Hobbits

Hobbits are a fictional diminutive race who inhabit the lands of Middle-earth in J. R. R. Tolkien's novel,

The Hobbit.  The novel The Lord of the Rings includes more hobbits as major characters.

So, as most people probably know, hobbits have odd eating habits, eating six normal sized meals a day. Here's a list of the meals they eat:
1. Breakfast
2. Second Breakfast
3. Elevenses
4. Lunch
5. Afternoon Tea
6.  Dinner

7. Supper

  

My parents are becoming hobbits.  No, really.  They are.  I know this because over the last three years I have observed their eating habits and they have changed dramatically. When Bill & Mary Beth first moved here in 2009, they took care of most of their own meals, in particular breakfasts & lunches.  Once they were comfortable in the kitchen, familiar with where everything was kept, they were able to take care of themselves.  I thought this was good because the more involved they were in such matters the quicker they would feel like they were home and not guests in their daughter's house. 

First breakfast is served around 7AM.  For over 60 years, Bill has had 2 scrambled eggs for breakfast with bacon or sausage, toast, OJ and coffee with cream & sugar.  No deviations, except on occasion I think he'd have over easy eggs - you know, for a change of pace.  He made his own breakfast.  There wasn't a day during my entire childhood that I didn't see him whipping up eggs in a bowl using a fork.  My mother didn't eat eggs but maybe once a week.  Mary Beth preferred cold cereal with toast in the morning, usually plain cereals like Corn Flakes or Cheerios.  Sometimes she'd go for plain shredded wheat - the kind that looks like the baled haystacks you see in fields when passing farms.  These breakfasts were the same even after moving here until about a year later.  Mary Beth informed me that Bill was having a hard time making breakfast due to physical limitations.  Actually what she said was that he was so slumped over the stove she thought he'd catch on fire!  Now THERE is an image for a caregiver to contemplate!  I went to him and suggested that I do breakfast. Because of his diminished appetite, my dad only eats 1 egg now with OJ and coffee.  No toast or bacon.  Mary Beth still eats cold cereal everyday, however after she discovered Froot Loops in our kitchen, she never ate healthy cereal again.  .


So that takes care of breakfast.  For about 30 minutes.  Second breakfast is served around 8AM.  After returning to her bedroom, Mary Beth will call out for more coffee and usually something to go with it.  Sometimes a pastry, cookie or an onion bagel with peanut butter.  Don't ask.   Bill carries chocolates in his pockets, as well as, cookies.  If there is pie or cake from the night before, they will ask for that.  

Elevenses time can vary anywhere from 9-10AM.  It usually consists of cereal or waffle topped with ice cream.  That's right.  Ice cream.  The waffle will also have fruit on it.  Strawberries, peaches or bananas.  No syrup because that would make it too sweet, you know.

Lunch is served anytime between 10-noon.  That usually consists of a half sandwich with coffee or soft drink for Mary Beth.  Bill used to eat that, too, but now wants Froot Loops with ice cream.  He will sometimes have Cream of Wheat, but with honey & butter.  No ice cream.


They usually take a nap after lunch, wouldn't you?  When they wake they will have a snack with something to drink.  I guess that's Afternoon Tea.  It takes place between 2 & 4PM. Many times they will come into the living room to watch TV and they have their Afternoon Tea in there.  Cheez-its and coke for Bill.  Flavored Wheat Thins and Sprite for Mary Beth.  They love to have milkshakes, too, so if I make a milkshake, they will share it.

Around 4PM they are looking for dinner.  They have had it as late as 6PM, though, depending on the household schedule.  They have become finicky in their golden years.  If I fix a roast with potatoes and root veggies, they may eat some.  Many times I have fixed a meal like that only to have them ask for Cream of Wheat, soup, Ramen or canned tamales.  This used to aggravate me, but I came to realize that if they are eating, that is the more important issue.  After dinner, they both want dessert.  It can be ice cream(again!), pie, cake, cookies or sometimes another milkshake.

Between 6 & 8PM is supper. That's usually cereal or sometimes a handful of cookies or chocolates.  Then it's off to bed between 8 & 9PM.

See what I mean?  Hobbits!

Meatball sub, anyone?

A sandwich is a food item, typically consisting of two or more slices of bread with one or more fillings between them.  The sandwich generation is defined as the people who care for aging parents, as well as their own children-a phenomena that has become more commonplace in recent years in this country.  For my family, our stint in the sandwich generation began in 2009 with both of my parents on one side and my daughter on the other side.  One year later my son would boomerang back to become part of the sandwich.  A three generational home is the norm in most countries except in the United States.  Many cultures do not understand the need to push children out of the nest.  Nor do they expect their aging parents to live in retirement homes.  Family taking care of family.  It's been traditional family life in other countries, but because it is a new concept for most people in this country new challenges arrive on a daily basis.

One consideration for my parents, Bill & Mary Beth moving here to live with us was where they would sleep in the house.  We chose the house based on their needs more than ours.  A bedroom on the main floor was the first requirement of a prospective house because we knew at some point they wouldn't navigate stairs well.  What we found were many houses with guest rooms on the first floor and although that would be fine for a temporary guest, it was not a viable solution for permanent elderly residents.  This house was perfect and we knew it the minute we walked into the front door.  We  have them in the Master bedroom on the main floor.  Our downstairs bedroom is directly below them and allows us to hear my parents if they call out during the night.  Selected pieces from my parents' home went into the dining room and parlor on the main floor.  This allows them to continue to enjoy it and to feel a little more at home while here.  They lived in their last home for almost 50 years, so I never wanted them to regret being here.  One thing we didn't plan for was the maneuverability of a wheelchair within the house.  Thankfully, the open floor plan on the main floor has worked well for the wheelchair my mom now uses since breaking her shoulder in February.  So the layout has worked for them quite well.  That's the first side of my sub sandwich.

The second side of the sandwich is my children.  The house has a loft area that consists of a mini-living room with two bedrooms, a linen closet and bathroom.  They are both in college, but living at home. It's like they are suite mates.  The only thing it lacks at this point, according to Alex and Taylor, is a mini fridge and microwave.  I told them not to push it.  Let's face it, we want them to leave eventually!  The loft is a bit of an oasis away from the hustle and bustle of elder care-giving.  (There will be plenty of opportunity for that when I move in with them in 30 years!!)  If I need help, I ask.

The loft overlooks the living room, so even if they are upstairs we are never really out of range.  Amazingly, as much room as we have here we still tend to gravitate toward each other.  One unforeseen aspect of this arrangement is that the family has become closer-knit.  I worried that we would have problems with six adults under one roof, but that has not happened.  Don't get me wrong.  We do have disagreements, but we seem to work them out without too much trouble.  Something occurred to me recently, too.   I actually like the people I live with and not just because they are relatives!  Each member of this house provides something positive as a result of being here.

