Mom arrived home with at least eight plastic bags bulging with groceries. To be precise, that would be four packages of candy, five bags of chips, a carton of Pepsi, several containers of icing, cupcake mix, brownie mix, a can of peanuts, a gallon of ice cream, Kraft processed cheese squares, the cheapest sandwich meat made in America, a long loaf of bread that weighs nothing, very sugary pickles, iceberg lettuce, a jar of Miracle Whip, and some bright yellow mustard.
That was Wednesday. Although my sisters and I had already made plans for a tasty picnic lunch, gathered healthy food from our beautiful gardens, and done our own shopping—including picking up the only thing Dad had requested, a pecan pie—Mom had her own ideas and, by golly, that’s what this picnic was going to be.
A sixty-year-old family picnic basket was already on the end of the kitchen table and packed with plastic ware, paper plates, cups, napkins, and a tablecloth. I pointed this out to Mom and explained how all these supplies were now ready. By Thursday morning, she had added another package of one hundred plates, twelve more cups, an additional huge package of napkins, paper towels, a flyswatter, and two more tablecloths—all this for our picnic for six. I was confused and mentioned this on entering the kitchen when she viciously turned on me, screeching, “I didn’t ask you about that. Just tell me how to turn on the oven!” Then I noticed two dozen cupcakes ready to be baked. Mom was panting as she leaned precariously on her walker. As I showed her how to turn on the oven, I encouraged her to not go into a tizzy about preparations, and almost had the cupcake batter thrown at me.
She was sweating and wore an unpleasant, pained grimace. I slipped the cupcake tins into the oven for her, handed her a glass of cool water, and suggested she sit down and rest.
“I’m fine!” she snapped but sat anyway.
Go ahead and fall into the oven getting those cupcakes out, I thought. Sometimes it requires more patience than I have to deal with Mom. I exited the kitchen, leaving her to make more little notes on what to not forget to take, and what to stop and buy on the way.
By this morning the picnic basket is barely visible under piles of more stuff that has been added for us to take. Mom is up earlier than normal, and clearly not in good humor. Parked in her rocker, she sits staring out the front window, now acting like she does not care about any of our plans, though everything is packed with her little notes taped and placed all over the table, basket, and ice chest, complete with bossy detailed directions for every one of us.
Arriving at the park, the stage change is accomplished with minimal stress. Chairs, food, ice chests, and two elderly parents are unloaded, and a festive picnic table prepared. Mom and Dad are positioned in a sunny spot to counter a cool breeze coming off the lake. Dad appears pleased to have everyone around. Mom doles out orders. Everyone gets served and fed, with unsuccessful efforts to keep Dad from spilling food on himself.
Before long we are all trying to dislodge the white, doughy sandwich bread out from behind our teeth. My sisters, Bill, and I make fun of each other as we poke our fingers into our mouths after every single bite in attempts to scrape off or swallow the gluey bread substance plastered on the backs of our pearly whites. We can hardly even talk there is so much dough stuck in our teeth.
I take a tally of what I’ve consumed thus far: several handfuls of salty peanuts, way too many Fritos, one very squishy sandwich, and a piece of pecan pie swimming in ice cream. No one touches the cupcakes dripping with icing. My tongue and mouth feel sticky, sloppy, and gummy. Bill and I get the giggles over the amount of salt and sugar we’ve just consumed, and we joke about slipping into diabetic comas, passing out, and dying during our drive home. Bill suggests we make a sign to put in the car that says: “We are not napping. We are dead.”
As Pamela and Paula join in our laughter, I look over at Mom and Dad and see them both staring straight ahead, oblivious to our conversation. They haven’t talked with each other, beyond Mom barking directions at Dad or asking if he wants something, and his subsequent labored responses.
A mallard couple waddles our way, the male duck quacking abruptly and encouraging his mate to come along. They aren’t shy and forage for everything we’ve dropped, scoring a Frito here and there, and the pieces of successfully dislodged doughy bread we managed to dig out from behind our teeth. The ducks catch Dad’s attention, and he brightens as they nonchalantly settle down in nesting-like positions directly in front of him, just like they are part of this family. We marvel at their swatches of satin greens and blues, fine delicate lines, and the perky curl on the male’s rump. As the female twists her head and tucks it into an invitingly feathery neck for a nap, so does Dad close his eyes and slowly drift off in the warm afternoon sunlight. Here at eighty-eight, is he is able to think about a day like today and feel a sense of comfort and calm with the goodness a day can hold? Can Mom? I want there to be more in their lives than I am aware of—special, happy occasions they remember and for which they feel some kind of gratitude and joy.
