyde.

I can’t pretend to know what was in his head, his heart. I did however have the background of caring for my first husband through his cancer battle, and knowing the end result was one I still regret. I gave him more care than I did love. Maybe this point is more important to women. Perhaps my father feels it is his duty to give Mom more care and that the love came in the form of the testimony to their nearly 50 years of marriage.

But when I was at home during mom’s operation, I found food spoiled, towels unwashed, left stiff. I found baggies from store-bought cold cuts being reused, as if there were no such thing as salmonella. And I found Mom needing company and a hair wash.

My mother was always one for appearance. She too was of her generation, taking pride in what she owned and in her appearance. Before we even drove to the hospital for her surgery, she stopped to put on lipstick. Throughout her stay, she was always inquiring as to the location of her comb, regardless of when her hair had last been washed or set.

Several weeks following the surgery, my father caved. I clearly stated Mom is not getting what she needs, and he is not in a position to give it to her, because her needs are beyond what any one person can offer. This same man who had uttered, “I should have taken your mother on more vacations,” hesitated. So I finished with, “Well, Mom won't be going on too many vacations, but she can retain some dignity.” And her clean home and hair.

He relented long enough for Tamara to come into their home. He and I have not conversed in depth about the situation. It is too early. I don’t want to open the door for him to walk out on this deal.

But I did speak with Mom one morning, when Dad had departed for a meeting. Their caregiver, Tammy, had answered the phone then passed it on to Mom. She was laughing in the background as she came to the phone. I said, “Hi Mom. What are you up to?” And she replied, “Oh, well. I have a friend here and we are going to sit outside. It’s so beautiful today.” I could almost see her smile.

We didn’t speak long. I wanted Mom to hold fast to that feeling of friendship and freedom. I hung up and cried a little, called my younger sister, relayed the story, then cried a little more.

Baby steps, I had repeatedly told my father, as Mom progressed from the ER through surgery, ICU and finally home. Baby steps, I kept telling him, in regards to Mom’s recovery and in-home care.

Baby steps, I remind myself again.

8/24/2010

Blessing of the Lake

May the fish frolic in places unsuspecting,
their pools casting ripples beyond the no wake zone.

While you watch, may your loyal ally rest upon your lap
and a light breeze lift your spirit
off the dock, separating from the body which aches.

May a red ball of fire suddenly announce its presence
on the horizon, its reflection in the lake
growing longer as it rises, pushing the day’s clock to begin.

When its light is splintered by trees, may you still know warmth
as you sit on the dock toes dipped in water
creating ripples to meet those of the fish.

And may the blue herons nudge you from this trance,
the long flaps of their sails
soaring over the morning’s grace.

8/14/2010

Praying the Rosary While Sleeping

A machine drones on, squeezing
and releasing to keep her legs from clotting
She whispers, lips moving at rocket speed
She cannot be singing, not that fast
She is speaking, not aloud, but to her Maker
in an appeal.

Her hands curl around the finger probe
toying with imaginary beads
Parched lips struggle
to separate on the “Hail”
purse together for “Mary”
then finally form “full of grace”

She blesses the fruit of thy womb Jesus
while her own womb bears a new incision
“Holy Mary Mother of God” she murmurs
moving beads through bandaged hands

She clenches the rosary lifts it up
the beads speak back
a dialogue between hands and heart

Her eyes open, roll back into her head
looking inward for salvation
from this cruelty imposed upon her
She contemplates the Mysteries
joyful, luminous, sorrowful and glorious
in rhythm with the IV drip.

7/25/2010