The 37th Day

I am propped up in Dad's bed, eyes scanning the gravel drive for Dad's doves.

He always watched them pick at the bits of rock for their craw,
flying up to rest on a limb before alighting for another round.

The tree branches are bare, grasses brown and covered with the last of the fall leaves.
Sun is shining today, scattering faux diamonds amidst the icy blades of little prisms
reflecting hope back to the window.

This view was Dad's world for the last 5 years.  A Mirror of his changing mind,
dually kind and cruel.
A hunter by necessity as well as sport in his younger years, his thinking evolved as his disease progressed.
One day I remarked,

Look at all those dove--

 I should get one and cook it for dinner.

No!  I like to watch them, we can't eat them!

I guess we'll have chicken then.

I have slept in here for 8 nights now, my gaze settling on every angle from one position moving only my head or eyes.
While I cannot comprehend his perception, I experience every thing--the sounds, the cold or warmth, the leaves blowing across the yard.
Trucks one after the other whizzing east to Jacksboro and beyond
heading west into Graham from nearby farms and ranches.

I will take Mother to the doctor this afternoon and listen as she tries to explain she 'is not any better' and she 'cannot stand this much longer.'
It is easy to feel her hopelessness and helplessness in the face of change--to her.

I wonder what causes some people
to seek the magic bullet for every life challenge
While others just shift into low or high gear and start the climb up or the descent down.
Dad was always the stoic one--just doing what had to be done because it had to be done.
No point in whining or complaining--neither got the job finished.
In the end, he sought the simple pleasures of watching the dove strut and feed,
commenting on how pretty the flowers or Mother looked.

Until the last few weeks, he laughed more, regaled us with his stories of growing up,
his years in India and China during World War II--something he had never talked about,
of being a young father, struggling to make ends meet, wanting a better and kinder life for his children.
It was as if all the joy and fun he never permitted himself came bubbling up when the time came he could no longer work.
Sis and I reveled in it, understanding how it mattered to him and to us, folding and tucking those moments into our heart pockets.

Once again we face uncharted territory as we (and Mother) enter this new stage of the unknown.

I have spent a lot of time of late pondering how we have disenfranchised our brain from reality until it is like an engine backfire.
Wires crossed, frayed, shorting out from overload
No longer able to repair and reconnect overnight because there's no dark anymore to permit regrouping and healing.
No reset button due to chemicals and drugs to regulate everything.
A gentle loss of coping capacity or willfulness that eased into our lives and now entrenched,
controls us to the point that half of us cannot think how to solve a problem
and would rather blurt out an accusation of blame or mindless 'explanation' for all that's gone wrong than spend time in Mindfulness, seeking understanding of how to become a more effective human being.

Uncharted territory.  We each have to map it as we walk it.

© scwallen

01/03/2018
Graham, TX

 

 

Psychodelic Cypress Knees

Downtown Indianola, Mississippi is home to the banks of Indian Bayou, which flows between Main Street and Percy Street.  The bald cypress tree, so named because it loses its needles in the fall, forms "knees" with age that grow up out of the water from the roots.  There are two primary purposes hypothesized for cypress knees, that of stability in the swampy area in which cypress trees are found, and that of a root aeration function.  According to Martin & Francke (2015, Root aeration function of baldcypress knees (Taxodium distichum), International Journal of Plant Sciences, 176(2), 170-173), 

[Oxygen] concentration of air extracted from submerged roots was compared when attached knees were above water and when they were submerged.  When roots were submerged, the root internal O2 concentration was much higher when the knee was above water than when both the knee and root were submerged.  This result unambiguously supports past assumptions that cypress knees do indeed function as pneumatophores in supplying submerged roots with oxygen.

Cypress was valued for its resistance to decay and insect infestation, and among other things, was used to make dugout canoes, albeit after "properly seasoned" or else cypress wood is heavier than water...and we know what that means (Bragg, D. C., 2011, Cypress lumbering in antebellum Arkansas. Arkansas Review: A Journal of Delta Studies, 42(3), 185-196).

