My search for grace and meaning after a former care partnering life with a wife who suffered from Parkinson's disease and dementia giving her a confused and disorienting world.
This poem by Shel Silverstein is from an anthology of poems and cartoons published by him with the same name in the 1970s. I do not remember how we got it but I have several books of poetry. Poetry can tell a story, elicit emotion, evoke a memory or simply make one think.
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.
Hauntingly to me it is a metaphor for life. I do not know where the smoke blows black and the dark street winds but every life has rough spots. Childhood is full of hope and dreams and looking towards a bright future free from cares.
But growth and maturity catches us and distracts us from ourselves. It adds fear, anxiety and worries about things over which we have no control.
Looking back from the end of the sidewalk one sees with great clarity the chalk marks where direction was changed forever.
Or Shel may have been writing with something totally different in mind.
A small gymnasium with loud music and time to wait, the pre-dance show is boring. I am glad that I have a book. I am writing facetious nonsense.There is no pre-dance show. It is loud music, unnecessarily so, in a small gymnasium.
The girls on all the teams are enthusiastic and passionate about their routines. As a biased grandfather watching these kids perform I think my granddaughter did the best but two concepts interfere with that assessment, familial relationship and ignorance of the judgment criteria. A rubric would be helpful with the latter. There is no help for the former.
I did enjoy the afternoon with my daughter’s family. Earlier in the day Cheryl had been sleeping soundly in her recliner. I sat with her for a time. She did stir when I talked to her. She did not stir when I kissed her cheek. She did not stir when pulled the blanket from beneath her head and covered her with it. She did not stir when I kissed her good-bye and left to have some lunch before the ride to the competition.
Jazz Dance
Cheryl was safe and taken care of. I went to watch the dancers without concerns for her wellbeing. I thought about how she would have liked to have been there. I made a video to show her later.
Yesterday I put away the few Christmas decorations that I had spotted around. The very last thing was the door decoration that I had carried over to Cheryl at the Harbor. Later I realized I was a day early. Cheryl always did that on January 6th or the weekend afterward. I left a little carved camel and a note “Off to find the star…” in the place where I had set up a small creche that had been my mother’s.
I went out to retrieve the snail mail to today and noticed my note to mostly myself but able to be viewed by my neighbors. In the mail was an envelope from my sister that contained the signature page of her advance directive document should someone need to speak up for her at the end of her life. She has saddled that task on her lifelong friend Phyllis. I am her first alternate.
I visited Cheryl earlier today. She was sleeping very soundly so after sitting with her for a bit and sending her picture to her brothers and sisters, I kissed her good-bye. She did not stir so I left to find lunch at home.
Off to find the star… is a metaphor to me for life and where Cheryl and I are. I am very glad that she is well cared for at all hours of the day and night. Once in awhile I have this overwhelming sadness and grief that sneaks up on me at odd times. This morning it was during the simple activity of making the bed. It is funny how certain chores are taken over by various participants in a loving marriage. Cheryl always did this until a few years ago. Even a few weeks ago as I was making the bed I might be talking to her and encouraging her to select a certain shirt or “why don’t you wear your red jeans today?” Even though I was doing the bed, we would banter back and forth.
I miss that. The star dims with time.
My granddaughter is participating in a dance competition today. Soon my daughter will pick me up to go with her to watch the competition. Cheryl is safe and calm and perhaps asleep. I am off to find the star by myself.
That I will be the best husband that I can Be but not better than I Am.
That I will be the best father that I can Be but not better than I Am.
That I will be the best grandfather that I can Be but not better than I Am.
That is all I resolve to do in this new year of 2024. For those of you math nerds it is the day after 123123 (12/31/23) and one year after the Fibonacci year 01123 (1/1/23). Those dates may be significant to others who look for significance where there is mere coincidence but for me those dates only mark passage of time. After all the calendar is arbitrary. In the sixteenth century our calendar was adjusted by the Pope. It was adjusted again in the eighteenth century that is why George Washington and a couple other founding fathers have two birthdays. The Chinese standardized theirs in 2017 but in some places it is still 4721 or 4722 depending. There is much that is arbitrary and little that is significant with calendars.
Cheryl was the keeper of our home calendar but lately it was me that pasted birthday labels and marked other appointments and social events on it. In the week between Christmas and January 1st, I would layout the new wall calendar on the dining table and mark birthdays and other carry over appointments on it and then hang it for the last few days behind the current calendar. Lately she was unsure of which part to look at. To Cheryl it is Easter time. I have not purchased a new home calendar. Perhaps I should do that soon.
I have found and am wearing my father’s watch given to him to mark the anniversary of his 25th year where he had worked his entire life except for the bad times in the early 1940’s.