You can't have a sandwich without the insides. The inside of our three generational sandwich is the caregivers, Steve & me.  I am a meatball because meatballs are complex.  They are soft, yet solid and have substance.  Steve is the sauce and the cheese because they temper the meatball, smooth out its roughness, gives it flavor and provides stability.  Without the sauce and cheese the sandwich would fall apart.  Steve has not once complained about bringing Bill & Mary Beth here.  In fact, I think he had less reservations about it than I did!  Steve was lucky when it came to in-laws, though.  My family accepted him with open arms and my siblings have always treated him like a brother. Actually, my mother chose my husband for me.  Not in the traditional sense, mind you.  I had a tendency to date "mutts" and I knew this, but couldn't seem to attract a decent fellow.  When I met Steve the first thing I learned was that he was already a college graduate and was in graduate school.  He was spiritual, conservative and he thought I was cute.  We were friends for a year before dating.  After dating for two months he met my parents.  I knew that if my mom didn't like him, he was history.  I have talked about her penchant for judging based on looks, so I held my breath as they were introduced.  They loved him  right away because he was respectful, gentlemanly, and talkative.  He talked to them as if he always knew them and it impressed them both.  She later remarked that she couldn't help but like him since it was obvious he was crazy about me.  Can't ask for more than that.

So it was Steve's turn to welcome my parents into our home with open arms.  All six of us work very well together and the sandwich is now complete.  A meatball sub sandwich.   It can get messy, but oh so good.  Welcome to the sandwich generation!

Memories

Watching active people lose vitality  & memory is so heartbreaking.  My parents, Bill & Mary Beth have become mere shells of who they used to be.  They have forgotten so much of what they did, where they went and who they knew.  It is difficult to balance what they are like now with the people I knew growing up. The aging process is nothing if not cruel and it is definitely an unforgiving nemesis to one's cherished memories.  Recently I started talking to them about their life experiences to stimulate their memories..  They also have created new memories while they live the remainder of their lives with us.

I was born in 1958, so my age of awareness is somewhere around 2-3 years old.  I think being at my maternal grandparents' house in Athens when my grandmother died is possibly my earliest memory.  I remember standing in the living room a midst dozens of people and I asked my sister where Nanny was and Kristie, being her forthright self said, "She's dead!"  I would have been 3 years & 4 months old.  Another memory from earlier that year is getting an umbrella stuck in my mouth..  I'm not kidding.  Remember the J-shaped umbrella handles?  I got this bright idea to stick in my mouth and it got lodged in the area directly behind my bottom teeth!  Having no background in geometry, biology, physics or common sense, I was flummoxed as to how to free myself.  There I was standing on our screened-in porch with this contraption stuck in my mouth, arms flailing and crying!  At some point I got outside to where my  mother stood talking to a neighbor.  She turned to see me walking toward her with this umbrella handle stuck in my mouth and the opposite end trailing between my legs because it was longer than I was tall.  My flailing arms stretched out and crying I looked at her unable to speak.  She said, "Oh, good lord!" and reached down to extricate the handle from my now very sore mouth.  That was 51 years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday.  I remember the pain I felt when the hard plastic dug into my skin inside my mouth.

Most memories are not that clear or detailed.  With the passage of time they become blurred and forgotten.  It is worse with dementia.  Thankfully neither one of my parents have signs of any dementia.  I don't know if they appreciate that, but I do.  I am able to talk to them about different aspects of their lives and lately I have written them down for posterity.  My mother doesn't understand why.  I try to explain that everyone has a story, but no one thinks their own stories are interesting because they know the story inside and out.  When someone else hears those stories its with fresh ears and it is interesting.  My parents have 88 and 87 years worth of memories.  When I was growing up they were always on the go.  They attended church activities during the week, symphonies, concerts, plays, movies, cocktail parties and fund-raisers.  During the 60's my father scuba dived with my brother Bill and had a strong interest in HAM radio, as well as Toastmasters.  In the 70's my mother learned how to play tennis and played on a team.  In the 80's my father bought his first pair of walking shoes and they both started walking for exercise.  They also traveled extensively in the 80's and 90's.  Both of my parents were larger than life to me growing up. My dad could fix anything and my mom was always doing for others.  They started slowing down only in the past 8 years, but even after spending the majority of the year in the hospital in 2004, my dad climbed up onto the roof of the garage in Ohio to clean the gutters!  Even though he knew his fixer-upper days were over he still wanted to contribute.   The purpose of me talking about the things they did is so they feel a sense of accomplishment with their lives.  Feeling like one mattered in this world can make the difference in how one views the experience.

The lack of mobility taints my parents' view of their lives, too.  The first year here in 2009, they went with us to the Dunwoody 4th of July parade.  No walkers or wheelchairs, just a cane for my dad.  Mary Beth resisted using any assistance until this last year.  She was told to use a walker.  She didn't use it much and chose to leave it at home when she had a doctor's appointment this past February.  As she left the office she attempted to step down off the curb and fell breaking her shoulder. Ironically, for 6 weeks she had to be transported by wheelchair.  She continued to be pushed by my dad months later.  Only after being accused of getting lazy did she finally agree to use the walker, but only on occasion.  When he isn't pushing the wheelchair my dad uses a walker upstairs and a cane downstairs.  He has become much too shaky & unstable to move about without some type of assistance.  He gets easily frustrated when he cannot do the simplest of tasks.  That is one reason he started sleeping in his clothes, less work than wearing pajamas.  I had considered putting his computer in their bedroom, but then I realized that going downstairs to his office is one thing he can still do.  As long as it is not dangerous, he should keep doing it.  My mother stopped doing stairs last year.  She does continue doing artwork to a lesser extent than she used to.  It has become difficult, though and as a result frustrating.

Bill & Mary Beth were both only children, so when they married they wanted a large family.  They had 4 children and subsequently, 8 grandchildren.  Two of them are mine and they live here in the same house.  The ability to see their first 2 grandchildren become young adults is an experience that I know my parents enjoy.  Something they do here that they couldn't do in Ohio is to sit on a deck and watch hummingbirds.  We also have a plethora of wild animals in our yard.  Chipmunks, possums, hawks, owls and lizards have been seen in our backyard.  Our front yard has seen a fair share of deer coming and going, a site never experienced in Ohio.  We also have crepe myrtle trees, gardenias, azaleas, magnolias and irises that delight my mother to no end every spring and summer.  My parents also enjoy our cat, Buffy.  Buffy has taken to my dad quite a bit.  I have witnessed her coming into a room, survey the occupants and go directly to her grandpa.  She sits on him with a look of pure love on her face.  I know he loves her because he will sit still for hours while she sleeps in his arms or on his lap.  Another experience new to my parents being here is going to Dairy Queen every Sunday afternoon.  It started pretty soon after they moved here after they found out there was a DQ near-by.  The day I knew my mom was getting better from her broken shoulder was when she said she wanted DQ.  Getting into the garage and into the car was taxing, but she persevered and I knew she was going to be okay.

Having Bill & Mary Beth here has been an experience that I will not likely ever forget.  It is harder and more rewarding than I ever imagined.  I get told by people who hear what I'm doing that I have earned the entrance to Heaven, but I don't care if I have or not.  I'm doing this because of who they've been to me.  It is my goal that their last years are memorable.  After all, don't they deserve that much?

Bill & Mary: The Love Story

Mary Pierce Engagement Picture-1946

Most love stories begin the same.  Boy meets girl.  Boy falls in love. Boy marries girl.  My parents were no exception except that it went more like this- Boy sees girl then takes entire summer to ask her out and finally has first date the night before she's scheduled to leave town.  But fate is a funny thing.  That first night both of my parents knew they'd not be apart for long.

