In August, after a month-long heat wave subsided, I moved my lawn chair to the southeast corner of the garden under the branches of a young walnut tree. The leaves were lush and green, and it was a pleasant place to view the beans and cucumbers “close up” and from a new perspective. The tree was the size of a small bush when we first moved here and there were many times I thought that it should be chopped down, especially when my husband tilled a new garden plot around it, but I am glad he left it alone, because it has earned a cherished place in my heart.
We had lots of rain this summer, too much in fact. The walnut tree started losing its leaves early in September, a good month before the first frost. Once again I searched for a place in the shade. I hadn’t been up to the garden for a few days, and as I slowly navigated up the hill – coffee cup and journal in one hand, lawn chair in the other – I saw walnuts lying on the ground under the tree.
Suddenly I remembered another time in October, a day cool and delicious like this one, when my mother and I picked walnuts on the side of the road in the nearby town of Long Grove. I can still see the sun filtering through the yellow leaves of two huge walnut trees and hundreds of bright green husks lying on the gravel. I remember how we filled our baskets over and over again, dumping our stockpile into boxes in the back of mom’s brown station wagon. The beauty of that day lingers in my memory.
After reading my Bible and journaling for a while, I picked one of the last bushels of beans from this year’s harvest and headed back down to the house. I accidentally left my camera hanging from one of the trellises, and sent Elizabeth up to fetch it. She saw the walnuts lying on the ground, too. When she came back down to the house she said, “Mom, I want to make ink out of the walnuts.” I thought to myself, Oh Lord, I see the connection you’re making – special moments planted in the fertile soil of a young girl’s heart – seasonal traditions passed down from mother to daughter on hazy October days.
We filled a cast iron Dutch oven with water and walnuts to slowly simmer on the stove. Hours later, after some of the liquid evaporated, we added a tablespoon of gum arabic (a preservative used in making ink) and a tablespoon of vinegar.When I researched how to make walnut ink on the internet, I came across the Hammon’s black walnut site. I was tickled by a sentence I read, “Black walnuts are a hands-on product, from planting to harvest to final processing.” “That’s it,” I exclaimed to my children. “That’s my job. To give you a hunger and thirst for the Lord – from planting to harvest to final processing!”
After my mother became a Christian, she gave me that hunger, born out of the pain and suffering she experienced as she bravely fought against a debilitating disease. My father recently wrote a letter to us kids (there’s five of us), and included this sentiment about her. “Your mom was the fire that lit all of our lives; we should always remember her with reverence and gratitude for her relentless effort to get us all saved.”
My mother led me to the Lord in her living room and I am forever in her debt. She showed me how walk by faith through the good times and bad, especially when God moves your chair – through circumstances – to another window or in this case another side of the garden, to help you gain a heavenly perspective and a whole new outlook on life.
I don’t know what prompted my mother to invite me to go walnut picking. I’m glad we had a few special times together before she died because I was married and busy with a life of my own and looking back now, my visits were all too infrequent. After she passed away, I was helping my father get ready for a rummage sale when I discovered several cans of walnuts in their basement. A warm feeling washed over me. I brought those cans home as memorial of our relationship and kept them in the back of my closet for the longest time.
I wonder, come next fall, if Elizabeth will remember the special time we had together this year making ink. Will the golden haze of October remind her that it’s time to gather walnuts? The Lord willing, I will be ready and waiting with my basket at the garden’s edge…
Grandpa writing on his book about the nursing home
“I’m having a hard time beginning this entry,” I told Grandpa.
“Do you want help?” he said.
“Yes, if you can think of anything, I’d appreciate it,” I replied.
“But then it wouldn’t be you,” he said. “I’m thinking of something, but I don’t want to give it to you. I don’t want to be a ghost writer.”
A ghost writer, ha! That’s a good one. In a sense, Grandpa has been a ghost writer ever since he came home because all my subject matter originates with him. He’s a ghost writer, all right – once removed. There’s never a shortage of material, and although it may not be the most popular subject in the world – the trials and tribulations of taking care of an elderly parent – it is an opportunity to record a legacy for my children and stay somewhat sane through the process of journaling.
For instance, this post is about the terrible time we’ve had keeping Grandpa looking presentable. It’s much harder than you would imagine. He came home from the nursing home with a limited number of dress pants and khakis, and after a year of washing, they don’t launder well. I’ve added a few more khakis to his wardrobe, purchased from the Goodwill, but they were already worn to begin with, so lately, Grandpa has been looking a little disheveled, especially from the waist down.
To keep Grandpa smelling fresh, we wash his clothes daily, and the sad reality is, we don’t have the energy to iron them too. Besides all of the other duties we perform for Grandpa such as showering him, changing him three times a day, helping him get where he needs to go, and cooking three square meals, ironing doesn’t fall under the category of the urgent.