Time passes. Tempus Fugit.
Cheryl is comfortable, settled and safe in the Harbor memory care section of Bridgeway Pointe. Last week we met with a hospice care induction nurse to find the best course of care for her in this new year. I believe that she is getting the best that I can do for her in the new year.
No one can be better than they are. My hope is that I can be the best of what I am.
It is interesting and nostalgic to find a pile of random objects in your sock drawer and ask yourself – why did I keep this? Looking for something else I found a pile of these random printed things that I had kept over the years. The why for many of these is obvious. Most are cards that express love for me from Cheryl. I know why I kept them. Neither of us has been very poetic, romantic or good at expressions of love to each other. I mean that in the literary sense. We have always expressed our love for each other.
The employees at Hallmark and American Greetings are expert at expressing emotional thoughts. Cheryl would write Paul or To my dear husband at the top of the verse and sign below with simply Cheryl. I know why I kept them. I kept them because when I read them now I hear her voice. She is so much better than I am at marking life events with a card.
Sometimes things mark the first of some event, so, it is necessary to keep a record. In this particular pile is an old scorecard from a golf game I played with a friend from work. Circled on the card and highlighted with arrows is a “3” scored on a par four hole on an old Cincinnati golf course. The notation is “the first birdie for Gerbs” and the card is attested to by Rick Hilt.
I play golf very little these days. I still enjoy a round with my sons or grandson but it is no longer a passion as it once was. My very first round of golf I played with my father and my brother long ago on Blue Ash golf course. The course was brand new. It had only nine holes. My brother had chased his job to Florida but was back for a visit. It was a special occasion and I had asked for a day off from work to play. Bill gave me his driver, a tee and a ball and said, “Just swing it around a bit and get loose. When you are ready to hit, just think smooth.” I can still hear him say that. I was young, skinny and inexperienced.
The teeing area was elevated slightly but across the front of the tee was a riff in the landscape that drained the land in a rainstorm. The landing area for the experienced drivers began one hundred and fifty yards to the fore. The landing area for the hackers was the riff. The pressure to stay away from the dry weedy creek bed was great. As I approached the ball with my brother’s driver he said to me, “Remember. Smooth just think smooth.” I kept thinking smooth as I took the club head back. Being inexperienced and skinny I was unsure of grip and other nuances to send the ball rapidly into the hackers paradise below. As I swung the club forward I stayed with his advice, smooth.
I am sure it happened too fast but as I think about it, it is all in slow motion in my memory. The club impacted the ball squarely through the bottom of the arc. My body followed it around and through. As I lifted my eyes to follow the ball on its flight, it moved straight away from me for twenty or thirty yards of flight and then gently rose and headed to the experienced drivers landing area away from the surrounding clover, the weedy creek bed and the trees. It struck the ground two hundred or so yards from me and ran up the slight grade of the short grass for another fifty yards into the heal of the slight dogleg left fairway.
I was ecstatic and proud of my effort as I handed my brother his driver back and asked, “Like that?” He grabbed his club and switched to competition mode. My brother Bill was a scratch golfer and an excellent Bridge player through most of his life. He said, “Why don’t you have your own sticks?” He approached his ball and hit a very fine drive and when his ball stopped out in the fairway it was only a few feet beyond mine. It was the best drive from the tee that I ever hit playing golf. I had almost out drove my big brother. He felt the need to compete with me. It was a good day although that was it for my first golf game. I was in hacker’s paradise for the rest of the round.
In another handwritten letter, I have been “ripped a new one” by the mother of a child that played on a soccer team with my daughter. I kept it all these years for a couple reasons. It was the first time I have been ripped a new one in such elegant cursive and her reasoning did not carry any weight after my daughter pointed out that her daughter was an only child.
Memories like this come flooding back as I hold various objects from my very own junk drawer.
I still see Linda and occasionally talk to her because she is a dear friend of our neighbor Jane. They are both gardeners and talk often. Jane has had several bouts with lymphoma in her life. During a couple of these Linda called me and asked if I had seen Jane. How was she doing? And so forth. My response was to knock on Jane’s door and ask her to please call Linda. Linda was worried.
I do not know if she remembers the soccer incident.
There is a completely random collection of matchbooks from my old days of smoking. I suppose I was worried about running out of lights for my cigars and cigarettes. These were originally ensconced in a decorative water pitcher that resided on top of our hope chest in the bedroom. About two years ago our granddaughter was visiting and during part of that visit Cheryl began routing through the hope chest for something. When they were done the pitcher was put inside the chest. (This was probably another presentation of Cheryl’s slipping mental acuity.)