In the Summer of 1944 my father, Bill,  was working at Curtis-Wright (now Rockwell) as part of his Engineering Co-op work study through the University of Cincinnati .  My mother, Mary, was also working at Curtis-Wright as a temporary secretary during her summer break from Ohio University.  The first time Bill Johnston saw Mary Pierce he was on a city bus on the way to work.  He looked out when the bus stopped and saw a beautiful, young, slender woman with long dark wavy hair running to catch it.  After boarding the bus she found herself face to face with a tall, lanky gentleman dressed in a typical suit and tie.   Mary looked up at him and smiled and said hi. She says he was drop dead gorgeous. According to Bill, he was already in love at that point.  He would see her on the bus daily, but didn't feel confident he could get a date.  He wondered about it  for 3 months and near the end of the summer someone told him  that Mary would be leaving the next day because her summer break was over.  Bill finally found his nerve.  They went on their first date that night at the VFW for dinner and dancing.  When he walked her home he was not sure of what to say so he told her to travel safely the next day and turned to leave.  She watched him walking away and knew that she was in love and at that moment called out to him softly saying his name, "Bill?"  He turned and ran back to her open arms taking her in his and kissing her for the first time and cementing the bond between them that has lasted 68 years.

Mary returned to school in Athens, Ohio and Bill returned to the University of Cincinnati.  At some point in the semester he sent her a letter suggesting that she come visit him in Cincinnati.  He had even arranged for her to stay in the Alpha  Gamma House on the UC campus, but my grandmother said it would be improper for my mom to do that.  According to my mother, my grandmother never put her foot down about very many things, but when she objected to my mother going to UC, my mom listened to her.  The following semester at the beginning of 1945, Mary left school to work for the war effort.  She wanted to go to either the Pentagon or to go work in Tampa, Florida at a Discharge Post.  She had never been to Florida so off to Tampa she went.   They had no openings so she went to work at a newspaper in the area.  It was in that office that she found out about the death of President Roosevelt when it come over the teletype machine in the newsroom.

Mary continued to work at the newspaper until a friend from OU came to Florida wanting to work in Sarasota and asked my mom to go with her.. Marcie and Mary arrived in Sarasota to get jobs at drug stores right after the movie "The Greatest Show on Earth" was filmed there.  Being a hub for the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus my mom made friends with many of the circus performers and even stood bridesmaid when a friend married one.  Marcie soon got bored with Sarasota and returned to OU.  My mom finally got a spot with the Discharge Post and went back to Tampa.  When the Discharge Post closed she went to work for the VA in St. Petersburg.

1946

Bill was Honorably Discharged from the Army Air Corps for having a bad chest x-ray, but he kept the uniform.  After Mary went to work in Florida,she didn't see him since travel was limited because of rationing.  During his summer break in 1946, Bill hitchhiked in his uniform from Cincinnati to St. Pete.  Mary says that she was on lunch break at work on the beach in St. Pete and when she returned to the office she saw this good-looking man in uniform walking toward her with a huge grin on his face.  She said she was so shocked to see him, but extremely happy.  She was crazy about him and he obviously felt the same way!  After he went back to school, Bill sent her a letter proposing marriage and she returned a letter accepting it.  In the Fall of 1946, he got a ride with other UC students going to the UC/OU football game in Athens, Ohio.  While in Athens he met Harold and Flora Pierce, my grandparents.  It was during this visit that he asked her father for her hand in marriage.  They both immediately gave them their blessing.

1948

After becoming engaged, Mary returned to Athens but did not return to school.  Bill was doing his Co-op in Dayton at Wright Field and wrote to tell her that the R & D (Research & Development) Department badly  needed secretaries and that she could get a job there.  Harold and Flora drove her to Dayton where she lived in a Girls' Residence and worked at Wright Field. They decided not have a long engagement so in November Bill Johnston & Mary Pierce took a city bus to the county courthouse and were married by a Justice of the Peace.  It was November 16, 1946 and so began a union that produced 4 children(Kristie, Bill III, Frank & Heidi) and led to 8 grandchildren (Alex, Taylor, Sean, Fiona, Maggie, Liam, Colin & Brendan).   This year they celebrate 66 years of marital bliss.  And they are still crazy in love.  Is it any wonder why this writer is such a hopeless romantic?

July 9, 1962

Junior Birdman

My daddy 2010 

Up in the air junior birdman
Up in the air upside down
Up in the air junior birdman
Keep your noses off the ground

My father, William Otis Johnston, Jr., worked as an Aeronautical & Aerospace Engineer when I was growing up.  He has always loved everything about planes.  He learned how to fly after he got out of the Army in 1942 when he was 18.  After he married my mother he flew her to the Indianapolis 500 twice.  She threw up.  He also flew with my 2 oldest siblings, Bill & Kristie when they were small.  My mother threw up again.    My brother, Frank & I, never had the thrill of riding with my dad, something I now regret. He quit flying in 1953 because my mom never got acclimated to the cabin pressure and he didn't want to do it without her.  He loved her so much he gave up the one thing he wanted to be with her.  I'm not sure how I feel about that.  Most of the gifts my dad received through the years were airplane related.  Pins, models, pictures, calendars even ties and tie-clips.  He would look up each time a plane would fly overheard and identify it within seconds.  He was amazing.  I was in awe of him growing up.  He could do anything.  A real giant to me.  Well, until I became a teenager, then he became my personal ATM.  As I have aged and especially after my parents moved here, I have begun to look back with different eyes.  I see the man that he was not only as I see him now.  A man who knew what it meant to sacrifice his own needs for the greater good of the family.  I have to remind myself that that is the real man not the one who drives me nuts today.

Bill started his career at Curtis-Wright in Dayton, Ohio while he was a student at the University of Cincinnati.  He began school at the University of Tennessee, but transferred to UC to take advantage of their engineering program that allowed for Co-op, a work study program.  Every other semester he would work in his field balanced with school in between.  In his last year of school, he received an offer to work at Curtis-Wright full time and he decided to drop out of school to work.  One of his many regrets in life, dropping out with 1 semester left before graduation.  (Several years ago I sent an e-mail to the Dean of the Engineering school to inquire about my father obtaining his degree using his work experience for his last credits.  I've never received an answer.)

From Curtis-Wright he went to North American (now Rockwell) in Columbus.  Through the next several decades he worked in Georgia, Maryland and Connecticut.  And although he never flew after 1953, his love of planes and anything aeronautical never waned.  So it was not too surprising when he arranged to go on an airplane ride in the Spring of 2010.  Not just any airplane ride, though, it was a ride on a vintage Stearman bi-plane, you know the kind you see in old movies with the open cockpits?  I haven't seen my father that excited before about anything, or since.  He was downright giddy and folks, my dad doesn't do giddy!  Steve took him up to Canton and my son, Alex, went with them.

