Storied life

Welcome to the third installment of my volunteering series. I am so happy to have you here! Get comfy and I will tell you about another friend of mine.

Each of us carries a lifetime of stories. Sometimes these tales reveal what is different, while other times we compare them to find that perhaps we are not as unique as we may have thought. I know that every person behind the doors of the memory care facility has a life rich with details, but whether they can share them is the question.

I have at least one friend who can. In fact, when I look at the tapestry of threads she has woven together for me, there is a very real chance that I know more about her younger life than I do about those of my own grandparents.

The first day I showed up to volunteer, it was suggested that I knock on this woman's door to maybe see if she'd care to go for a walk. She was a new resident then and was not coming out of her room for activities very often. The information I had was that she liked to walk and swim.

The best way I can think of to describe her is spry. She answered her door, showed no hesitation to join me for a stroll and remembered to grab her keys on the way out. We introduced ourselves and she told me how much she loved to walk. I'm sure I asked some questions along my usual line of "where did you grow up?" She answered in ways that revealed nothing about how it was that she landed where she was, telling me how wonderful it was that her children found this place where she'd be safe, as they did not want her living alone anymore. I smiled as she remarked how lucky she was to have such great kids.

By the time we got out to the fenced in area for our walk, she had started to tell me about the cabin her grandparents had built in 1925, one hundred years ago! There were three couples, and they all decided to build cottages on Sacandaga Lake. There were three pieces of land, and while she does not know how they decided who would get which one, she believes her family got the best. Sadly, her grandfather did not live to see the cottage fully completed. She and her two older brothers would spend every summer at the cottage with her grandmother, who did not drive. Her parents went to visit on weekends and brought food. Hers is the only cottage still in the same family. The path we walk on is probably about a fifty yard loop, and it seemed to time out that the story I just told you was restarted with every lap.

Oh, I see.

There were pieces of the tale that were more interesting to me than others, but by the fifth time around I can't say that any of it was terribly intriguing anymore. She was not bored though, and honestly, her passion and commitment did keep it rich.

I asked new questions about the parts of her summers on the lake that I thought she could embellish and about her children. She readily answered all of those inquiries as well. We eventually had to go back inside, and she thanked me for the walk when we returned to her room.

I do not know what, if anything, she remembers of me. She is pleased to see me when she answers the door each week, and eager to join me, even on days when the weather keeps our stroll inside. She expresses so much gratitude for my thinking of her when we part ways.

She strikes me as a reliable narrator of her story, as it all sounds plausible and the details never change. In order to keep myself present, I have taken on the challenge to learn one new thing each time we are together, so I need to think of a question during some lull to organically draw out a few more specifics. I have seen photos of the cottage itself, as well as the view from the property to the point and the state owned land on the other side of the lake that cannot be built on.

We have walked together now close to forty times. Characters have been enhanced, and there are a few other story lines that have been introduced. Last summer we talked a little bit about some of the flowers growing in the garden near our path, using google image for ones neither of us readily recognized. The conversation turns quickly back to her life though, usually camp or how "awesome" her three adult children are, and I am there for whatever else gets sprinkled in.

Her uncle was a florist who owned his own shop and she helped with Easter deliveries. Her grandfather was a doctor. She was a nurse who hurt her back moving a patient on her own, resulting in some surgeries. She went to an all girls high school and her dog was named Skippy. There was a trip to Germany with her second husband, Bart, just before they were married. There is a part about Bart she makes sure to get the phrasing right for each time: "I went on a blind date with an optometrist and he helped me to see clearly."

I see her. I see her swimming down under water at camp to unook Bart's fishing line from whatever it got caught on. I see her water skiing or swimming so far out in that lake. I feel like I know her, which may sound strange since some may believe I don't really know her at all, considerng how much of her life remains a mystery to me.

Regardless, how lucky am I for this opportunity? The reminder to ask questions of your loved ones, listen to their stories and share your own as well. Look for light in unexpected places - it could be there trying to shine through cracks and crevices. Maybe it is a pinhole of light peeking through the smallest of space, but that is brightness just the same.