I recall a cypress knee "souvenir" that my grandparents once bought on one of their vacations after they retired.  I did not have an inkling what a cypress knee was, but I was intrigued by its irregular shape and the smoothness of the wood.  As a child, I would sit in the floor and "pet it" because I liked the way it felt. 

...decades of colonialism and new-found American demand had taken their toll on the cypress groves along the Gulf Coast and lower Mississippi River.  For example, an early account reported that '[s]uch being the character of the primitive forests of Louisiana and Mississippi, with respect to the quantity of cypress timber, it must be obvious that much of this wood has already been exhausted; and as it is of very slow growth, the day cannot be very distant when it will altogether fail to furnish a sufficient supply for the markets of the above named states. (Dickeson and Brown, 1848, as cited in Bragg).

That's right--in 1848, lumber producers were concerned about the sustainability of cypress forests, for reasons related to ability to supply the desired product, but nonetheless, 169 years ago, we knew this was an important issue.  In 2015--only 2 years ago--evidence of the purpose of those knees was finally determined empirically--you cannot "harvest" those knees without risking the death or damage of the tree. 

 I did not start out this post to campaign for the baldcypress and its knees.  I just like to find a little context for the times I take a photograph of something that draws my attention.  Every trip into the Delta with its unique geographical terrain, I would spot these trees and knees, and say "someday I am going to photograph those."

Someday finally came in downtown Indianola along the banks of the Indian Bayou.  But what about the possibility that if we do not honor those trees and their knees with at least some semblance of balance, they might not be there someday?  As a social worker, I think in systems: so go the trees, so go the rest of the system.  And where exactly will that leave us as a world?

Blessings cleverly disguised as problems

 Late last Monday, sis let me know Mom was headed to the ER in Wichita Falls via ambulance, after an ER visit there at home, where she had been sent from the medical clinic.  I packed and early Tuesday, left for Texas, arriving at the hospital at 9 that night.  My view from the window for the next 3 days, looking out at the rain gave me plenty of time to think when we were not trying to grab a few minutes nap between all the medical personnel visits. 

Tuesday night was a night of no sleep for Sis or me and surgery was scheduled for 8 AM; prep began at 4 AM.  Preparing to send your 90 year old mother into surgery is always a sobering thought.  We felt reassured by her doctor's manner, explanation, and warmth and caring, but the reality was there was no choice.



That afternoon after Mom was resting comfortably in the room, I went to get some pillows for Sis and I to try to make sleeping in a chair a bit more comfortable, and pick up some lunch.  Naps ensued, followed by showers and clean clothes.  Mom was doing so well, so cheerful, and right across from the nurses station, so she insisted we go out and eat a decent supper.  Surprisingly, we agreed it was a good idea, and though we were not gone long, it was a needed break.

Finally Friday we were able to take her home.  As Sis is Dad's night time caregiver, when they are both needing help at the same time, I get the Mom shift.  

Tinka had missed her terribly while she was gone, and quite despondent to not be allowed on the bed with her after being so happy to see her back home.  Mom always worries after a bout like this about "Who will take care of Tinka when I die?"  As always, I remind her that I have promised I will take care of Tinka, and this time I added, "Mom, Tinka is going to die before you do; it probably will not be an issue."  She agreed.

Dogs and children: they just do not understand when things change.  Sometimes, neither do the adults.

Dad was happy to see Mother home again, too.  She actually felt well enough to go sit in his room a while.  It was a glimpse of the early years to hear them talking.  Saturday was busy with chores, and a few times to sit by dad's bed and talk briefly, though he sleeps much of the time now.  He still knows who we are, but not where he is.  He thinks he is in a new house, and the current experiences no longer connect with the older ones.  He asked constantly where the kids were and when we were going to get them.

Every time I passed the window or walked outside with Tinka, or to sweep the deck, I looked at Rio's empty corral.  Every morning and evening, I automatically thought of time to feed, even though I know Rio is not there.  I still walked down to the gate, looked out over his pasture where the trails are now obscured and said hello to his spirit where ever it is, or is not.

