I’m currently waiting to hear from one of the nurses caring for my dad. They called me last night to tell me he was suddenly ill, and I might need to scramble to get down to be with him. They also suggested I begin considering hospice care for him. Things are feeling pretty disconnected right now… I guess that’s natural (?), as I’m about three hundred miles away, and uncertain as to his condition.
So much has been going through my head, and my heart, these past months, deepening over the past weeks as I’ve witnessed his further decline in health (physical and cognitive). It is a path through sadness, anger, frustration, confusion, yearning, and doubt.
Dementia, seeing what it does to him, feels like a theft of his mind, and an assault on his spirit. It is heartbreaking. Beyond the personal, is the political, or the social… that we (seem to) pay very little real attention to the process of dying, focused so much on the superficial. And it strikes me that there is very little our society does these days to truly honor the dying, or to offer answers to the living.
I don’t know what is going to happen over the next few days. I am still hopeful.
I was thinking about this place today, the Ocean House Hotel at Bass Rocks in Gloucester, MA, wondering if it will weather this crisis and still be in business when the pandemic is behind us. It’s where my husband and I spent our anniversary last year, and had hoped to get back this year for our thirtieth. Since our anniversary is in May (and my state of Vermont is under stay at home order until at least May 15th), that is not going to happen. Which is fine – last year was the first year we’d ever actually done anything that big for our anniversary, we just couldn’t wait to get back, as it’s a fabulous place (and off season, such as it was in the still-chilly part of May, the rates were awesome).
I’m finding myself in this kind of pandemic funk once or twice a day… as soon as I recognize it I feel a bit of shame, and as soon as I feel like talking about it, I feel ridiculously self-indulgent. But, well, this is a small personal blog, so I’m giving myself a pass. I can talk about whatever I want. Maybe in talking about it I can turn this around.
Whenever I realize I’m feeling this way, I think of my grandmother who was this feisty Italian woman who divorced her husband when my dad was only three years old, and then proceeded to raise my dad alone as a single mother. She worked extremely hard until she was in her mid-seventies, never remarrying, and not that she never complained about anything (man, did she), she never complained about hard work, hardship itself, or surviving. In fact, in the earlier days of this pandemic, I often thought of the stories she told as I was growing up, about life during the Depression. It was obvious that living through the Depression had a huge, lasting impact on her. It seemed to inform basically everything about how she continued to live for the rest of her life – and through her stories it informed some of how I have lived my life. So when I was faced with stay at home orders that included not traveling ten miles from home (when my main grocery store is more than ten miles from my home), was faced with running out of things I hadn’t thought of hoarding, and was faced with even not being able to buy seeds to start my own garden, it really did not seem difficult compared to any of the stories I’d heard from my grandmother. I’ve been extremely grateful to have access to fresh vegetables, meats, and other groceries – not always what I’d normally buy or in the same amounts (and I am being careful to eat smaller portions and use certain supplies sparingly – recalling also my gram’s stories about rationing), but I’m not expecting to go hungry anytime soon. I’ve also actually discovered a few great companies that I’m happy to support.
My grandmother’s ex-husband, my Grampa Lee, has also been on my mind through this. While my grandmother was raising my dad he was actually serving in the Navy. After they divorced he entered the service, and continued through til the late 1940s. Unlike my grandmother he was taciturn to say the least, so I didn’t get to directly hear his stories, could only piece things together through photos he decided to share, things he liked and did, and choices he made. After the service he became a truck driver for many years, driving an eighteen-wheeler up and down the East coast from Virginia through New England. I didn’t see how big a deal that was until now, when the country is absolutely reliant on the toughness and dedication of these drivers. According to my dad, my grandfather did open up finally, the last time the two of them saw each other, what turned out to be very shortly before his death. He acknowledged that he had “fucked up” in his life, but didn’t say much else.
Reminders of each of them are around my house. Right above
my desk, right here in fact, are separate pictures of both of them, as well as
their parents, and my mom’s family as well. In my dining room are small gifts
my grandfather had brought home from Japan, and all over are things that had
belonged to my grandmother – her rosary, ceramics she made by hand, a teapot,
things I might not have chosen myself but obviously have meaning.
Reminders of them are also with me through this. Fighters, survivors, both of them. And I hate to say it, hate to put it this way – I’m being kind of facetious here… but neither of them a whiner or moper. When I realize I’m in this funk (and thus feel like a whiner and moper, despite the fact the TV psychologists say this is totally normal – sigh), they come quickly to mind. They made it through much, much harder than this – and from what I can tell, without any handwringing. As for the Ocean House and my anniversary… for their sake I do very much hope they survive, just like I hope for the survival of all such businesses. My husband and I have had bare-bones anniversaries before. I think this one will actually be quite memorable after all.
photo: Ocean House Hotel at Bass Rocks, Gloucester, MA; a cloudy cold day in May
The other night my daughter and her boyfriend had my husband and myself over to celebrate my upcoming birthday. It was a great evening, with wonderful food, fantastic music, awesome conversation, very fun tabletop gaming, and much love. In my typical weirdness, I felt then and still feel now that this was not deserved, the big, positive, warm attention.
