The Decision, part two

This was not the first time that Leta and her daughter Vivian talked about a potential change in living arrangements in her later years. They had started when Vivian’s father, Leta’s ex-husband Ralph, became ill two years previously. He had no plan for his care, relying entirely on their daughter, as he had done when his mother became ill years earlier. After all, Vivian was already visiting twice a week to make sure his house and clothes were clean and he had enough to eat. She was even managing his finances. During his final months, even after Vivian had relocated him to a senior care facility, the wear on their daughter was palpable. Leta knew then and there that she would not burden her daughter that way.

Now it was late winter, nearly a year after Ralph’s death, and Leta decided it was time for her to make her own arrangements. Aside from some aches and pains and a growing inability to perform some tasks, she was still feeling fine and in her full mind, but she knew that this could change suddenly. She was nearly 78 years old. One of her older sisters had fallen in her home one morning and was not found until two days later, dehydrated and in terrible condition. This was not how she wanted to live.

Vivian arrived in the late morning with a handful of brochures for them to review. Having known several people that had moved into a variety of local senior residences, they had already eliminated several and had several potential locations on their minds.

After a couple of cups of coffee and some focused conversation, Leta and Vivian devised a plan that included a rearrangement of finances and a short list of places to visit. Although Leta would be in charge of her own future, her decision-making would be made outside of any conversation with admissions representatives and facility directors. Vivian would make all the public decisions, including phone calls and appointments. They were not trying to be deceptive, but protective. This would be quite emotional, and Vivian was a far more composed individual.

In the meantime, they would reorganize Leta’s finances. Although she was not wealthy by any means, Leta has managed to set aside funds to support herself in her later years. She had a small pension from the insurance company where she worked for ten years and, of course, social security. This was in addition to her savings and several savings bonds she had been carrying for years. As the standard rule was that new senior care residents basically turned over their income and assets to the facility to pay for their care, Leta wanted to create a separate fund for her own personal needs until she passed away.  As Vivian stood to inherit, anyway, the two of them devised a plan to create a separate bank account in Vivian and her brother Dale’s names that would serve as Leta’s personal money during her time at the facility.

“I don’t want to be broke,” Leta declared firmly. “I’ve been broke and I’ve been poor, and now I’m too old for it.”

“That’s fine, Ma,” Vivian agreed.

“And as good as these places may be, I am not about to give them everything!” Leta concluded.

To be continued.

The Decision, part one

Leta looked out of the window on the gray spring morning. Although her apartment was warm and cozy, her bones ached. This always happened when a day of damp followed a clear one. She also ached because she had spent the past two sunny days doing her spring cleaning. This annual ritual included everything from washing the drapes to scrubbing the walls to hand washing all of the bric-a-brac on her tables and shelves. She wanted her entire home to be fresh and clean, which it was.

Still, the strenuous exercise and the change in the weather afflicted her. She stood stiffly in the kitchen while the coffee perked. She had recently purchased a bag of oranges from a Mexican fellow on the corner and had intended to squeeze herself a glass to go with her toast and coffee, but she had neither the strength nor the ambition. Instead, she just wanted to take a couple of Bayer aspirin and sip her coffee.

Perhaps she had done too much. When she was younger, spring cleaning energized her. She had fond memories of rousing her children, stripping their beds and putting them all to work to refresh their home after the long winter. But now at age 75, it not only took longer, but also wore her out for a couple of days afterwards.

Her daughter Vivian offered to clean, as she had been doing for her ailing father, Leta’s first husband, for several years, but Leta refused. Not only did Vivian have her own spring cleaning, but also what kind of woman couldn’t clean her own home? It was only a small four-room apartment, including the bathroom. If she couldn’t manage that, then she might as well throw in the towel.

The coffee helped. She liked sipping it when it was piping hot and nearly scalding her tongue. The sharp pinch in her throat as the beverage went down warmed her from the lungs out. The aspirin also helped. She considered taking three, which always made her feel better, but the doctor had warned her that her blood was thin and aspirin would not be beneficial.

The drizzle started while she was chewing on her toast. She buttered it first and then applied the raspberry jam that her daughter had made. She liked how the butter softened the rough toast before applying the sweet fruit. Vivian had taken extra care to remove the seeds. Both of them wore dentures. The discomfort of a wayward raspberry seed or two could cause discomfort for a long time. Still, her mood darkened, and the little voice of reason, the one she repressed on a regular basis, rose in her head, and she knew that it was time to make the decision she had been putting off for some time.