This is a very important part of my life, and I appreciate having this space to talk about it.
Thank you so much for reading!

Left unsaid

This is a sort of part two in the volunteering series, with part three to follow shortly. I have decided to post them close together so nobody has to refresh their memory or follow a link to get up to speed. It also seemed weird to go in to my bra shopping update and other random Tuesday stuff right in the middle of something else. We will get there too though!

There are some groups, mainly pairings, of friends where I volunteer. It is not always clear what draws them to one another - sometimes literal proximity to each other's rooms, similar levels of communication, general familiarity or maybe just a vibe. Some know each other's names, while some do not. They do not typically visit different rooms with intention, but rather happen upon each other in the common area lounges or at group activity time. It is truly beautiful to see what can at least be perceived as loneliness fade away for a bit.

On the flip side though, there are also some residents who, for whatever reason, have no patience for certain other folks. I've witnessed the eyeroll and heavy sigh from one gentleman when I ushered a woman onto the elevator with us. Others have verbally expressed their displeasure with the woman who tends to randomly shout out. On one day in particular though, I rounded the corner in time to hear one lady being told she should move her seat because "I don't like you." 

That's who I want to talk about! That is who I invited to walk with me for a bit. The one who was not liked. Her verbal fluency had diminshed greatly, stammering on the first word and rarely getting to the rest of a sentence. That issue alone could be tedious for other members of the community there who were already struggling to make sense of what they were being told. The noise and confusion did not pair well.

There was another piece though. With a twinkle in her eye and a grin on her face, she would also do things like take someone else's walker, left not completely unattended while she ate breakfast. Such actions did not boost her ratings. Once we got to the other side of the floor that day, I was able to distract  her with a soft blanket to fold while I quickly darted away to return the walker to its appreciative owner.

Over the year, I tried to make sure to spend a little time visiting with this special friend. Sometimes I would find her sitting by herself, other times folding clothing that may or may not have belonged to her. One muggy day she was zipped all the way up in a fleece nightgown over her clothing. We finally understood each other that she was warm and it was fine to take that extra layer off.

A few months ago, that little sparkle she had faded a bit. It took longer for me to coax a smile, but once I did, we would walk down the hall to where all of the books were. She was drawn to books with pictures, like gardening or nature, and would read things aloud as we turned the pages. She fascinated me as I knew she was in there, but couldn't quite get her out.

I had been told this woman could be difficult. I was advised to be careful if she appeared agitated. I did not doubt whatever stories I was being told, despite how difficult it was to reconcile them with the peace we found looking at books or walking together.

I longed to know more about who she was. I thought I heard she was a teacher; and there was a smile and nod when I'd ask about it. I thought I heard she had a daughter or two; but again, I could not depend on my friend to confirm things. The reality was that it was of little importance. In other words, aside from enhancing my monologue, the information was not vital to our interaction.

Last month, I arrived to volunteer and mentioned that I hadn't gotten a chance to spend any time with this resident the week before. The activity director let me know that she was in the hospital with days left to live. Ugh.

In some ways it felt like there was so much more time I wanted to spend and many more things I wanted to say. However, it also would have just been more of the same and what I probably hoped for was something completely different.

Her obituary was beautiful, and reading it was like being introduced to an entirely new person. Yes, she was a teacher and yes she had three daughters, but obviously she was so much more too. She was a keynote speaker one year at the Walk to End Alzheimer's, which seemed to be such a concrete display of the kind of compassion and involvement she had. I was sad I did not know her sooner, but thankful for the times we shared.

Volunteering information

After I self-published my book, I reached out to the administrator of the memory care facility where my grandmother had been, as I wanted to share a copy with her. After a few emails back and forth, I eventually found myself in the general area of the facility with a little bit of free time. I had not followed the route to that parking lot in more than four years. The car was parked without any waterworks, so I felt confident I could get to the door without incident. It was strange to not be sure who was inside anymore. 