They arrived on a clear Saturday morning in May.  Perfect flying conditions.  The hangar had Big Band music playng and the pilot handed my dad a headset so that they could communicate during the flight.  Because he is so unsteady he needed help getting into the Stearman, but once he was in he was in his element and ready to go.  Back at the house, my daughter, Taylor and I took my mother outside to the front driveway to sit.  The pilot flew the plane overhead and wagged the wings.  It was so thrilling!  When his hour flight was over and my dad was back on terra firma, he turned to my son and said, "You're next!"  Alex bounded over to the plane and took the ride of his life.  Steve followed.  When my dad came home he had a spring in his step that wasn't there earlier.  He was still floating in the clouds a month later when he arranged for Taylor and I to go up together on Father's Day.  We flew over Downtown Atlanta, Stone Mountain and Doraville.  It was great.

My dad has since been diagnosed with a strain of leukemia and continues to be quite shaky.  His days of flying are most definitely over, but for that one brief shining moment 2 years ago, he flew high and felt no pain.  What I take from this story is that we need to see people as they were in their prime.  That is who they were.  That is who they still are.  Just hidden beneath years of disappointment, sacrifice and the preconceived notions of others.  No matter where you've been or how little you think you are, everyone has a story to tell.  I never believed that until I started writing.

....huh? What?

As long as I can remember, my mother has had trouble hearing.  Her hearing loss was a result of a childhood bout of Scarlet Fever. We managed to deal with the issue without much trouble, but in the last few years, the hearing loss has become more of a bone of contention between the family and my mother.  She refused from first mention to get tested for a hearing aid.  Always stating that she didn't like things in her ears.  She was quite adamant about it, too.  She did have a hearing test some years ago, but that's as far as it went.  Once my parents moved here, though, the issue became quite urgent and we almost felt as if an intervention was necessary to fix this problem.

When I was growing up, we yelled a lot at my house.  There were 4 kids in the family, so yelling was normal for us.  With 6 people in the house, sometimes it took yelling to be noticed or heard over the din created by 6 people.  Someone took something, someone got in someone's way, someone ate the last of something or drank the last bottle of something or someone breathed wrong.  Yeah, 4 kids within a 10 year period?  There was definitely a lot of yelling, especially when the kids became rebellious teenagers.
In contrast, Steve, my husband, grew up with 1 sibling who was much younger and didn't pose much conflict.  As a result,  Steve doesn't like yelling.  When we were first married, I yelled at any given moment, I even laughed loud.  It really was obnoxious.  Looking back I wonder how we managed to stay together this long.  So imagine his chagrin upon learning that yelling was the solution chosen to deal with my mother's increasing hearing loss.   After they arrived here in 2009, it became quite evident that the hearing was worse and our only option was even more yelling.  I cringed every time someone had to yell to respond to my mom because I knew Steve hated it.  It seemed as if it got worse by leaps and bounds and I knew that something would have to be done about it.

Hearing loss is never funny, but situations created by hearing loss can be hilarious.  Especially when the words spoken are not the words heard.
"Mom, I'll do that in a while."  "Whose crocodile?"
"Mom, do you want a Klondike Bar?"  "No, I don't want a corndog!"
"Mom, do you want some water?" "Salt?, why do I need salt?"
"Mom, Frank said he took the kids somewhere."  "Aren't they going out?"
"Mom, Fiona is with Sean"  "What's the matter now?  Sibling rivalry?"
"Merry Christmas!"  "How's business?"

And on and on.  It became a comedy of errors around here. For 2 1/2 years we went through this charade of yelling in order to be heard and her misunderstanding what we were saying.  At one point, she actually complained that we were always yelling at her!!  I said, "We are yelling because you won't get a hearing aid!"   I told her that enough was enough and that I was arranging a hearing test for her. In addition to her objection with having something in her ear, she also cited that they cost too much and that she didn't think it was necessary and she didn't want to travel to do it.  I ignored her.  I called Beltone and set up a consultation to take place in our home the following week.  She definitely has a significant hearing loss in her right ear and not as much in the left ear.  The rep from Beltone suggested getting an aid for just the left ear since it would be covered completely by insurance.  The aid itself was transparent as well as small, so her objections were invalidated.  She does wear it and I think she was relieved to get it.  The house is much quieter.  She complains on occasion that the TV is too loud, music to my ears!  She still hasn't mastered putting it on by herself, but I can live with that.

Plumbers On Speed-Dial

One of the things that we had to learn early when my parents first came to live with us was that it was best  that we never left them unattended.  We didn't realize it, though, until AFTER thousands of dollars were spent fixing  all the "accidents" that occurred when they were alone. Two specific incidents come to mind.

When we moved to this house 4 years ago, Taylor and I discovered the joy of walking and would go out on a regular basis several times a week.  We continued to do so until one fateful day about two years after my parents arrived.  Upon returning to the house after our morning walk, Taylor headed to the shower in the loft and I went downstairs to the den to cool off before I, too, took a shower.  As I sat on the couch, I began to hear a sound that was not unfamiliar, exactly, I just couldn't pin point what it was.  I stood up and began to walk toward the sound and felt something hit my head as I stood near the bathroom door.  I looked up to see drops of water cascading through the ceiling tiles and at the same time heard the powder room toilet flushing.  Realizing that an overflowing toilet was the source of the flooding, I hightailed it upstairs and found a lake on the powder room floor.  It was at that moment my father came stumbling out of the Master bedroom with a small towel.  I said, "We'll need more than that!" and ran to the linen closet upstairs in the loft.  After getting the water soaked up, I asked my dad how many times he had flushed and he indicated that he flushed several times.  I asked why he would continue to flush if it didn't go down the first time and he said,"I don't know.  Stupid, I guess!"  Now, if you heard that once as an explanation for something someone did by accident, you wouldn't think much about it, but this is the retort we all receive from my father in regard to anything he does.  At that point, though, all I could do was clean up the floor and then take care of the downstairs bathroom.  I got the toilet fixed and told my dad that I had placed several towels in the powder room cabinet just in case it happened again,  The whole episode spooked me enough that Taylor and I decided we couldn't walk while they were awake for fear of another toilet overflow.

So some time passed before we got cabin fever and decided to venture out leaving Bill & Mary alone again.  That decision ended up haunting me for days.  When we returned from wherever we went to, I entered my parents' bedroom and my father looked at me sheepishly and said, "Forgive me, dear daughter, I know not of what I did."  Now I don't know about you, but when I hear words like that, especially now, blood drains from my being and I start hyperventilating.  I took a very deep breath and asked him what happened.  He said that the toilet in the Master bathroom was clogged and that he tried to plunge it. I looked toward the bathroom and it looked as though every towel in the room was on the floor soaking up water, never a good sign.   I took two steps and promptly felt and heard the familiar SQUISH of wet carpet.  My heart sank through the floor and beyond, for several reasons.  One, I knew they definitely cannot EVER be left alone again.  Two, the cost of repair was going to be astronomical.  And three, I was about to have a meltdown.