One more opportunity to demonstrate love and support, and to be grateful for 'being in the workshop' as we try to "become more effective human beings" (Gerald Corey).

Rio, Sis and I mowed your pasture

While I was in Texas this past week, I mowed Rio's corral--the small pasture that surrounded his hay barn, stall, and feeding/watering area.  It was late in the evening, and with a breeze blowing.  The sun had sunk below the rim and a dusty orange haze lingered over the tall grasses along the creek where his hooves carved little chips in the stones that lined the bed.

The smell of the prairie sage as it fell to the blades of the tractor infused my nostrils and my memories and Rio was behind me, following in the trail of the new-mown grasses, patiently waiting for the treat he always knew was in my pocket once the chores were done.

His spirit swirled around me as the dust rose up in front of me, enveloping me in the dry northwest Texas air in August.  Once, I overturned a clod of grass to discover one of his last piles of horse apples, still slightly green because it has been protected from the sun by the 18 inch grasses that have not been grazed nor mown since April.  I told my sister about it, and she became teary eyed.  Who gets sentimental over horse shit?  We both did, wondering how it could have been protected these past few hot and dry  months, only to surprise me in a vulnerable moment when I had been breathing in Rio's essence along with the dust and the sage.

Retiring the Lottabusha County Chronicles

Sometimes, it is hard to let go, even when we need to.  Sometimes, it requires a little nudge or even a great big push to help us to see that.  I will not repeat the stories here (you can read them over at Suzassippi about shutting down the windmill and saying goodbye to Rio), but being in Texas 3 weeks ago and once again dealing with letting go helped me to reach the point to let go of Suzassippi's Lottabusha County Chronicles.  I have struggled with it for a while, as somehow, it seemed like another loss in the face of so many losses these past 14 years, and especially in the past 4.

Lottabusha is just a different place to me.  It was a place where I shared my efforts to make sense of the things in Mississippi that did not make sense to me, but also, a place to celebrate the gifts it brought.  Making sense of things and celebrating the gifts of understanding can be a reason to take action for another change.

If you have been a long-time reader, thank you for continuing during all the sporadic posts these last few years and recent months.  If you are someone who just stopped by on occasion because a search brought you to the blog, thank you for stopping by.  To both types of readers, I appreciate the connections--both deep and continuous, and those where I might not have even known but for a comment.  I hope you will step over to Suzassippi for a visit.

Reflecting on Reflective Social Work Practice

Several years ago, one of Rand's co-workers sketched a "super-hero" of him as Random Access.  It was a tribute to his accessibility and willingness to help with technology issues.  First of all, I think RA the person rocks, and second, RA the super hero does willingly make himself accessible--not just at work, but to his family and friends who are always calling on him for help with our computer issues.

Frankly, I am a little jealous.

As hard as I try (and I do, constantly reading about teaching and coaching and supervising and professional development and educating, and consulting and dialoging with my mentors and mentees about all those things, and researching and publishing about those concerns--3 so far in the last 6 months), I seem in a "slump" these last few weeks.  I am not only not a super-heroine, but not even a heroine.

  It reminds me of my tiger metaphor.  I am torn between wanting to jump up and attack a jugular, and the awareness of needing to lie down and wait for the prey to come to me.  Kind of reminds me of my first mentor when I started teaching social work.

Anyone who thinks teaching in a university is a plum job has never done it.

Cat Light on a Dark Night

It has been another weird week around Lottabusha County.  Wearisome.  Last night I was tired and cold.  I had to catch a ride with R to work as J needed the car.  He dropped me on the corner several blocks via a long detour.  Construction.  A nightmare to drive and worse to walk.  Fences, detours, closed streets, half streets--all worsened by the multitude of folks who do not understand (or else do not care) about the rules for a 4-way stop.  Folks who cross the street by walking diagonal through the center of the street, tying up 4 lanes of traffic.  It was raining, and windy, and I had a book bag and my computer because because none of the work computers will work in the makeshift temporary classroom.