The receptionist gave me a sort of quizzical look when I asked specifically about a couple of staff members whose names I could recall. As luck would have it, the activity director, who I was hoping to get a copy of the book to, came around the corner. The tears stayed at bay, but my "word vomit" did not. 

In my excitement to see this woman, I was also trying to be sensitive to the fact that she may not have remembered who I was; reintroducing myself while telling her about the book I was trying to hand her. She said she remembered both my grandmother and me. We then went over to talk to another person who I assumed had long forgotten our family, but she had not. There was some chitchat and then what felt like joy creeping in, so I blurted out, "If you're ever looking for a volunteer..." Within a few weeks, my application was filled out, flu shot administered, and PPD test done. 

I was ready... not completely positive for what, but ready nonetheless.

About 10 minutes into my first visit, I knew I had made the right decision to find my way back. The staff was kind to me and many showed signs of recognition--evidence to me that I had once belonged to this community. Because my grandmother passed away during the height of the pandemic, thereby eliminating a proper departure and goodbye to what had become an extension of my family, the connection just sort of floated off like an untethered balloon. 

My small return enabled me to put some pieces back into my puzzle. I asked what I could do to be the most helpful, put on my fresh nametag, as well as a big smile, and set off to roam the halls. 

My role for a couple of hours once a week is to try to engage with residents who may not typically join group activities or could benefit from a little one-on-one visit. Every engagement requires a great deal of trial and error as I'm never sure what responses to expect. Not enough character studies could be done ahead of time and a warm grin and introduction were all I was bringing to the table. 

My usual line of questions are typically, "Did you grow up around here?" and "What kind of work did, or do, you do?" 

The answers let me know whether my new friends were at a place where we could dialogue, and at what level, ranging from blank stare, something unintelligible, an answer to a completely different question, trying to remember, or something plausible. As long as my presence didn't seem to be making anyone uncomfortable, I'd stick around for a little bit before moving on.

There were a few faces I thought had been there since my grandmother's time, but then I stumbled upon a face that actually resembled my grandmother's. I figured maybe it was just my imagination, looking for something I knew was impossible to find. 

The woman and I exchanged names and then just walked together, holding hands. Later, I mentioned to one of the aides that I knew it would sound silly, but I thought this particular woman looked a little bit like my grandmother. Her response was "Oh, yes, we all think that." 

Ah.

The next time I went to volunteer, I came across this woman again. (She walks the halls nearly constantly, so it is not a surprise to cross her path.) She gestured for me to join her and took my hand. Her conversation abilities have diminished greatly, but occasionally she does perk up with something to say. I try to figure out what she is trying to get across and just fill in as many blanks as I can. At one point that day though, we paused for a moment, she looked up at me, smiled and gave me a sort of side hug. It took my breath away.

Such an odd sort of gift with its sweet simplicity. She returns my huge smile with one of her own whenever I approach her, extends a warm hand to hold. I match her pace - which is surprisingly fast for her 100 years. We have settled in to our own type of communication that simply amounts to showing that we are happy to be in one another's company. There is no need to talk about how we've arrived there or the state of the world outside those walls. It is a moment we share, and I am lucky for it.

Thank you for reading! There are other stories I want to share about my volunteer experience, but thought they'd be more interesting if I gave a bit of background first. Stay tuned!

Notes Challenge #1

I was recently talking to a friend of mine about all of the stuff we save on our phones, telling her it was ridiculous how many "notes" I had. Since so many of my ideas for writing hit me while driving, Siri is super helpful in her wilingness to add a note without being judgemental. Apparently, I am not as willing to show my appreciation by actually referring back to what she has stored for me. In a moment of honesty, my friend and I revealed how many notes we each had. I went first sheepishly reporting my 49; and, was then blown away by her thousands! She covered a far larger array of categories with her recipes and places to visit with no mystery to what each entry was. I read aloud "Riding a bike afforded a youngster a certain type of freedom." We both looked at each other and laughed. I claimed to have no idea where I was headed with that. She challenged me to write a blog post based on that line. After pondering the words for a bit, I had an idea of what the general substance of the post was going to be, but no thoughts on how I was going to pull it together. Challenge accepted though!