Anyway, let’s be realistic. We’re not living in the days of June Cleaver or Alice from the Brady Bunch (although having a live-in maid would defiantly solve the problem). No, we’re living in the days of permanent press and wrinkle-free cycles, so you really have to ignore standard operating procedures to achieve maximum wrinkle-free results by cramming clean clothes into laundry baskets and leaving them sitting around for a while so they can wrinkle again.
Because I don’t live at Grandpa’s, a lot of laundry goes undetected by my mommy radar. Most mothers possess a sixth sense regarding laundry that needs to be taken out of the dryer or promptly shook out and hung up from the basket. I’m not really sure what the issue is here. It could be because the washer and dryer are in the basement and the laundry isn’t being brought up on a daily basis, but the more I think about it, it’s probably the fact that the buzzer is broken on the dryer. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard it go off since we’ve been taking care of Grandpa. The truth be told, out of sight – out of mind. I’m out of sync with the wash!
If Grandpa’s pants were removed from the dryer immediately and hung on a hanger, we could possibly eliminate the need for ironing all together. But since we don’t know when the clothes are done drying, and the dryer is not likely to be fixed any time soon, we’ll just have to buy a few more pairs of $10.00 Wranglers from Wal-Mart.
As with most of the obstacles we’ve encountered, we accidentally stumbled onto a solution for this new challenge. Grandpa asked for a pair of blue jeans for his birthday, so Eric purchased what is supposedly his very first pair ever from Wal-Mart. When I saw Grandpa in his Wranglers, I said, “EUREKA! Why didn’t we think of that sooner?” I mean, you really have to do a lot to mess up a pair of blue jeans. For the most part, they will only get softer and better looking the more we wash them.
There are no words to describe how cute and wrinkle-free Grandpa looks in his Wranglers. A picture will have to do, only I’ll have to wait to take one because Grandpa’s Wranglers are in the wash. I have been informed by certain members of the family (who wish to remain anonymous), that it takes two days for the laundry to be brought up from the dark abyss. No wranglin’ about that!
This morning, when I stopped over at Grandpa’s house with some groceries, Claire had already given him a shower. She was almost done helping him dress, when I saw him pat her arm appreciatively. It touched me deeply to see him express his gratefulness in such an endearing way.
I thought of how he had drifted out of our lives and how painful it was to feel like we could never really connect with him. He was always so busy. The scene unfolding before me, the capable granddaughter caring for the needy grandfather was truly a grace-filled moment.
It is so important to touch daily – to connect – to reach out to give and receive love.
Grandpa let me know a few months ago how much he appreciates the way Claire gives him a shower. She has the special touch he needs–a touch he never received as a child. I remember, when he was younger (the time I was growing up in his house), how he never liked to shampoo his hair. He would drench it with Vitalis. A few months ago, I heard mention of him wanting a bottle again, but I don’t think he’s going to need it. He loves having his scalp messaged and shampooed by Claire. I’m going to have her train me in the art of grooming Grandpa.
Claire’s sacrifice was two-fold this morning, though – taking care of Grandpa and letting her brother sleep in. Eric has been getting Grandpa up almost singlehandedly since January. She commented that it made her feel like a good sister to let him sleep while she got Grandpa up and going. Her selflessness is beautiful to me.
My children are giving their all to help with Grandpa and I know these sacrificial acts of love will be rewarded by Jesus himself who came to serve and not be served. Yes, because He first loved us, we can find the strength to love and serve the needy among us – prodigal Grandpas who have returned to the security of family.
I am in awe of my older children and what they are doing for their Grandpa. I don’t say that because they are my children. That alone would not be enough to equip them for the task. They belong to the Lord and he gives them the strength they need daily to minister to their Grandpa in his old age. This is a season of touching and being touched, by God and each other…
When I kissed Grandpa goodbye on his head, his hair was soft, fragrant and clean – full of the vitality that comes from being loved and taken care of in your old age.
I heard the verse below being quoted on the radio as I pulled away from Grandpa’s house. My breath caught in my throat…“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.” Matthew 25:34
Grandpa complained first thing this morning about the view out the kitchen window. He wasn’t happy that the neighbor threw his garbage pails and recycle bin haphazardly between his fence and garage. I guess it’s my fault he’s been subjected to such an eyesore.
About a month ago, I moved the kitchen table over by the window so Grandpa could look outdoors instead of just staring at his food or the four walls of the kitchen. But unfortunately, the view out the window is limited to the neighbor’s garage.