I turned to my father and asked him what happened.  He claimed that he kept flushing it after it flushed slowly the first time. "Why would you keep flushing?"  "I don't know, stupid, I guess!"  I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think straight, I needed air and someone to tell me my next step.  I called Steve and lost it.  After he calmed me down, he said he'd call and get someone out to the house as soon as possible.  I stood in the
dining room feeling powerless and hyperventilating. Then I heard my mother ask the million-dollar question.  "Did you try using the toilet cleaning pad?" "Yes"  "Were you cleaning the toilet with that wand?"  "It's not supposed to be flushed."  "Oops, too late!"  It was at that moment that the floor gave way swallowing me up into the depths of hell.  I am not proud of what happened next.  I know that my meltdown was the result of the stress I had been under for the previous 2 1/2 years.  Running a household with 2 grown children, 2 elderly parents and a husband, as well as, trying to start an online business, took it's toll and in a big way  I started screaming about my pretty house being ruined and how I couldn't understand why he'd keep flushing after seeing it was clogged.  My mother made a comment about how they would pay for the repairs and I said, "You sure as hell will!"  The total cost for drying out and cleaning carpet and under flooring, new toilet purchased and installed (because the old one had 5 disks stuck in it!) and labor over a 5 day period?  $2000+


As I was leaving the bedroom after my tirade, I heard my father turn to my mom and as deadpan as possible and without a trace of emotion say to her, "Well, I guess we've overstayed our welcome."



They are still here and I have learned that having meltdowns are bad for everyone's health.  Hence, the purpose for this blog!

Candyland

Remember your childhood when all you wanted to eat was cookies, cakes, donuts, candy and pop?  Well, as it turns out when you are elderly, you CAN!!!  Mary Beth & Bill have a sweet tooth that rivals that of a 5 year old.  
Almost every morning, my mother will request a donut or piece of chocolate to go with her 2nd cup of coffee right after eating Froot Loops for breakfast!  My dad will ask for ice cream sometimes after eating his Froot Loops for lunch.  In between, they will steal chocolates from the candy jar that sits in the kitchen.  I have seen them eat something sweet after a meal of waffles or pancakes!  I feel dizzy and diabetic watching them down all that sugar with Coke.  Dessert is expected after every dinner.  Usually ice cream, sometimes with chocolate syrup and always accompanied by a cookie or two-naturally!  My dad hoards Peppermint Lifesavers, cookies and chocolates in his pockets!  He even goes to bed with them!
My mom will request cake for every real and imaginary occasion during the year.  She thinks we need more than one type for any occasion  like Christmas, Easter, July 4th, birthdays and wedding anniversaries.  Her rationale is "so no one in the house has to do without because they don't like what we got."  She claimed not to like the carrot cake I got for Alex's birthday, so I bought a coconut cake, too.  Later in the day we found what was left of the carrot cake, a pile of rubble where Mary Beth had notched into it using a large spoon like a backhoe.  Without a trace of irony, she said, "I like carrot cake!"    
We have also purchased cake for non-holiday occasions like first day or last day of school, getting stitches out, getting a new toilet, Steve returning from a business trip, Heidi coming back from vacation, Alex and Taylor's grades, anniversary of their move here or someone arriving for a visit.  It reminds me of an old Andy Griffith episode where the Morrison sisters were selling Moonshine for "celebratory purposes only, not just for nipping".  The locals knew this and therefore would purchase the alcohol under the guise of being for legitimate reasons, like Sir Walter Raleigh Day.  I really wouldn't be TOO surprised if WE got a cake for National Potato Week!  I mean at this point, isn't the allure of the cakes close to that of Moonshine?

Parental Toddlers

When you become a parent, the term to describe the journey is "raising children".  I have searched and have not found a comparable term to describe taking care of parents. Sometimes it  feels like I am raising them, as well, except that this time around they talk back, have opinions about things I do, and eat anything they want.  My father uses a walker, but in the first two and a half years they were here, he refused to use a cane or a walker.  When a child is learning to walk, he is cute when he's wobbly.  If he falls down, he usually lands on a diaper that cushions his fall.  When a 5'10" man is wobbly it is definitely not cute because if he falls something is going to break.  Not to mention all the items he is grabbing as he stumbles through the house trying to keep his balance!  When toddlers are being potty-trained, anything goes in terms of how to motivate and reward behavior.  How do you tell an adult that they need to wash their hands after using the toilet without coming across as pushy or dictatorial?  Offer them a cookie?  I also gave up trying to get them to eat properly.  Telling them they have to eat veggies doesn't work when they can go get ice cream, cookies or candy without my help!  Everyday for breakfast my parents eat the exact same thing.  Daddy eats one egg, scrambled with coffee. The coffee has cream and sugar in it.   EXACTLY one spoonful of each.  He measures the cream into his spoon, then he picks up the creamer and empties a single drop into my mother's cereal.  It doesn't matter that I only put a spoonful of cream in the creamer in the first place! What he does with the cream goes along with his shaking the sugar shaker before measuring it, as if it has developed lumps since he shook it yesterday!   My mother eats fruit loops, every day.

Me: Mom what kind of cereal do you want to eat? Mom: What was that multi-colored cereal I had yesterday that looked like Cheerios?   Me:  Froot Loops?   Mom: I like Froot Loops!! I want those from now on! That was 3 years ago and she hasn't missed a day.....until this morning. Oh, the humanity!! LIFE JUST DOESN'T HOLD THE SAME WITHOUT FROOT LOOPS!!!  I guess we all know where Heidi will be this morning! Mom is fine. She had some "Frosty Flakes" instead.  I'll be in trouble if she starts wanting the toys enclosed!  Lunch is the same everyday, as well.  This time Daddy has Froot Loops and Mom has half of a sandwich usually with coffee.  So no neurons are needed when I fix breakfast or lunch.  Dinner is a whole new issue.  When it comes to serving dinner I have to be a magician.  I can cook an entire meal and they will not want it.  Usually, I end up making three different meals because they are rarely in the mood the same thing.

When Daddy was growing up in Memphis in the 1930's one of his favorite things to do was getting tamales at Leonard's restaurant.  He has talked  fondly over the years about how his Gram would give him a nickel to go down on Sunday night to get a tamale.  Since then he has tried to find a tamale as good as Leonard's, to no avail.  After they moved here I began the quest for the better tamale and eventually came across canned tamales in the Hispanic section at the grocery store.  I think he was surprised to like them as well as he does.  So when he doesn't like my prepared dinner he asks for tamales.  This happens about 3-4 times a week!  Well, at least he's eating!  My mother's go to meal when she doesn't want what I made is Ramen noodles or Cream of Wheat.  I used to get frustrated trying to come up with numerous meals for them to choose from and then realized they are children with limited palates.  After all, it's more important that the child eats something!

Let's hear it for the underdog!