Riding a bike afforded a youngster a certain sort of freedom. There was a sense that I could get farther away and do so more quickly than walking would have provided. I remember pedaling that bright green bike, singing "Fly Like and Eagle." The exhilaration of the wind whipping through my hair, long before the days of helmets and other safety measures, spurred me on to move my legs even faster. The way I cringe now watching cycling events, for fear those clusters of racers will collide and bring each other down, makes it even more incredulous that I thought my skills would join those ranks. Maybe I would meet up with other people on the neighborhood streets, join a friend on a paper route or just fly solo. On more than one occasion, I lost the focus to remember not to have my left pedal down when turning left, and vice versa, resulting in some quality time spent picking gravel out of one knee or another.

It was the freedom to go nowhere in particular, but still get to claim I did something. I went for a bike ride. Where? Around. Fresh air and exercise left little more information necessary back then. Once I could drive, I rarely chose two wheels over four. Life has a way of coming back around though and I eventually found myself pedaling again - helmets on, with the sound of the kids' training wheels until the day we were just eight tires spinning on the road. We were always looking for routes around the neighborhoods that were far enough to call adventures and exercise, but traveled in loops close enough to home in the event anyone's legs got too tired. The mission was never really to go anywhere, just something to do. Then before we knew it we had newly licensed drivers, eager for a different sort of ride, ideally solo.

My husband kept cycling though, riding faster and farther. Invitations were extended and turned down without much consideration. This was his hobby and I pretty much only concerned myself on the times when I begrudgingly had to drive rescue for flat tires. I was moderately envious that he had found an activity that was both enjoyable and healthy for him. No attempts were made to understand how he managed to ride twenty plus miles in eighty plus degree weather. Afterall, this was the same man who could pretend to enjoy using the elliptical in his off season.

Every now and then I would think about how that wind in my hair felt and longed for the youth associated with it. I tagged along for some short rides with my husband, but felt totally demoralized when he would branch off to do another fifteen miles as I headed home. Something changed last summer though in that constant state of awareness that our lives were not what we had planned for as we tried to buoy each other. I started talking to my husband a litle bit more about bike rides and tried to appear eager about accompanying him - I was hoping for a "fake it 'til you make it" situation.

I remained less than enthused about actually moving my legs, but found the goal setting to have some intrigue. My burning thigh muscles served as a reminder that my body could still do stuff and I had actually exercised. I had earned a little snack and an afternoon with a good book. There was a bit of a thrill the day I made it ten miles. 

It was never about the destination, because we never had one. It may not have even been about the journey either though, admittedly, just the distance. Oh, I suppose it was also about which photo and song I was going to use for the Instagram post. He still had his solo missions, but there were new couple goals too. I spent the duration of a twelve mile ride wondering if I wanted to suggest we try to make a thirty mile trek to celebrate the year of our thirtieth anniversary. 

In 2023, Ken had wanted to ride sixty miles with a friend of his celebrating the same milestone of turning sixty, but both ended up havng surgery that season instead. I thought maybe I could pose something similar in value. We did hit twenty miles and had high hopes of completing our challenge by November 11 (our actual anniversary). 

Between football season, both his refereeing high school games and attending the Buffalo Bills home games, and the fickle Central New York weather, we did not hit our thirty mile goal. The spinning spokes that had once been such a solitary escape did become a sort of coming together for us though. I realize we can aim for thirty-one miles this summer, and somehow that seems as crazy to me now as it did a year ago, and not just because the bikes are still in the basement. Stay tuned...

Would not be fair to not mention that Ken and our daughter rode ten miles in the Ride for Roswell last year. Their goal is twenty this year!

Go figure

I am aware that the following appears completely out of season at first glance. However, we are currently in a holy season, so let's just run with it. Due to the historically accurate lack of electricity in this scene, I maintain that it is an easier setup than the Dickens Village, but that is hardly the point. Yes, this world-renowned Fontanini Nativity is an imoressive display of detailed figures, but... ...if one stands around for too long, looking too closely, some questions or least comments are bound to arise. Me! I'm the one.