A little later, when she knew her son-in-law had gone to work, and Vivian would be home alone, she telephoned.

“Vivian,” she said, “it’s time.”

To be continued.

Independence Day

Grandma Eckman hated fireworks with a passion.  “What a waste of money and energy and time,” she said as often as she thought someone was listening, and even then, I think she said it sometimes as a spontaneous outburst that she couldn’t hold in.  She never explained why she felt that way, and I am not sure anyone ever asked her.

My father believed that the reason was connected to an experience she had a long time ago with a Chinese door-to-door salesman who she believed gypped her by selling her a set of fireworks that didn’t work at all. She had wanted to surprise her children during a time when they were struggling financially, splurged and then after their simple Independence Day meal, when the three of them were on the front porch at dusk, the sparklers that she had purchased failed to light. The entire neighborhood was witness to the failure, and according to Dad, Grandma Eckman fumed every time she saw fireworks after that.

Her embarrassment grew to dislike and distrust anything Chinese, including Chinese food, even chop suey, which both her daughter-my grandmother and my own mother made on occasion. Once when my mother, grandmother, siblings and I were shopping during the annual family vacation at a resort in central Michigan, Mom suggested that they serve it as one of our evening meals. Our grandmother stiffened immediately and firmly stated, “Not with Grandma Eckman with us.” We would have to have the dish some other time.

When Independence Day would come around, Grandma Eckman would become tense. For us, however, it was a great time. The local drive-in cinema presented a firework presentation on July 3 between the films of the double feature. It was our usual family celebration. We would arrive at the drive-in early enough to spend a little time at the playground on site, change from our clothes into our pajamas in the bathroom and then climb back into the car for the evening fun. Although there was concession food, it wasn’t very good, so Mom always made popcorn, brought cookies, candy and potato chips and a large thermos jug of Kool-Aid.

In our pajamas and sneakers (which we thought was a treat in and of itself), we would stand near the car and watch the display of exploding lights with great excitement. Meanwhile, Grandma Eckman would be at home with her shades drawn, playing her records as loudly as she dared to drown out the unwelcome sounds.

On Independence Day itself, our great-grandmother would join us for the mid-afternoon barbeque and mysteriously disappear when Dad retrieved the three or four boxes of sparklers when the sky began to turn dark. As a child, that’s all I remember—one minute she was with us, and the next she was gone. She didn’t drive, so someone must have taken her home.

Playing cards with Grandma Eckman, part three

We didn't have much choice, my older brother, younger sister and I. Our great-grandmother was babysitting and wrecked our plans with her own. While we were breaking down the worlds we created with our Matchbox cards and Barbie dolls in our playroom, she was waiting for us in the kitchen. She had given us ten minutes to put all of our toys away, and we were taking longer, because we were heartbroken by her declaration that our play world was a “disaster,” especially since we had set it up just for her.

We had hoped to finish late enough to go to bed and avoid her for the rest of the evening, but she had other plans. She wanted us in the kitchen, and while we didn’t know why, we knew we had to finish and report to her.

Earlier that evening, we had nearly run down the stairs to greet her, but this time, we moved lugubriously from our playroom through the living room and the dining room and finally into the kitchen, where she was seated at the table, drinking a cup of coffee.

“There you are!” she exclaimed with a big smile.

We stood in the doorway, puzzled by her demeanor and confused by the way she had set the table.  She had dealt playing cards at four places, including her own, with stacks of pennies at each place. Also at each place was a glass of Kool-Aid and a dessert plate. At the back center of the table was a plate of her incredible raisin-filled cookies.

All of the disappointment and anger we had been feeling immediately flew right out of the room, and we fell over each other to get to the table.

“Missy, you sit by me,” Grandma Eckman instructed to help the four-year-old learn the game.

We were all familiar with playing cards, even Missy. She had mastered Go Fish and could even play Crazy 8s with a little assistance. The way Grandma Eckman had dealt the cards, however, was something entirely different. Jeff and I knew several other card games, and this was none of those.

“What game is this, Grandma?” I asked.

“You know,” Jeff started in his authoritarian voice, “Missy only knows—“

“This is a new card game,” Grandma Eckman said. “I’m going to teach it to all of you. I’m sure Missy can learn it, too, can’t you, darling?”

That’s all it took for my little sister to dessert us and take her seat by Grandma Eckman.

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“It doesn’t really have a name,” Grandma Eckman answered. “It’s a game my older sisters taught me when I was a little girl. You’ll like it, I promise. Now, let’s sit down and get playing.”