My sisters are already packing up, and Bill is carrying the ice chest to the car. I consider how we are all doing the best we can, even Mom and Dad. Life hasn’t always been the way I would have wanted it to be, but this is where we are, and right now our sugary, doughy meal has allowed us all to have some time together and laugh a little, thanks to Mom’s vision of a family picnic.
TAKING THE TIME,
MAKING THE SPACE
June, 2011 (age 58)—Whitesboro, Texas
“Coast is clear!” I announce, peeking around the corner at Bill parked at his desk in the little sitting area attached to our master bedroom.
“It is?” Bill grins, pulling me onto his lap. I straddle his round belly and give him a relieved and welcoming kiss. Paula and Mom have just pulled out of the garage to go visit Dad at the Veterans Home. Bill and I know this routine: we now have approximately three hours alone in this house that my mother rarely leaves, except for these visits to Dad. We are now going on six months of all living together, Dad having moved out in late January of this year, giving Bill and me sufficient time to establish this now familiar pattern.
“Let’s roll, Baby,” I whisper encouragingly into Bill’s ear, then untangle from his lap and chair to begin our preparations. He will shower and shave, while I go place the Post-it on the backdoor window with a scribbled note that reads, “We’re resting,” then lock the door and pull the curtains.
It is so delicious to be alone with Bill in this shared house, and not a common occurrence. A smile floats across my face as I take the coconut oil, a lubricant for us, out from the back of the fridge and scrape some in a small, shallow bowl. I prepare a glass of fizzy water with ice and lime before heading to the bedroom, then move a desk chair in front of the bedroom door since it no longer fully closes due to this north Texas drought and shifting grounds. I just like thinking of an additional warning of the door bumping into the chair in the unlikely but ever-possible situation of an unexpected, clueless family member missing the Post-it.
I hear Bill turn the shower off as I close the blinds, light some candles, and turn on some music. I pull the covers back on the bed and toss off a few pillows. After stepping out of my clothes, I slip a bottle of wine out of the buffet here in our room and pop the cork, pouring us each a small enough glass to acknowledge this blessed ritual time, but not so much as to negatively affect the rest of our afternoon. I sigh contentedly on hearing the gurgle of wine leave the bottle. On my in-breath, I close my eyes with pleasure as the smell wafts toward my nose.
I am swirling my glass when Bill emerges from the bathroom fresh and pink, with a big smile.
“Ooohh, this is nice, Darlin’,” he coos. Nice is one of Bill’s favorite words. He is like Edmond Rostand’s seventeenth century character, Christian, in Cyrano de Begerac, who for the life of him cannot find ways to embellish his expression of “I love you” for the woman he is in love with, so he asks his friend Cyrano to compose eloquent letters for him.18 I never get tired of hearing Bill say “nice,” bec
ause I recognize the authentic kindness behind his frequent repetition of the word.
He takes the glass I have poured for him and we stand there, naked, glasses in hand, listening to the music and gazing at each other at our own little bedroom cocktail party. We touch our glasses with a ting, then predictably bring them up to our ears listening to the crystal’s sweet song before taking a sip. This is like having an affair with your spouse. Bill and I are happily monogamous here in our second marriage to each other. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to have a healthy sex life or be in a loving and trusting relationship. It’s been a long time coming for me.
“It looks so nice in here, Darlin’,” Bill repeats, placing a hand on my waist and gently pulling me toward him. We kiss slowly and comfortably while holding our glasses with care. Still smiling, Bill sets his glass down then lies on his side in bed while looking at me. It always takes me longer to unwind and relax, and he does not rush me. I bring up something I have been writing about, and he mentions something he has been thinking about. We talk with a gracious and meaningful ease, as I sip from my glass while leaning against the buffet we put in our bedroom in this house to sequester bottles of wine and glasses, and for a surface on which to arrange candles and open bottles. Our bedroom has been our living room while living with Mom and Dad.