Why is water coming down the crater into a sand pit? Did they run out of epoxy to give those fish the illusion of a fighting chance? Wrong fish story.

I started to struggle with the general vibe of what folks were up to. That guy has a lantern, but others seem to be hiding from the sun or staring into it. This lady appears to echo my confusion...

...or is simply fed up! This guy...

...high as a kite with his recorder. Not a lot of business for the fish monger, granted he just had to pluck them out of a dry pool...

...but I wouldn't be surprised if he got robbed from either side. This lamb?

Oh, this lamb has seen some things! More kids looking at the star? But then is the whole thing a night market? Wait, this lady is shielding her eyes, so I'm back to daytime.

The little girl has clearly had enough and the little boy is guilty of something...

...and so are these guys! Why such cagey poses with their Frankincense and Myrrh?

"For crying out loud, can you just buy a rug?"

"No, no. You just lay there while I carry this goose around. No, I've got it, as well as the basket." And what IS everybody looking at?

(Yes, I have been back to this church during Lent and now there is just a bucket of nails for the taking, to be returned on Easter.)

Low Resolution

Well, Happy New Year to you! A new year, an opportunity to come up with all sorts of new excuses for why I haven't been here, as well as new efforts to change that. I feel that by waiting until some random Monday, barreling toward mid-February, to make an appearance, there should be no illusion that I am making any sort of resolution to be a more consistent blogger. I mean, what if I've told all of my good stories? What if I no longer find myself walking into pure nonsense every now and then? 

The real question right now seems to be whether it is insensitive to hide on my couch and click away here on the keyboard while such terrible things are going on outside. I am not ignorant and I know now is not the time to bury our heads in the snowbanks, but maybe we can think of this space as a little bit of fresh air? If we can agree that it's okay to look for a giggle or a speck of joy to give us the energy to keep treading water in these rough waters, then let the silliness begin...

Now, I am not pleased to admit that I haven't been here in just over six months. It seems like it might be too much to try to pack all of the things I want to show you in this one post; so, maybe we'll start out with a couple of holiday flashbacks and a few other odds and ends.

Maybe somebody had these on their list? 

American Girls gone to the dogs? (Groan, that was a RUFF one...I Shih-tzu not...OMG, it's just getting worse!)

The security squad in Macy's was off the charts on a Wednesday afternoon during the Christmas season. 

I kid you not, the way their hands were shaking on those handlebars trying to stay balanced between people and jewelry displays was reminiscent of when our kids' training wheels came off.

The Festivus gathering really got exciting when the bidet training lesson started.

I would not go so far as to say that I passed with flying colors. I think we each reported back with more questions than answers for our hostess.

It was a very artsy crafty holiday season...

...and I almost missed the days before Instagram, when I could peel an orange without thinking I needed to break up the peels and poke them onto wire to make little wreaths.

With the new year, it always seems like some drawers should be organized...

...where I apparently keep my Mr. Potato Head pieces? Yes, of course I left them there in case I have trouble hearing or wake up grumpy. Also found my "came with an extra button" collection.

I can't say that I've ever had a backup the times I actually have lost a button. Now this next collection is a little much, even for me.

I don't know why some were so well documented and others are mixed together, but that probably doesn't matter. I wanted to throw them out, but first texted the kids for permission. Okay, I admit it, I put them all in the little blue pouch that seemed more classy and less startling than the gallon Zip-loc they started in.

Let's go shopping! I like to see what the current trends in jeans are. I saw "high waisted mom jeans" and appreciated how they try to make that seem like a positive thing...

...but there is no part of me that has anything nice to say about a wedgie! Sometimes you need a little snack to sustain you while you shop...

...nope, not that.

I think my relationship with Cheerios has escalated...

...I think they are really into me...

...yes, I do, Cheerios! Thanks for noticing!

Thanks for checking in - I am so happy to be back!

 Thrilled that these guys are back too!