My daughter knows me well, and her gifts to me (in addition to the above food, music, conversation, and gaming) were a jar of kalamata olives, and a beautiful little plant. I also received a cool-looking new game, Abomination: The Heir of Frankenstein, which I’d seen highly recommended in recent reviews. As we didn’t want to dive into an hour long read of the instructions for a new game, we played a long-time favorite, Betrayal at House on the Hill.
I’ve never spent this much time or energy contemplating any particular birthday or age. I am not sure why fifty is doing it, but I guess that is not so uncommon. But so far, this one has actually been one of the best.
I’ll know soon enough if fifty feels any different from any
other age, but regardless, I’m letting go the worry, and just allowing the astounding
gratitude I’m feeling for having made it this far, and with this much love in
In two days it will be Thanksgiving, and if everything goes as planned I’ll be hanging out with the love of my life, enjoying a Lord of the Rings movie marathon. This year the family is dispersed, so it’s me and him, on our own… no big cooking to do, no feasts to time perfectly, no desserts to bake one after the other… Of course I’ll miss the family (and we’ll be getting together over the weekend anyway), but at the same time, I’ll enjoy the day off together (as long as he doesn’t get last-minute, panicked emails from clients that drag him away).
Thanksgivings don’t rate highly for me anyway. I have too many memories of bleak-spirited, poorly-funded, inadequately-fed Thanksgivings. I think this may have had something to do with the fact my 32 year-old mother had died and been buried so soon before the holiday, why on earth would my father have felt like celebrating gratitude? I’ve also had my share of very weird, very awkward, and terribly uncomfortable ones… the ones where you’re not personally invited, you’re only attending as someone’s guest, and in some cases, you’re the only “ethnic” (being Polish and Italian) one there.
Nah, I’ll be okay without Thanksgiving this year. Thanks, yes, those I give, every single day. I am grateful for my life and for everyone in it, and for this amazing world, as terrible as it can be sometimes.
Last month my dad was in and out of the hospital several times, and I ended up spending quite a bit of time in my hometown of Wallingford, Connecticut. Though I visit often throughout the year, I don’t usually visit my old stomping grounds from when I was a kid. While I was there last month I ended up having some time to kill, so I took the opportunity to stop by a very old cemetery I used to frequent when I was growing up, Center Street Cemetery.
It isn’t the cemetery where my mother is buried, in fact, I’m not sure I know any of this cemetery’s inhabitants…
But, as a teenager I would often stop by Center Street Cemetery in between school and work. I would head over from where I lived a few blocks away, stopping on the way at the New York Bakery (as it was called) for a pastry, and then through the entranceway on the corner of Orchard and Center Streets. I would find a place to sit for a few, underneath one of the many big old beautiful trees. After, I would head off to work feeling relaxed and recharged. It was a very quiet place, despite being located on two of our town’s busiest streets.
This was the first cemetery I ever took photos in, for a high school photography class; I still have the negatives and contact sheets. It started a since life-long love of mine, combining my reverence for cemeteries with my love of photography.
Center Street Cemetery started serving the area as early as
1670, was formally established in 1683, and has a pretty intriguing history. I
wasn’t the first or only person to enjoy sitting and having a bite to eat amongst
the gravestones… the cemetery has twelve full size stone tables, where visitors
in the 18th century would lunch while paying their respects. The last
woman tried for witchcraft in New England – and eventually acquitted, Winifred King
Benham, is reportedly buried there. The paths are well worn from genealogists
and historians frequenting the place now; while I was there, at least two
others were there taking close-ups of stones.
I have the most fun with graveyard photos when I get to work altering them; these are just a few basic pics from the hour or so I spent there… It was a beautiful, very bright sunny day. It was nice to be back there, and it again offered a bit of peace during a difficult time.
Finally, I’m updating this site!… I have had a hell of a
time with the previous WordPress theme, and just installed this new, much more
Yesterday was Halloween – or Samhain, which is the mark of
the New Year in some Pagan traditions, and the new moon was just a few nights
before. I feel like this is a good time to make a better start with this
portfolio, and a real start with this blog.
Art has been important virtually my entire life… after my mother died, a counselor told my dad I would express my pain through art. Whether or not that was indeed true, I don’t know – back then I drew pictures of my mother as an angel, and I drew birds and animals, and the sorts of things little kids drew. But it was such a constant for me growing up (and my dad being an artist himself was a huge influence as well). As I got older I discovered cameras, and how much I loved taking and working with pictures as well as drawing them. So I’ve been doing that a very long time as well. And writing, well… Mercury is conjunct my Ascendant in the 12th house… seems rather fated 😉
So this is me anyway, with my little inconspicuous site. If you’ve happened upon this page, hi there.