We knew it would be difficult coming to live with my parents, but not this difficult. Our alone times are sparse, and when Dad was still home, I had difficulty being intimate with Bill under the same roof. We actually went to a Super 8 motel one afternoon, but even that felt weird.
Chatted down, I place my glass on the buffet and walk over to the other side of the bed, slowly crawling in. Bill rolls over and opens his arms in a gentle welcome, “Oh, Darlin’, you feel so nice.” I soak up his gentle, caring words, and the invitation and warmth of his body. Now is when this house finally begins to feel like home, when my spirit has no doubt reached the place it is supposed to be after all its migratory flights: right here, with this other loving human for whom I feel such a depth of affection and gratitude. Lifting my head from the crook of Bill’s neck we kiss, our lips linger as our bodies draw into one another, and our hands begin familiar journeys to favorite places. I reach for the bowl of coconut oil, then Bill and I both dip our fingers and allow the oil to instantly warm and melt on contact with my vagina and his penis. If we go slowly, and dip generously, our bodies expand, open, give, and receive with ease.
Bill shifts onto me and slides in, ever so slowly. My man carries extra weight around his waist, but otherwise he feels muscled, firm, and strong under my fingers and palms that let him know I love every bit of him. I breathe deeply, willing my muscles to relax as Bill gently applies more oil. He delicately glides up and down, up and down, stretching to reach my womb-less interior, now like a spacious cathedral of well-worn walls with tall storied windows that allow a warm, soothing light to stream bountifully into this safe, sacrosanct space.
“Oh, God,” I exhale, and I mean it.
GRACED-LAND
July, 2011 (age 59)—Blanca, Colorado
Buying these six acres and this travel trailer were two of the smartest things I’ve ever done in my life. Although I found them separately, I purchased them both on sight. Sitting here now in the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado, with dusk settling in and the nighthawks soaring high in the sky, I know without a doubt I’m on graced-land here at Graceland.
Behind me rest several soaring peaks, Mount Little Bear framed perfectly by the window at my back, and ahead of me spreads that northern New Mexico landscape with the setting sun splashing pinks and blues above plateaus, canyons, and ancient rounded volcanoes. One early summer I spotted a small bear about a half-mile from our land, tootling around until he spied me and then scampering off. My eyes scanned for Momma Bear as I quickly leashed my dog Amber, whose frozen stance had alerted me to the bear in the first place. A little bear right at the base of Mount Little Bear, I thought, giggling.
This summer has been deadly dry, with afternoon thunderstorms only recently booming onto the scene, offering much needed moisture. This is high desert, around eight thousand feet, then the land abruptly turns upward into majestic mountains. Last night I stepped out into that hearty smell of wet dirt and the scent of pinions, some of which are three to four hundred years old, moist with rain. A waxing moon floated among lingering thunderheads with stars sprinkled in a way that made me think Tinker Bell and Peter Pan were about to slip into view any moment.
I drove straight through from Whitesboro, arriving here in thirteen hours on the last day of June. My intention was to spend the night on the way, but once the road trip commenced, my homing instinct was set on the San Luis Valley and my wings kept on flappin’. It felt so good to be leaving north Texas, finally having some time alone, knowing Bill and my sisters are there for Mom and Dad.
Once I arrived here on the land, I was good and dizzy, like I had just gotten off a roller coaster. Then I remembered I had just rolled up from sea level in a matter of hours, not from mile-high Denver like I used to do. And oh, yeah, my life has been like a roller coaster for the last nine months, those long nine months since I was last here.
Since we sold our house in Denver, Graceland is now my digs, baby, my crib, the only real roots I can claim. Home sweet home. With the bed tucked into one end of the trailer and windows on three sides, at night I spy constellations in every direction, and often the Milky Way’s gaseous and starry presence brushes across the never-ending sky. Owls hoot, coyotes yip, and the nighthawks make those strange booming swoosh sounds as air rushes through their wings. I can see headlights on the highway six miles below, but nary a noise reaches me. I left my dog Gavroche in Texas, a little terrier mix, because here I have to keep him leashed for safety. But Amber stays at my heels like the good red heeler-mix she is. She groans contentedly from her bunk space, exhausted from a long hike we just took, and I sigh a deep, long prayer of relief.