Years ago, the backyard used to be a lovely place – a respite in the midst of identical suburban tract homes that my Uncle Meyer built in the 1950’s. It was a small yard, but like everything else in my mother’s life, she packed as much variety as she possibly could into that tight space. As a child I loved that yard. It was an ever-colorful landscape that changed with the seasons.
There used to be a tall maple tree in the middle and a huge weeping willow next to it. We had a swimming pool and playhouse fort in the corner. There were bushes growing down each side of the fence and in the back there was a vegetable garden, assorted fruit trees and a pussy willow bush, my mother’s favorite. Beyond the yard is the grade school I attended and it’s much the same as it was when I was a child. There’s a big, open playground area, surrounded by fields and houses.
Looking out the back window used to be a delight, but not anymore.
As mom and dad aged, they decided they needed a garage more than the view, so dad took a carpentry class at the local junior college, and with my brothers help, they built a one-and-half car garage that practically took up the whole back yard. Grandpa’s very proud of his garage, but it is the only thing you see if you look straight out the kitchen window.
If you sit parallel to the window, you sort of get a better view depending on how diligent the neighbor is about keeping his property tidy. Unfortunately, from the chair he was sitting in, Grandpa’s view is limited to the neighbor’s garage and whatever he wants to throw out on garbage day.
“It’s a real mess,” Grandpa grumbled to Eric.
The neighbor (who shall remain anonymous), was in his garage putzing about.
Grandpa didn’t want to be seen, especially since he had been complaining, so he asked Eric to move him away from the window.
“You’re a snoop,” Eric scolded.
But Grandpa couldn’t hear him.
“You’re a S-N-O-O-P!’ Eric spelled loudly.
Then I arrived and saw Grandpa eating breakfast at the kitchen table, so I joined him.
It wasn’t long before I heard about his complaint, too.
I stood up and looked out the window at the fence line and agreed, it was an unsightly mess. Then I looked out the window in the other direction. I chuckled because I saw what Grandpa couldn’t see. Our own garbage pails and recycle bin looked just like the neighbor’s.
“You’ve got a log in your own eye,” I teased Grandpa. “Our yard looks just as unsightly as the neighbor’s.”
Grandpa looked surprised, and then he smiled.
There’s nothing like eating humble pie for breakfast.
An eyesore, that’s what it is – the screen door flapping in the breeze is a real eyesore. To Grandpa, that is. This morning, I got a call from my brother (aka Uncle Jay) about that door, and sure enough, the squeaky Grandpa gets the door fixed.
Jay asked if all the parts were there. I thought they were, but I really wasn’t sure. I’ve been too preoccupied with other aspects of Grandpa’s care to even remember that the front door is broken until I slam it shut into place when I leave for the night.
That door has been broken since the springtime when the wind caught it and nearly pulled it off the frame. It’s still hanging on, but only by the outside hinges. I think it might have busted when Eric was heaving Grandpa up or down the front stairs or when we were carrying groceries in from the van.
You see, we don’t have a handicap ramp, but we do have Eric who is strong enough to lift Grandpa up and down the stairs in his wheelchair. However, he would have only been able to hold onto one thing at a time – either the screen door or Grandpa’s wheelchair. Can you imagine? There goes Grandpa. Wheeeeee! Bye, bye Grandpa. Don’t let the screen door hit you – or your wheelchair – in the rear!
Well, last night Grandpa called Uncle Jay to complain about the broken screen door. Claire was Grandpa-sitting, and I can just see the scene unfolding. They were probably watching some deep sea diving program on the Discovery channel, when suddenly, out of nowhere, Grandpa became disgruntled again about the broken door.
He has a phobia about that door. He’s worried that mosquitoes or flies will get in. He’s more worried about neighborhood gangs noticing a property “in disrepair.” He has told me on no uncertain terms that the broken door is an open invitation for gang activity – that we are just asking for trouble. He’s convinced that the neighborhood hoodlums will see it hanging askew and plot to break into the house in the middle of the night.
Yep, that unsightly door will encourage them to walk right in the house and take all his valuables. Next thing you know, we’ll see black-hooded thugs running around the block with a walker or drag racing up and down the street in a hospital bed.
I wouldn’t have let Grandpa talk to Uncle Jay about it, but poor Claire fell for the bait. Grandpa figured he’d complain again because it has done no good to complain to me. It’s true. He knows I’ll say what I’ve been saying for months, “Jay’s in charge of the door, dad. He knows all about it.”
So this morning Uncle Jay and I had a lively discussion over the whereabouts of screen door parts, broken dishwashers, and furnace filters that need changing every month. Things I’m sure I would have eventually thought about if I wasn’t so busy thinking about medicine, meals, and monthly budgets.
Screen doors, ha! The least of my concerns – but definitely first on Grandpa’s “most urgent” list.