We each took our seat, and Grandma Eckman explained the rules. We ate cookies and played that card game for a couple of hours, long past our bed-time, until Grandma was sure we had mastered it, and Missy was falling asleep at the table.  The game used two decks of cards, and included three parts – five-card draw poker, a give-and-get depending on the cards in our hands and a match our cards to the count. In each hand, the dealer tended to come out ahead, so we all wanted to be dealer.

The best part, at least to us, was that Grandma Eckman allowed us to keep whatever pennies we had left, and we all had some pennies. Although it was only pennies, we each felt rich and went off to bed without a whimper. Our evening with Grandma Eckman turned out all right after all.

Playing cards with Grandma Eckman, part two

Everything seemed to be very exciting at first. My parents went to a party, and our babysitter for the evening was our great-grandmother. Although we were respectively age nine, six and four, my siblings and I had never had the honor of Grandma Eckman staying with us. It was a special occasion, and although she was sometimes stern, we were excited. Mom even dressed us up a little. Grandma Eckman dressed up, too.

Once our parents left, we pulled Grandma Eckman into our playroom to show her our elaborate creations. My younger sister Missy had designed a world with her Barbie dolls, and my older brother Jeff and I had created a Matchbox cars domain.

Her response was not as expected. Instead of being excited, she was distressed at what she termed a mess and commanded us to put the toys away.

I wanted her to know that our intention was only to show her our creativity and started to protest, but she continued without hearing me. “You can’t possibly be playing with all these toys.”

Missy was holding a new doll, her once vivid excitement transformed into a mass of tears.

For a moment, we all just stood there, but Grandma would have none of that either.

“Let’s get busy,” she said, clapping her hands a few times, “and then meet me in the kitchen in ten minutes. Then she left us, three miserable children, to put away our excitement and pride, because for all we knew, it didn’t serve her purpose.

Ten minutes later, as if she was watching the clock, she called from the other end of the house, “How are you coming along?”

I confess that we weren’t working that hard at it. After her rejection of our play world, we sort of lost interest in spending any time with Grandma Eckman and delayed the clean up in order to finish by bedtime.

“Just fine, Grandma,” Jeff responded.

“Let’s step it up,” she said. “I’m waiting for you.”

To be continued. 

Playing cards with Grandma Eckman, part one

We were excited and a little bit scared—my sister and I openly, and my older brother secretly. He hated to let any kind of nervousness show; it made him feel weak, even though he was only nine years old. I was six and my sister was four. Grandma Eckman was coming to babysit, while our parents went to the birthday party of one of my dad’s work colleagues.

Although we loved our great-grandmother, she was sterner than the other adults with whom we spent time. While she was a regular part of our lives—an afternoon every other Sunday at her apartment, regular family dinners and activities and often when we stopped by our grandmother’s home a few blocks away—this was the first time we would be alone with her for any length of time.

Grandma Eckman didn’t drive, so while Mom finished getting ready, Dad went to pick her up. As she finished her make up and jewelry, our mother laid out the rules for the evening. They were her standard rules for when she was away from us with a little more seriousness. As far as we were concerned, Grandma Eckman was our oldest living relative, and she did require some special treatment. Our behavior must be perfect. Actually, a stranger would think that we were all going out the way our mother cleaned us up for our evening with Grandma Eckman. She even styled my sister Missy’s unruly mass of curls. Although my hair was just as curly and blonde, my parents kept it short. My brother and I both had haircuts called squirrel tails—crew cuts with bangs—that were very easy to maintain.

We were allowed pretzels and Kool-Aid as a snack, which we liked. But we were not to fuss or be loud. Grandma was in charge of the television, and we would watch what she wanted to watch. Whatever we played with, we needed to put away when we finished. And when Grandma said it was time for bed, we were to obey without complaining or negotiating.

“Promise me,” Mom said, stopping everything to look at all of us individually and securing separate vocal promises from each of us. “Good,” she concluded. “I know I can rely on all of you.”

The timing was perfect. Just as Mom finished dressing, we heard the noise of Grandma’s arrival. I admit that we were excited and started to bound down the stairs. My older brother Jeff was first, and part way, he remembered his promise and slowed. Missy and I crashed into him, so he punched us each in the arm. Jeff punched hard. What he didn’t know is that our mother was right behind us, saw everything and gave each of us a stern look.