Directly in front of the trailer, I’ve set up an archery range. I string my bow, check my arrows, put on a finger guard, then step out into the morning sun. Standing still in front of the target, I listen to everything that surrounds me—each delicate sound, whether bird, breeze, or buzz—then I slip an arrow with care from quiver to bow, brush each feather before sliding my fingers sensitively down shaft to tip, then come to mountain-like stillness again. I empty myself of all thoughts while following my breath. Valley breezes kiss my face, a spotted towhee trills just for me from the top of a pinion, and a large exquisite yellow and black butterfly glides close enough to my face for me to feel the air move. What grace.
I’m remembering how to live.
PRAYER ANYONE?
August, 2011 (age 59)—Bonham, Texas
Dad is sitting in his recliner rocker positioned in the corner of his room at the Veterans Home when we push open his door. I move aside while holding open the door so that he sees Mom first, who plants a wide smile on her face as she pushes her walker into the room.
“Guess who!” Mom calls out cheerily.
“It’s my two favorite girls!” Dad answers, smiling as he struggles to stand. He’s having a much harder time getting up these days, his leg muscles atrophied from hours of sitting. Mom reaches him before he makes it all the way up, and with relief he settles back down, reaching out for her face and pulling it close to his. I watch the affectionate exchange, desperate from my dad and tolerant from my mom, and am struck again by how these displays at the Veterans Home are the only times in my life I’ve ever seen my parents kiss and coddle.
Dad wants Mom to sit near him to hold hands, but she is already bustling around checking if the clothes he is wearing are marked with his name and telling him about the new pants and shirts she has brought. Dad feigns interest. He hasn’t been able to button his 36x30 jeans lately, so she’s brought some 38s and a few new shirts. He doesn’t really care, content to leave the 36s unbuttoned or to wear stained shirts, but on every visit, Mom obsesses about what he’s wear
ing, how his clothes fit, how his undershirts desperately need to be Cloroxed, and whether every sock in the drawer has a partner. I explain once again how difficult it must be doing institutional laundry and returning each resident’s clothes. Ignoring me, she swings open Dad’s closet trying to remember if every item she has ever brought is there and checking if any clothes belong to others.
Dad often wears the same clothes for a week or even longer, obvious from the stains we watch occur during a meal together, spots that remain freshly observable on the next visit. I mention this to one of the nursing assistants, who explains how Dad insists on dressing himself and wearing the same familiar clothes day after day. Judging from the well-worn but comfortable attire of other residents, I don’t think it’s a big deal. But it seems Mom doesn’t know what else to do when we visit, or how else to show she cares, so whenever we come she pounces on Dad about what he’s wearing, and how crisp and clean his clothes are or aren’t. I remind myself how she even took my old, soiled garden overalls hanging in the laundry room and meticulously laundered and ironed them, later complaining that I wiped my dirty hands on my trouser legs while gardening. After diligently checking his wardrobe, she then plops on her walker seat and bullies me to open each drawer and inspect every item of clothing again just in case she missed something.
By now Dad has given up trying to get her attention and is idly flipping through the magazines we’ve brought. Mom appears more comfortable when he isn’t reaching for her hand or arm, so she finally sits near and attempts some conversation, if you can call it that, drilling him over whether he remembers what he had for breakfast, who visited last, or if he knows what day it is. Dad stares at her, long pauses after each question, predictably mumbling a shaky no after each. Instead, he tells her how good the television is, and that he has over one hundred channels. His choice of conversation makes sense to me, thinking how he sits in a comfy chair, as he has for so many years, watching TV for hours every day. Veterans Home bingo sure isn’t that much more stimulating, and Dad isn’t confident enough to go on the facility’s bus trips to shop or eat out. Then he would have to engage in social conversations with others, something he has never done or enjoyed. Plus, he’s not walking well these days, even with a walker, and he talks about “everyone on this floor is in a wheelchair” like they are mentally impaired. As I clip and file his tough, stubborn nails, I again explain to Dad that people in wheelchairs can still talk, but he obstinately resists conversation with even his very articulate and much younger neighbor who is in a wheelchair. So, the TV remains Dad’s sole entertainment, except when family visits.
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