Some of the match boxes and packs evoke memories of times past. French Lick Springs resort is a wonderful memory. Cheryl and I went there early in our lives. It was part of Sheraton Hotels at the time and it was still just that, a resort hotel with a golf course and tennis and a built in nightclub. Meals were included in the room price. If your round of golf was scheduled over the luncheon hour, a call to the kitchen provided a box lunch on the cart when you appeared at the clubhouse. There were two swimming pools but the one immediately adjacent to the hotel had a roll back cover so that it could be used in winter and in the summer months was reserved for adults only. I remember sitting next to Cheryl poolside dangling my feet in the water and a guy approached in a jacket and bow tie and asked if I would like a drink. I ordered a gin and tonic. Cheryl ordered rose wine. I signed the check with my room number. It was elegant and chic.
For dinner one evening we ordered a Caesar salad. The head waiter prepared it table side and made the dressing there in front of us. At another time after dinner we ordered cherries jubilee. It too was prepared table side with a little flair and elegance as the sherry is set on fire and the alcohol is burned off. It is not the same as a time share.
There are several restaurants represented. There are also several packs of matches from the wedding of Diane and Ron. I wonder who they are.
There is a stack of old credit cards and ID badges from several work situations. My old Xavier University student ID is there as well as a luggage tag made from an old business card. We keep these items, I do anyway, because they are pieces of a life. They are memories to remember.
They are nostalgic. I do not keep bad memories in my junk drawer. A couple of those are on full display in my office atop my computer. There are good remembrances there too.
Every morning when I wake up alone I miss her physical presence. As I get up from bed I sit for a few minutes and listen to my heart and I can sense her. I suppose a very long life of being together does that to me. Our souls are intertwined and connected through the ether. I sense her while doing whatever wake up routine I have decided upon for the day. I do not know if that is strange or normal.
Usually it is coffee and some variety of breakfast food. Today it was merely toast made from a loaf of bread that I made a day or so ago. I futz around and shower, shave and brush my teeth. I make the bed and find some clothes to wear. Today is a holiday so I have spent time making croissants to go with dinner tonight. Those are almost done rising. I am delaying as much I am able because every morning about 10 AM or so I long to visit Cheryl and touch her.
These days she is sleeping later and I do not want to disturb that slumber. If she was still at home with me I would be getting louder doing whatever futzing I conjured for myself. I would be frustrated that she was not up yet so that I could work my breakfast magic on her. It is now about 11 AM and I am feeling anxious to go and visit with her at Bridgeway Pointe. I am also pretty sure she is still sleeping or at least dozing gently and not very interested in awakening. (Today I delayed until afternoon and when I arrived she was eating lunch. )
Today is Christmas. To me that means gathering with family and enjoying the company. Listening to the grand children and discovering what their interests are. Are there any new boyfriends? Girlfriends? Jobs? Changes in trajectory of their lives? Sometimes they are too busy to talk to grampaw – gotta go! This year there is a gap in my heart. I will not have Cheryl with me at this afternoon gathering.
In an effort to get my head in the game I have been listening to a Christmas playlist from Spotify. Many of these songs are new and remakes of older songs. Many seem to have the theme of love and joy at the birth of a child who will save us all. Many talk of love lost or at least gone awry for now. I do not think it is working.
In the evening I have the same thoughts and feelings. I can sense her even though she is not physically with me. I felt that very strongly last night as a got home from my son’s house. He has the smallest grand kiddo. Small people do not bring any baggage with them to holiday celebrations and that is good for us old people who do.
The croissants are cooling now. I will go and see how Cheryl is today.
As in turn over a new leaf or turn over you are snoring? Nope these are turnovers made with croissant dough, egg wash and, in this case, cherry pie filling left over from another project.
In my father’s family there was this undertone at family gatherings that one should eat dessert first because as we all know, “One cannot predict the time or place of one’s death.” That is for the big man upstairs.Recently I rediscovered my copy of “Baking with Julia” a cookbook in the same vein as her old shows where she demonstrates how to do things. This book is dedicated to bread and pastries. I tend to wander off and experiment with variations on a theme.
About two weeks ago feeling full of ennui I decided to follow the croissant dough recipe and make croissants. Buttery flaky pastry dough has been a mystery for me. I have made bread for many years and each time I do I am amazed at two things; why I continue to buy store bread from commercial bakeries and how long the commercial bakery bread will last while I am eating up the last of the loaf I previously baked.