Growing up in Bexley, Ohio,(yes, THAT Bexley, the one Bob Greene writes about), was quite difficult at times because of the cliques and snobbery that comes with upper middle class living.  As a result, children learn early to be very discriminating about who they are friends with, which party invitations to accept, whose Bar Mitzvah or First Communion to attend or who to talk to in school.  Snobbery is actually an art form.  An art form that I never mastered and therefore fell to the bottom of the social totem pole early.  One reason for such descent is my mother's insistence that I am friendly to all children, no matter their level of popularity.  I remember when I was in the 2nd grade being invited to a less popular girl's birthday party.  I voiced concern about whether to accept the invitation and my mother said that I would because "you should never turn down friendship since they are hard to come by".  So I went to every party and every religious ceremony I was ever invited to.  Even to the Bar Mitzvah of a boogery 7th grader.  I would talk to anyone and everyone in school.  I had a lot of friends, but by the time we entered high school, the labels had been made.  The geeks, the brains, the jocks, the stoners and the loners.  If you didn't fit in with the first four groups, you were relegated to be a loner because your list of friends included people who didn't socialize with each other.  So as a result, I rarely knew about parties and certainly never received invites to them.  Looking back I am glad I couldn't be pigeon-holed into a category.  The pain of being excluded was worth having a diverse number of friends and learning to appreciate the differences  Which brings me to Mary Beth.
For the last 25 years, I have witnessed a habit of my mother's that seems to intensify with each passing year.  I don't remember when it started, but it was subtle at first.  A comment here, a comment there.  Insults that were masked as mere observations.  I found it difficult to witness because this was my mother, the woman who shaped me into the all-accepting person I am!  One of the first times I can remember this behavior was in the 1980's.  I was telling her about a new friend I had met in the neighborhood.  When I mentioned that the woman's husband was a doctor, my mother's immediate response was, "What doe HE look like?"  I remember feeling as if I had been punched in the stomach.  I could feel my face turning beet red from embarrassment that she could say such a thing..  I could feel my heart racing and my breathing became difficult.  I was struck dumb-founded  and extremely tongue-tied.  I remember stuttering out a response saying, "What difference does it make?  He's a doctor.  He does good things!"  As the years progressed I began to notice the pattern of behavior.  She always wanted to know what someone looked like and along the way, she started commenting on people we would come across in public.  I remember feeling like I wanted to sink into the ground after her comment about how some poor waitress or attendant somewhere was funny-looking or had some weird anomaly about them.  Sometimes, she wasn't very discrete and would say it within earshot of the poor soul.  When my dad was recovering in a rehab in 2004 , we were walking down the hall to leave and as we walked past the nurses' station, she said the nurse looked like a demented rabbit.  All I could think was, "Oh, God, kill me now!"  In an earlier blog, I wrote about Dr. Baby Teeth.  That's a perfect example of this habit.  Attaching a person's worth to their physical appeal.  I guess it makes her feel good about herself.
So imagine my surprise when at 53 years, 10 months and 8 days old, I finally pushed back.  Yep, that's right.  Heidi found her backbone today and stood up for the little guy!  I had to take Mary Beth to get her stitches out of her face from her melanoma removal last week.  We got into the car and before I had exited the parking deck, it happened.  She was remarking that the dermatologist's nurse removed her stitches.  She didn't comment on the fact that she did her job or that she was really careful, no, she said, "She sure was funny-looking!"  And then 25+ years of repression came spilling out.  I lost it.  Before I knew what was happening I turned to her and said, "Why do you do that?"  "Because I'm observant"  "That's not being observant, Mom, that's being judgmental and you do it all the time and I can't stand it because all I can think about is what you say about me!  How would you feel if someone said that about you?"  "They probably do!"  "Well, you would feel awful if you knew about it!" "Well, then I won't do it anymore............around you."   Ah, Mary Beth.  Gotta love her!

Empty nest? Not this year!

One of the downsides to moving away from Conyers was leaving behind our son, Alex.  He had moved out of our home and into a house his friend owned.  He was very happy to be out on his own, working full-time and going to school part-time.  A year after my parents moved in, he lost his job. With no means of support to pay for his rent Alex was faced with having to move out.and he was very unhappy.  They say you can only be as happy as your unhappiest child which meant my emotions were toast!  I do not know how I knew what to do, but I went into some sort of survival mode for the sake of my child.  I called him and calmly told him that if he came home and transferred to Ga. State he could go to school full-time and obtain a Bachelor Degree in two years.  We did expect him to apply for financial aid, though, especially if he didn't work.  He was so torn up over losing his independence, but he knew he had little choice.  Of course it didn't help matters that his roommate always told him that moving back to his parents' place was a sign of weakness and failure.  Little did the roommate know but that this is such a huge trend these days that there is a term for it.  Boomerang kids.  Generation X.  Whether due to delayed maturity or economic stress, children of Generation X are failing to launch as early as the generations before them.  They also have returned after launching, coming home after hitting tough times with school, work or drug use.  Thankfully, we never had to face any type of drug use with either child.

So, back home he reluctantly came, along with a huge chip on his shoulder.  I understood that chip.  Once I left home for college, I would have been devastated to live with my parents again.  But Conyers was becoming a total hell-hole.  Crime seemed much more rampant than when we moved there in 1989.  I have likened the change in Conyers with a scene in the movie, "It's a wonderful life", where the character, George Bailey wishes he had never been born.  Clarence, his guardian angel, grants his wish and George runs away and ends up back to town.  Everything is different.  Bedford Falls was now Pottersville and  the contrast was stark.  Bedford Falls was a sweet, little, sleepy town that could be the model for a picture by Currier & Ives or Thomas Kinkade.  Everyone smiling, conversing with one another as they walked down the street or shopped   People being helpful and caring about each other, living the Golden Rule, so to speak.  In contrast, Pottersville was brash with neon lights everywhere, loud music, drunken men and slutty women in bars that lined the main street.  Unfriendly, angry people were snapping at each other like wolves fighting over a kill.  Total unrest in the streets, shops and homes.  People merely surviving life, not living it. That's Conyers today.  Something like survival after the apocalypse like in Mad Max.   Okay, maybe not quite that bad, but close enough.  And I wanted my child out of there!

We had room for him once we cleaned out the ersatz guest room.  We got some new things like bookshelves and new bed clothes to help soften the pain.  Our daughter, Taylor was here because she has felt too immature to leave home just yet.  Having both kids here with both parents made me realize that Steve and I would not be empty-nesters quite yet.  THAT was a hard pill to swallow and I had a chip on MY shoulder for awhile.  But I got a new perspective at some point about that.  My children were young adults and I was no longer going to be a Helicopter Parent (you know, hovering?).  They would be expected to contribute as members of the household, but their decisions had to be theirs and theirs alone.  Steve and I would be here to give advice if asked, but ultimately, we wanted to let them succeed or fail on their own terms.  I read something yesterday that took my breath away.  A quote from a father to his son, "If you haven't had failures in life, it's because you weren't trying hard enough."  Over the last few years Alex has realized that being here is not so bad, but most importantly, it's not forever.  He will graduate soon and so will Taylor.  Having them here is a blessing because I am finally able to be the parent to them I always wanted to be.  As a result of having 6 adults in the house I have become more patient, calmer and less screechy, according to the kids.  There are cultures that do not understand the concept of children leaving the nest.  Multi-generational homes are more the norm.  The prospect of that used to really scare and upset me to think of being a part of.  Now it's hard to imagine it not being this way.

Miss Mary Beth

Soon after my parents moved to Atlanta, we began the task of finding doctors and setting up appointments for them to become acquainted.  We had a lot of good luck when it came to selecting a cardiologist, foot doctor, dermatologist and orthopedist.   Selecting an internist took a little more effort.