At 5, R texted to see when I would be ready.  I asked where he wanted me to meet him.  He said he could get to where ever I wanted, so I said I wanted in front of my building.  Time passed--25 minutes of it with me on the curb, in the wind, holding that heavy book bag and computer.  I put my hoodie up and stood with my back to the wind.  I watched the guys down the street loading and unloading giant dumpsters with a semi to haul off the debris from the day's demolition work and get ready for the next.  I watched them lock up the construction site fences.

I had expected it would take a while, because traffic lines are lengthy on all roads, and there are long waits at the intersections.  I finally pulled my phone out of my pocket to check with him, and saw where he had called 1 minute prior--but the phone had not rung.  "I can't get to your building."  I called him back and asked where he was.  "In the parking lot by the chapel."  I said I was on my way--trekking back the same several blocks, up a flight of stairs, down a flight of stairs as from the morning traipse.  Another 20 minutes to get off campus and 10 more to get home.

We were standing in the kitchen talking when the electricity went out and we were standing in the kitchen in pitch black dark.  I felt for the flashlight, and lit a couple of candles.  All lights were out at our neighbors (believe me, around here, it could have been something else in this house going wrong) so we sat down to wait it out.  It was a long wait.

A Metaphor for Aloneness and Togetherness: Waterfowl in New Orleans City Park

 Yep, doing all right here by myself.  I'm cool.  I'm chillin'.  This gives me time to think thoughts, and dream dreams, and envision visions. 

But at some point in time, we need to consider togetherness and connection.  Without that, all the thoughts and dreams and visions do not amount to anything other than noise in our heads.  Social Bridges said it nicely yesterday:

...memory is crucial to connectedness in the world and our sense of having a place within that.

Wednesday Puzzle

Can you spot the dog in this picture?  Remember those puzzles that used to appear in kiddie magazines?

Aluminum Architectural Details in former Shushan Airport

 New Orleans former Shushan Airport contains a wealth of architectural Art Deco details.  For interior pictures during the 1930s and vintage post card images, see the link at the Restoration of New Orleans Lakefront Airport.

This stairwell post reminds me of a miniature Empire State Building.

Me and Rio rocking out in Texas sunshine

We made it safely back to Mississippi this afternoon after a whirlwind trip between Christmas and New Year's Day.  Sis took off for San Antonio to have late Christmas with her kids, grandkids, and great grandbaby.  My Sister by Another Mother and I held down Fort Rio and took care of the parents.  It was tag team at its finest.  After all this time, my biological sibling Sis can manage Dad, Mom, Tinka, Rio, cooking, laundry, and the household chores for up to 4 days--if she has to. Fortunately, that has not happened except during a couple of ice storms.  I suppose most of us could do what we had to when it was a matter of life and quality of life for those we love, though I think some of us would even do it for strangers if circumstances thrust themselves upon us.  You know, like an ice storm or some other catastrophe.

Three shifts have to be covered every day, and due to unforeseen circumstances, we had one person...and me.  Now while I can do a whole lot of things and have a wide and varied skill set these days, there are some aspects of Dad's care that I do not know how to do because it has not been necessary since the first time he came home from the hospital with a broken hip and it was necessary.  Would I do my best if need be?  Of course I would, and we would manage just fine.  But Dad does not do well with change at this point and unless it is absolutely necessary, we avoid forcing him to deal with new experiences in the routine.  SbAM is really great with dad, having been with us for a little over 2 years now, and though young, is smart and a quick learner, and knows his quirks and how best to deal with them as it relates to caregiving--and better yet, he likes her and trusts her.  The deal was if she just took care of Dad, I would take care of Mom, Tinka, Rio, house, cooking, and dishes.  It is one thing to do all of that on an 8 hour shift, and quite another to do it for 24 hours, 3 days straight.

I sat in Dad's room every night and watched old movies with him, just being there in the chair so if he woke up from a nap doze, he could see me or talk to me.  Sis does that with him every night and I wanted to keep the routine as routine as possible.  He does not like to be alone, nor not be able to see us or hear us.