Following Julia’s explicit detail I mixed up a simple sweet dough and placed it into the fridge overnight. With it I beat up a pound of butter (18 oz. actually) with some flour and shaped it into an oval shape about an inch think and placed it in the fridge overnight. This was a two day activity. Not as big of a time commitment as making sourdough but much more demanding physically and definitely more satisfying mentally.
The croissants tasted great but had no great beauty to them. I used part of the dough to create a fruit pocket style coffee cake but the dough was wrong for that. Danish dough is better for the fruit pocket.
The last of the dough I used to make turnovers. These are great. I rolled the last of the dough out into a 12 inch by 12 inch square, cut it into quarters and folded the dough over a glop of cherry pie filling. I glued the dough together with some egg wash and pressed the edges down with a fork. All are painted with egg wash before going into a 350 degree oven for 15 minutes. When they came out I drizzled them with Virginia Bakery roll icing which is just confectioners sugar with more sugar and a little water. These are good. I will do them again.
Carpe Diem, but do not forget to eat dessert first.
Ennui is a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement according to the Oxford entry that pops up when one pokes this word into Google. I have several dictionaries in print form. They are left over from my high school and college days. My copy of the American Heritage Dictionary (copyright 1971) defines it as a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of interest (boredom). It is a small word that conveys a big emotion.
This word was part of the Quordle this morning. I did not get it. It is not part of my regular vocabulary. It is adopted into the English language from the French. The French have a lot of good words that are adopted into English. Altruism or the root of that word is another. Entrepreneur is another.
Words are a fascination for me. I think this word, ennui, is an excellent description of how and what I feel emotionally when I get home from visiting Cheryl at Bridgeway Pointe.
Moving forward from this point I will strive to become more engaged in life around me. Look for things to stimulate my interest. Succumb to various fascinations that I have about the world. Immerse myself in new vistas of my environment.
These last ideas are antonyms to ennui. Introspection is useful. Self-absorption is not. Perhaps I have been too self-absorbed to understand and accept emotional help from those around me.
I will meditate about that today. My son has invited me for dinner.
Yesterday my daughter suggested that I might like to come to a school concert in which her youngest daughter was playing in the band. I decided that I could sit home and mope around or I could go to watch my granddaughter play her trumpet. I decided on the school concert.
Making bread, for me, is great therapy. After the concert we returned to Anna’s house to hang out for a little while. Eric had gone to a convention for collection of baseball cards and other baseball memorabilia. He is as is his son a fan of baseball. Eric was showing me some of his purchases. He was beaming with delight. I teased him about being a super fan. He replied that you have to have something that will take your mind away from daily things that are less desirable to think about. Those are not his words exactly but the intent of the words. For me that activity that takes me away is bread and baking and by extension cooking.
Yesterday when I returned from visiting Cheryl. I made Rye bread.This recipe from King Arthur is a favorite. Rather than find where I stashed it last time I printed it again and followed it exactly which is something I rarely do.
There is relief in kneading dough. It is much like getting a great back massage. There is aroma therapy from the oven as it bakes. There is anticipation removing it from the oven. There is blindness for a bit as the oven releases the steam from baking onto my glasses.
I set the bread to cool on a rack and went back to visit Cheryl who was struggling with resting and going to bed at night after having spent the previous night and early morning in the ER from falling Saturday night. With the nurse’s help I got Cheryl into her bed.
I am leaving in a few minutes to find out how well she slept overnight. When I left her she was laying on her left side as she did with me at home. I got a good look at the bruise on her face from hitting her head when she fell.
Breathe in. Breath out. Move on. Bake bread if you are able. Love deeply always. Take notice those around you who need help. Ask them if you can help.
“Grief is love with no place to go.” says Armand to a young killer. Amazon Videos has made shows out of several of the stories written by some of my favorite authors.
Watching one of these videos the other night while waiting for my croissants to fluff up for the oven, this quote jumped out at me.
I think I am feeling that these days. Baking can be therapeutic. It is a hobby I have perused for many years. When My sister came to visit a couple weeks ago I made her pot roast one evening. It was great and I used the leftover mashed potatoes in a recipe I have for potato bread. That turned out great. Something I have not tried to do but I now have the time for is croissants and other pastry.
Yesterday I made some croissants. (Why is there two sses in croissant?) Here is a image of my first effort. I took them to Cheryl this morning but she was sleeping.
I also need more practice with the croissants. The other half of the croissant dough is resting in the freezer waiting for me to become inspired to try it again. I think maybe a hotter oven and proof the yeast a bit when I start the dough. The recipe I was following used wet (cake) yeast which I do not have. Perhaps further experimentation with technique. These two out of ten turned out okay – not bad for a first effort.
Holy cow they are rich. There is a whole pound of butter in this recipe.
Adjunct_Wizard 