As long as I've been alive I have been aware of the importance my mother puts on peoples' looks.  I was raised to believe that if I am not pretty, I am not worthy to walk the earth. (I'm sure this explains a lot about me, but I digress.)  Her opinion about anyone she has met or merely heard about, is put through the litmus test of "What do they look like?" or "They sure are funny-looking!"  As I have gotten older, grayer and fatter, this attitude unhinges me at the least provocation.  I would hate to be judged based on those things only!  Years ago, I was telling her about the husband of a friend who had just returned from a medical missions trip to a third world country and what a great thing he had done.  This man, a doctor,  had left the comfort of home to do something for free to help the less fortunate and all she wants to know is if he is good looking.  So when she asked me to find doctors for her and my dad, she chose them based on their online pictures, because if they are handsome, they must be really good doctors!  Everybody else passed the test in person until her first appointment with...Dr. Baby Teeth.  The man was quite handsome in his picture for the hospital staff.  Thick white hair, tall, a slight tan, nice skin and yes, good looking.  He swept  into the examining room with an air of authority.  Put out his hand to take my mother's hand...and smiled.  I swear to God, he had the tiniest teeth I've ever seen on an adult.  I knew instantly what my mom was thinking and purposely avoided eye contact with her.  At the same time, I was thinking how ironic the situation had become since he had won the beauty contest for Miss  Photogenic.  Needless to say, she did not want to use him.  We weren't out the door before she started talking about it.   Dr. Baby Teeth.  She still calls him that, three years later!  Thankfully, I got the name of another internist and his teeth are normal.


Another eccentricity of my mom's is her ability to pick and choose where and when to abide by the laws of etiquette.  Growing up my mom was a stickler for them.  We did not live in the richest part of town in Bexley, Ohio, but we were expected to have a certain amount of decorum, especially at the dinner table.  No original bottle or container was allowed.  Ketchup was poured into a separate dish and served with a spoon.  So was mustard, mayonnaise, crudites, butter and salad dressing.   No bottles or cans of pop.  No one was allowed to leave the table without asking permission.  Talking was allowed, but food was to be swallowed first.   And certainly no food allowed in the living room or bedroom unless one is sick.  The family ate together in the dining room at the same time and absolutely no eating in front of the television!   My mother called it "gracious living", so imagine my horror years later in seeing my mother, Miss Manners, take a half full cup of coffee and sling the contents under the table in a booth at a Bob Evans restaurant.  Droplets slapped against my bare leg before I knew what she was doing.  I looked down in time to see a dark stain on the carpet beneath my feet and quickly realized what she was doing.  "Mom, I can't believe you just did that!"   Now, this is the clincher.  She looked at me like I was the crazy one and said with a full mouth of food, "What?  I want a refill, it was cold."  All I could do was sit there like a fish caught on a hook with its mouth agape as tiny food particles rained down on me like confetti from her full mouth.  Until I finally got my breath and said out loud, "Well, so much for gracious living!"   She just looked at me and said, "Oh!  Phbbbt!"  I was glad she had at least swallowed by that point!

Since moving here I don't think my parents have eaten more than 20 meals at the dining room table.  They eat dinner at 4 PM not with us.  They eat watching television... in the bedroom... in the bed.  They eat crackers, chocolate, hot dogs with ketchup, spaghetti, tamales, you name it.  There are permanent stains on their sheets and comforter that look like a food massacre took place in the bedroom.  My father also likes to go to bed with pockets of candy and cookies, just in case he gets hungry while asleep.  They get smashed and rubbed onto the sheets, as well.   I have cleaned their bedroom carpet so many times with my "Little Green Machine" that the people who make the bottles of cleaner I use now live in mansions on Waikiki! 


  

Cleanliness is next to godliness.

Having your parents living with you and your family can be very frustrating at times in ways that may surprise you.  For instance, both of my parents were always quite  fastidious and tidy people when I was growing up. Which was not unusual for that generation.  Even pictures of lower income families in the 30s, 40s and 50s showed people in their Sunday best at a ballgame or going to the movies. That was the way it was.  I never saw my father wear anything but business suits or business casual clothing.  He was well-groomed and slept in pajamas and always wore a robe over them.  It would be unthinkable for him to lounge around the house in boxer shorts or to go out in public without a shirt, even on the hottest day of the summer.  Have you ever seen  Mr.Cleaver in "Leave it to Beaver" when he mowed the lawn wearing long pants and a tie?  My dad did that!!!   Or he would wear khaki pants with a pull-over shirt tucked in neatly.  I never saw my father in a pair of shorts or athletic shoes until the late '70's.  And I have never seen him in a pair of blue jeans.  I grew up believing this man could walk on water, well, at least until I was a rebellious teenager!
My mother was also quite concerned about her appearance, except in her case it was because she cared about what other people thought and therefore would never be seen leaving the house imperfectly coiffed or sans make-up or (gasp) wearing pants!   My mother wore a skirt or dress every day.  With heals.  And usually pearls.  You know...June Cleaver?  (See, the thing about those old shows was that they weren't the exception, they were the rule.  But we laugh watching them thinking "what were the writers thinking?"  When, in fact, they were probably writing about themselves!)   I got my mom to put on some painters' pants once when we were in St. Augustine on vacation one year when I was a teenager.  She actually wore them outside!   I was thrilled on several levels.
One, she was in pants.
Two, she was in public.
Three, we were the same size!  (I mean, that was pretty cool!  I was a typical thin person in 1974 which meant she was, too and she had just turned 49 that year!)
And four, she was downright cute in those painters' pants and it was like passing a milestone.  I had visions of the two of us dressing alike and having people wondering who was the daughter and who was the mother?  And then... reality hit.  The next day she was back in her skirt for the remainder of the trip.  She remembers that day in pants as the day she lost her mind, or something like it.  She would say that pants were too confining and never considered wearing them again.