It was a hard week in so many ways, but it was also one of those times that you appreciate and honor, and for which you are thankful.  It is part of the cycle of life, and when you can embrace it, even in the hardness, even in the painfulness of impending unknowns and potential loss, it offers joy if we can have the heart to see it.

The time of year for threes

 Yesterday I had to go in for lab work at 8 AM, and it seemed like the perfect time to head on up the road to Memphis while I was up and dressed.  I made the rounds of my three intended stores and back home by 4 p.m.  I splurged on some pecan-crusted pork chops about the size of a roast and put them on...about the same time that I remembered R was staying in town for the basketball game...and about the same time that J came out and announced he was going to get Chinese take-out.

Undaunted, I proceeded to sit in the living room with the dogs and music going full-blast, savoring my bit of time while the chops cooked, occasionally dancing to a tune.  My movements seemed to fascinate Abby--the baby of the three and she also danced around me in excitement.  Even though there are 3 dog beds in the living room, all 3 of them finally settled on one together.  It might be a metaphor for life.

Later, after my delicious dinner, followed by a mini pumpkin cupcake with buttercream and caramel frosting, I texted with my sister.  Sis and I have been discussing the new family information I found this past week, and some new resources.  Mother at 89 is pretty much the last of her family of origin, except for a few distant cousins.  While she grew up, as did we, with frequent contact with the extended family, she did not know much about those before her grandparents' generation other than their names.  That task has fallen to me, and has taken on a level of fascination as I have uncovered the journeys of the ancestors to the Colonies that would later become the United States of America.  Family history has always reported that we were descended from Scottish and English.  While that is true in the sense that some of the ancestors did live in England for a period of time, I have been able to discover Irish roots as well as Scottish.

I told my cousin the other day--as she and her sister have also been doing parallel research on her father's side of the family as well as her mother's who is the sister to my mother--that the more I find, the more I am seeing my "carefully constructed identity" take on new meanings and new clarity.

The ancestors tend to have that effect on me.  Since I take it as true that life is a construct, in that we "make it up" for how we understand everything, I find myself wondering what I might have constructed had I known some of this earlier.  The thing about assimilation of new information is that generally, if we can fit it into what we already know, we do not have to spend much time with it.  If not, and we find we have to develop new information and meanings in order to accommodate this new knowledge, it takes a little longer and might even be uncomfortable or difficult.

I find myself these days listening to women who are near my age or older, as they speak about their experiences of constructing lives and meaning in a time of "traveling uncharted terrain." Several years ago, I heard an interview done with Patti Scialfa, and last night, I ran across it again.  At the time, she was 54, and said she wanted to write songs that reflected her in this stage of her life.  I think for many of us who are reaching this point, and we are now all 10 years beyond the date of the interview, there is a certain nostalgia for some of the moments of our younger selves, while at the same time there is a sense of anticipation for what might lie ahead.

Can we be comfortable with that?  Can we be comfortable with being uncomfortable with the new identities that may be forged from these transitions?

Could you direct me to the telephone booths, please?

 I had just stepped off my flight after landing at New Orleans Shushan Airport...it was sunny, but cool...a typical New Orleans March day...in 1934.  The terminal was new, and so was I...a green and untested journalist-wanna-be.  

Excuse me, could you direct me to the telephone?  I need to call my editor.

I am certain I detected a subtle roll of his eyes as the porter nodded toward the left...and then the right.  Take your pick, lady--either side gets you there.

 My hands were shaking as I dug through the coins in my change purse, grasping the crumpled number in my hand.  Luck was with me, and all three booths were empty.

I pulled the door closed behind me, and sat down.  This could take a while.

"Sure, go on in." Messina's Runway Cafe

 Peering through the glass at the stunning Art Deco stools, I was startled by a voice that said, "You can go inside; it's open."  Because pretty much the entire airport looked rather deserted, I was not expecting that.  All I can say is those New Orleaneans know how to do an airport.

A restoration/renovation project was recently completed, and a mid-century Art Deco gem has been saved.

Segregated Burials--Updated

 While searching for family ancestors on my recent trip to Texas, Sis and I found ourselves at the South Bend cemetery nearing sunset.  This was not my first exposure in Texas cemeteries of a distinct line of segregation for burying those of Mexican descent.