Grandma Eckman was chatting with our father about the lawn. My dad took very good care of it, but as he was growing older, Jeff took on more responsibility. Grandma told us that she always liked a nice-looking lawn. She considered it a good indication of character. She was wearing a nice dress, make-up and jewelry. We had seen her dress up before, but no other babysitter had ever gone to such trouble to spend time with us.

While we greeted her with cheery greetings, we didn’t hug her. She wasn’t a hugger. She beamed and responded with her own, “Hello, my darlings. My! Don’t you look nice tonight.”

“You look beautiful, Grandma!” Missy exclaimed.

“Thank you, darling,” Grandma Eckman said. “I dressed up just for you.”

A few moments later our parents were gone, and we were alone with Grandma Eckman. Feeling a new sense of camaraderie with her, Missy and I each took a hand and with Jeff in the lead, took her from the dining room where she had laid her coat over a chair through the living room and into a small room that served as our play room. We called it our back room. It was separated from the living room by a set of french doors. If either of my parents required an office, this would have been the room; however, as there were three children, it became our playroom. Missy wanted to share with Grandma her Barbie collection, and Jeff and I wanted to show her the floor mat of a village and how we distributed our Matchbox cars among the various houses on it.

“This room is a disaster!” Grandma Eckman exclaimed, which was not the response we anticipated, and simply expelled all of the sound from the room, except for Jeff’s light wheezing. His asthma was acting up.

“I want you to clean it up right now,” Grandma ordered.

To be continued.

Lucille

Having dedicated much of the afternoon and early evening to averting a crisis at her brother Aaron’s, Leta was ready to spend the rest of the night relaxing with a gin and tonic at the Flat Iron, the local speakeasy. The yelling and crying that had filled the house had gotten to her. The raised voices, slamming doors and sobbing were exhausting for all of them. While she always missed having her own children with her, she was glad that she did not subject them to the kind of emotional hysteria that occasionally overwhelmed her brother Aaron’s household, where she was living temporarily.

This incident centered on her 17-year-old niece Lucille. Without either of her parents’ knowledge, Lucille had been secretly spending time with a gentleman she had met at a barn dance. Florence, Lucille’s mother and Leta’s sister-in-law, didn’t approve of dancing. Her church taught that it was an act of the devil, much like card playing and drinking, which, incidentally, were two of Lucille’s husband Aaron’s past-times. Leta had gone with her sister-in-law to church once since moving in with the family, but the many gasps, head turns, whispers and cold stares made her feel highly unwelcome. Then the preacher boldly announced that he was altering from his planned sermon to speak about “the evils of the temptress,” and Leta knew she would never return.

Florence’s faith guided her to being fiercely protective of her two daughters, in spite of the apparent disconnect between herself and her eldest Lucille. On the other hand, Aaron just wanted to keep his daughters away from the kind of degenerates he consorted with several nights at week—at the Flat Iron and other establishments where he dealt cards and had a few drinks.

Earlier that day, Lucille finally decided to tell her parents and her Aunt Leta that she was in a friendly relationship with a man. Both parents were startled. Previously, they had met her gentleman callers, having laid out a strict set of rules for their daughters with regards to boys. Before either could get too angry, Leta diffused their surprise with a quick, “When do we get to meet him?”

Lucille swallowed hard and continued while Leta kept her eye on her brother and sister-in-law. Both had stiffened noticeably, and Aaron seemed poised to pounce. But even Leta wasn’t expecting what came next. Lucille’s beau was fifteen years her senior and unemployed. He had come to their town to look for work, but was having difficulty, he declared, with the downright harsh working conditions of the local farmers, all of them vicious and jealous employers who were dedicated to making their farm hands’ lives miserable. The dance was held on the farm where he had been working temporarily for a family that her parents knew but didn’t respect very much. There they had danced several times, and since spent many afternoons walking in the fields and getting to know each other. She finished with a nearly defiant declaration that she loved him and that was that.

Aaron’s face had turned a deep red, and Florence’s even paler than usual. Then the shouting commenced. Parents rejected everything their daughter stated, one by ranting and the other through begging and tears. Daughter continued to voice with shouts and tears her determination to continue to pursue the relationship. The younger daughter June ran crying from the room. Mother collapsed in a near faint. Father kicked and broke the coffee table. Daughter stomped into her room and slammed the door. Father stormed out the back. All the while, Leta had been attempting, fruitlessly, to ease everyone into a calm and quiet discussion.

And here she was two hours later, after providing some comfort to each of the women in the house, and checking up on Aaron in the back room of the establishment, calming herself with a much needed drink. She resolved then and there that she needed to find herself a job and set up her own household.