So after my parents moved in three years ago, we realized there was a new reality.of existence for them that we weren't aware of in terms of their habits.  When you go to visit someone or they come to visit you, time is usually short and therefore you don't notice little things that people do.  Once you marry or move in together or become roommates, little habits become more prominent and then frustrating and then, downright annoying. It quickly became apparent that sometime between my leaving home at 18 and moving my parents here 3 years ago, my parents have become, well, gross. They rarely shower when it used to be every day.  My mother brushes her teeth with water because according to her dentist in Ohio, it's the brushing that matters not the toothpaste!  Gross.  She also began the habit of using a bucket next to her bed for nighttime urinary eliminations.  Now, you might think, "oh, she had trouble walking to the bathroom".  No.   In the old house the bathroom was right next to her bedroom and the use of the bucket, I believe, began out of laziness sometime in the last 6 years.  When she moved here I admonished her about the "pee-bucket" habit and she scoffed and waved me off saying she wasn't doing that anymore.  I have come to realize in the last 3 years just how naive and gullible I can be.   I believed my mother when she said that the pee-bucket was gone. And then I found it.  I was in their bedroom vacuuming and I kept getting a whiff of something really unpleasant.  I thought it spelled like urine, but that didn't make sense because I was no where near the master bathroom   I opened a drawer in my mother's childhood antique desk and there was my mother's ceramic ice tea pitcher!  "Well, that makes no sense", I was thinking to myself as I picked it up just in time to see the yellow droplets inside and realizing that that was indeed where the smell was coming from!  To make matters worse, she had taken her brand-new bed jacket I had given to her and was using it as a decoy!  As if laying it on top of the pitcher would keep anyone from finding out her secret.  Gross and ewww!.  Another lovely habit of theirs was to use washcloths like sani-wipes instead of bathing and then lay them out on the towel rack to dry.  I walked into their bathroom one day and discovered the brown tinged rags all over the bathroom as well as, used underwear.  The smell just about made me pass out.  Double gross and double ewww!  So I had to come up with a system to accommodate their need to clean without creating a health hazard.  I set a bucket in the garden tub with bleach water and told them to put the cloths in it.  That way I could keep the bathroom from stinking and sanitize the cloths before washing.  The system has worked quite well with only one adjustment.  I had to place a plastic flower planter in the bucket so that when I need to empty it I won't have to touch the wet cloths or wear a hazmat suit just to retrieve them.  I just lift the planter out and allow it to drain then transfer the cloths to another bucket in order to wash them.
Another surprising habit  was their practice of using tainted tissues or handkerchiefs as a way to wipe up spills!  We also became aware of their lack of hand washing after using the toilet.  We realized that it meant we had no choice but to wipe down every surface they touch with Lysol wipes.  Tables, chairs, counter tops, cabinets, knobs, door handles, door knobs and banisters!  There are executives at Lysol who go on expensive vacations thanks to us!  We literally buy wipes by the case!  My daughter even uses them to wipe down the car if they had been in it!  Luckily,  none of us have been hospitalized with Ebola, e coli, or hepatitis!  There are days that I wonder who are these people?  And what have they done with the people who raised me to be conscientious about cleanliness?
But the answer to all this, I have come to learn, is that yes, these are the same people, but they forget things even things as simple as hand washing.  It isn't on purpose anymore than when a child forgets.  They aren't children, but unfortunately they behave that way.  For their own safety, caregivers must remind them, with love, to wash their hands.  You become the parent to elderly children and it is embarrassing, but to ignore these and other bad habits puts them and your family at risk.

The other side  of this is how they let themselves "go" in terms of dressing.  My father puts on an outfit and stays in it until the next shower, which is usually 2-3 times a month.  He sleeps in an outfit, too.  Even his jacket or tweed coat. The only other way he changes sooner is when he has bowel accidents, but that's another story!   My mother lives in her nightgown most days, but when she does dress in street clothes, she'll put on a short sleeve top with her khaki skirt, any time of the year!. She complains about being cold all the time.  I'd tell her to put on something warmer like leg warmers and sweaters, but she would refuse.  She won't wear pants because she says they are too restrictive, but earlier this year I actually got her into a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt!  They are baggy which I think is why she acquiesced to putting them on.  Of course it took a lot of cajoling to get her in them, but once she got them on and felt warm, she was sold.  Being warm is a paramount issue to someone their age.  So being warm always trumps fashion!

My new life begins with Bill & Mary

The morning after my parents' arrival to Atlanta began with turmoil.  My father awoke and was disoriented by his new surroundings.  Since our bedroom is directly below my parents' bedroom, I heard the footfalls around 5:15 AM and immediately ran upstairs to the kitchen.  My dad was standing in the foyer crying like a child about not wanting to be here and saying he was worthless.  This was devastating to me for several reasons.  My father was the type of man who remained calm through most situations during his life.  He could get riled about politics on occasion, but he was raised to be a gentleman in Memphis, Tennessee during the 20's and 30's and his Southern approach to life, I suspect, was sometimes interpreted as shyness or meekness. But he had a quiet strength that was strangely reassuring to his children as they grew.   He was also raised to be a typical man, not showing emotion when upset or hurt.  So when I discovered my 85 year old father weeping in my house that morning, I was crushed to think I had done something wrong to hurt this gentle man.  That bringing him here to live was not what he wanted.  What I realized was that the man standing before me was NOT the man who raised me.  I would soon learn that the aging process changes more than one's appearance.  Eccentricities aside, I would find myself in a battle of wills that I never expected.  I have compared it to being in a house with grown toddlers who constantly test their boundaries and push the limits of gravity and physics on a daily basis.

 My father was my hero when I was growing up and as he stood before me in pain I didn't know what to do, so I hugged him and told him it would be alright.  That he would be okay.  And at that moment I became the mother to the weeping child and my first thought was , "What the hell have I done?"  I had no idea how much that phrase would permeate my life in the next 3 years.

My father's disoriented state only happened twice the week they arrived, but thankfully not again.  Many changes because of the move were actually welcome and helped ease the transition.  One was the computer my husband set up for my dad. He was used to a dial up connection and felt constantly frustrated by it's limitations.  Years before we had switched to DSL which is much faster, as well as, having the ability to use the telephone while using the computer.  My father was in computer heaven.  Another change was the presence of Buffy, our orange cat.  My father always loved having cats when I was growing up and missed them.  Buffy warmed up to my parents slowly, but once she did, it was in a big way!  Rarely a day goes by that she isn't laying across my dad's lap or stretched out down the length of my mom's legs while she lounged in bed.  A third welcome change was the deck outside our kitchen.  My father has literally spent hours sitting out there in the sunshine watching chipmunks, squirrels, lizards and hummingbirds.  A fourth plus for him to be here was male companionship on a daily basis.  My dad only socialized with husbands of my mother's friends when I grew up.  He didn't play or follow sports, golf or play bridge.  Any male conversation was limited to co-workers or church goers.  So having Steve to talk to was a big deal to him, I think, since it has been years since he had been to work or church.  He has never said how he felt about moving and I have never asked him if it was against his will.  I am afraid of what the answer would be.

My mother never had any trouble adjusting to life in the South, but that doesn't surprise me.  Mary Beth thrives on being resilient...like Scarlett.  My mother lives to be perfect and to live in a perfect world.  She will flee any situation that she deems unpleasant and will stop any conversation that even hints at being unpleasant.  She simply does not want to be reminded of the world outside of the one she lives in.  Many times she will be reminded of a continuing news story from the day before that is tragic or gruesome and her response is one of, " Why are they still talking about that, it's unpleasant!" You know, like Scarlett said, "I will think about that tomorrow!"  Her preferred view of the world is Polly-Anna-ish, to say the least and the family is well aware of her ability to re-write history to accommodate her Polly-Anna world.  For instance, when someone gets sick her usual approach is to ask them the next day if they were feeling better and then before getting a response, following up the question with a statement that "You feel all better now, don't you?"  She simply can't handle bad news.  At any given moment I almost expect her to say, "Gee whiz, let's put on a show!"  I'm used to that, though, she's always been one to thrive in the spotlight.  I can remember growing up and hearing her sigh and say, "Wouldn't you just love to be famous?"  And then she'd launch into some dialogue from somewhere.  Years later when I saw Gloria Swanson in "Sunset Boulevard" I understood the character completely.  Hell, I grew up with her!  The one positive from that all that optimism is that as a child I always felt I had a personal cheerleader in my corner and it was re-assuring to know that what ever happened to me, I would find solace at home.  So goes life with Bill & Mary.