 Three isolated graves, next to the fence in the most remote portion of the cemetery--all three were born and died around the same time--birth in the late 1880s, and death in 1926 and 1927.

I did not really expect to find any information about these three individuals, nor why they were in South Bend at the time of death.  The Narbais name is found in Argentina.  Fernandz spelling is found in California, Florida, and Colorado as well as other isolated locations, and there are many Casas throughout Southwest Texas.

There were many farms and ranches located in the South Bend area of Young County, and it is probable that these individuals worked on one of the farms or ranches.  Vaqueros in Texas were highly regarded for their horsemanship and cattle skills.  I will keep up the search as time permits, but for now, my day job calls me.

December 9th update:  I spent more time searching for information on these Young County residents--who died in the years immediately after and the same as my parents were born in the area.  My ancestors would have/could have/probably did know these individuals--or at least who they were--because they were living in the same area at the same time. I am still not even close to learning about their lives, but I did locate some ancestry information for records of those born or baptized in Mexico, as well as other information on Latino ancestry in Texas.  I cannot connect Anastacio Casas with those of the same name that I located, but I did find several in Texas with similar dates of birth, and also several leads on Francisca Narbais.

 Additionally, when looking back through photographs, I realized I missed the 4th grave in the group: Francisco Garrisalez.  Based on the similarity of the tombstone design and the dates of death of the others and what appears to be the top of a 9, 2, and 7, I speculate that Senor Garrisalez' date of death is 1927 also.

That raises a new question of why did four persons of Mexican/Latino descent die during the same general time period in South Bend, Young County, Texas?

Skunk 1, Sisters 0

When I got home Thanksgiving week, sis advised a skunk was under the house. She had been taking Tinka out on a leash after the first night that Tinka ran over in a full charge and got a snootful of eau de Pepe Le Pew.  She had closed off the crawl space and winterized the opening with the foil sealant.  Sis underestimated the skunk, who merely pushed the foil seal aside and went on his or her merry way.  

The following day, we added the large rocks and I secured them with metal stakes so they could not be rolled away or dislodged.

Later, I went out to check...and duly noted the little critter had chewed a hole in the board that has blocked the crawl space for years, and climbed over the rocks.  He probably even thanked me for making his entrance more secure.  Cue the Internet search for skunk removal.

The trick according to the University of Nebraska professor whose scholarly paper on skunk removal (I am not kidding here--yes, a scholarly journal article, but I like to trust my sources of Internet information) gave the following suggestions:

Pour flour around the opening during daylight hours.  After dark, examine the flour for footprints leading away from the opening.  Once you determine the skunk has exited from under the building, secure the opening with sheet metal and metal stakes.

We sprinkled the flour around the opening, and checked after dark for foot prints.  Between the dew moisture and the wind, we could not be sure there were any footprints.  I suggested we rake away all the leaves, remove the rocks again, and then try again.

Things always seem to have a way of happening, do they not?  Every day brought a list of things that were more pressing and by the time the end of the day would come, or dark, we were no longer much inclined to go outside and battle skunks, and would put it off until the next day.

Friday I packed and loaded to leave for the trip back to Mississippi, so there went the last opportunity.  I confess, I did not want to risk an encounter with eau de Le Pew and then have to drive 12 hours with it.  Ah, the joys of country life.

Talking to Rio

Returning from Rio

...the one in Texas.  I spent the week in Texas, in the land without Internet.  Sometimes, that is not altogether a bad thing.  I will catch up soon.

Chaos and Calm

Things have been a discordant pile of chaos lately, in almost any realm, haven't they?  It can be hard to try to sort out what is real and what is illusion.  Sometimes, we do not even know what it would look like if it was real, so there we are stuck with an illusion of an illusion of real.  

The whole "get up and go to work" thing has gotten to be a drag: It is the same thing day after day, with only minor scene changes.

On the other hand, perhaps that can be a good thing.  How do you find the calm in your chaos?

Somber thinking spot