Discovering the World

When I heard this sound emanating from our television set as a kid in the 60s I exhibited an almost palovian response, dashing to take my place in from of our trusty RCA. With no VHS, DVR, or streaming access to replay, it was do or die, watch or forever miss out. The horns, drums, and cymbals heralded a TV show filled with a glimpse of forgein lands, continents away or oceans away or galaxies away. It was an invitation to glimpse  a unique cultures or native peoples. It was a scuba dive with Jacques Cousteau, or a chance to peer into volcanoes, or to summit Mount Everest. or to meet Jane Goodall and her gorillas in Tanzania. 

The show of course, was National Geographic Presents and it exists today in new incarnations on both cable TV  (Nat Geo and Natgeo Wild) and Disney +. 

For a young girl in the 60s, in a rural corner of North Carolina and many, many Americans it was a marvel and a not-to-be missed event. I didn't fully understand the true value at the time but I had a neighbor that did. 

"Miss" Bertha Parker lived in a stately brick home two doors down from our house. She was a big part of the extended community that raised me and modeled so many behaviors that helped shape me. She loved and supported our Methodist Church with her time, talents, and cooking. She was a woman of faith as well as being smart, astute, and plain-spoken. And she had a backbone.  She was an avid reader of The News and Observer, firing off Letters to the Editor (once to express her outrage at their risque XXX movie ads.) She kept up with politics and was very concerned about what was happening in Raleigh and Washington. 

Mrs. Bertha Parker in her later years.

In addition Miss Bertha recognized her place as a citizen of the world and worked to share that understanding with me and my family. Every year, without fail, she gave us a gift subscription to the National Geographic Magazine.

 As soon as I was old enough,  I took over the task of walking the half block downtown to get the mail from the post office. On the days we received our monthly issue of the National Geographic Magazine, I rushed home to curl up on the couch in the quiet front room to take a look.  The magazine's distinctive cover always featured a striking photograph framed with a yellow band and intricate black scrollwork. The glossy pages inside featured  similar marvels to the television series but in dynamic and dramatic photographs. If we were lucky, a map might tumble out or we'd dsicover foldout pages inside. The writing was superb and well researched, the explorers, scientists, anthropologists, archeologists, paleontolgists, primatologists, zoologists, all the "-ologists"  absolutely top notch. In a very real way, this magazine, and the remarkable woman who gifted it to us, opened my eyes to the world.  

Foldout from the July 2023 issue

I now look forward to walking down to my mailbox at the end of my driveway and finding the latest edition. These days the magazine covers stories similar to those on which the National Graphic Society was founded in 1888, but now includes topics as far ranging as scientific discovery, world politics, art, space, climate change, and memorably, COVID-19. As the National Geographic Society website states they are dedicated to the "increase and diffusion of knowledge." It continues to state that "National Geographic Explorers are continuing to push the boundaries of knowledge, uncovering new insights about the natural and cultural worlds..." 

 Today, my mom and I sat on our front porch and I read her an article about elephants from a recent issue. When I was done, she took the magazine from me to peruse the photos again, then put it in her lap, patted it, and said "It's a good magazine." 

It is, Mom. It really is. 

IF YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW

This blog entry is a shout-out to all the caregivers out there. I visited with Dwight this week, who is an "adopted" uncle to my daughter-in-law. He recently lost his wife, and he cared for her dutifully until the end. He "got" what caregiving is about because he'd been there, done that. The further Mom and I go in our caregiving journey (11 years and counting) the more and more I realize that understanding the rewarding, sometimes daunting, sometimes frustrating, sometimes hilarious life of a caregiver is strictly a "If you know, you know" situation. It's difficult for anyone who hasn't done it to understand it. 

I survive because of my love for my precious mother, my deep faith in God, the support of my husband and girlfriends, my endless supply of Diet Coke, library books checked out electronically via the Libby app and my Zoloft prescription. Thankfully, I am usually able to see the humor in the situation instead of the frustration.. My husband keeps me grounded, calling me "Serving Girl" a la Buttercup in The Princess Bride calling Wesley "Farm Boy." It fits. Here's the first hour and a half or so of my Sunday. 

7:15 am: I see on my Nest Camera that Mom is up. 

7:17 am: Mom is up and on the move to the bathroom before I can get to her room. I assist her in the bathroom. 

7:20 am: Assist Mom to back to her bed and layout her clothes for the day. She dresses herself as I dash to put my own clothes on.

7:25 am: I put Mom's shoes on and comb her hair. 

7:27 am : Back to the bathoom, assist.  I make her bed .

7:30 am: Follow behind Mom with a wheelchair as she walks to the den in case she needs to rest en route. Am called "Serving Girl" by the peanut gallery.

7:35 am: Position pillow behind Mom in her recliner, cover her with blanket, put lap desk in her lap in preparation for breakfast which husband has prepared. Turn on TV,  put on Mom's headphones. Bring Mom her pills.

7:37 am: Remove lap desk (and breakfast) because it is "not right."Adjust blanket. Replace lap desk. 

7:45 am: Mom says "Okay." This means she is done with breakfast and would like the lap desk and dishes removed asap. Husband again intones "Serving Girl" from his perch in the kitchen reading the paper.

7:50 am: Mom says "My headphones aren't right." I hop up from my spot on the couch where I am trying unsuccessfully to read a short essay in Quietly Hostile by Samantha Irby. I adjust headphones and put them back on, verifying that Mom can hear better. Back to essay.

8:00 am: Mom says "Okay." I hop up and ask what she needs. She gestures like the grand lady that she is towards the empty juice and milk glass on the table by her recliner. "I'm done with that." I remove the dirty dishes and try again to read the short essay.

8:05 am: Mom says "okay" and sits up in her chair. She reaches for her walker and starts taking off her blanket. She needs to return to the bathroom.

8:10 am: We make the slow and ardous journey back to her bathroom, her entourage (me) trailing behind with the wheelchair, just in cae. I get her settled and I sneak off to take my morning pills and zip back to the bathroom.

8:15 am: "I'm done." I'm convinced she peed about a thimblefull. I again assist and we walk back to the den, with me and her chair just steps behind. I think to myself what good exercise this is for her, mentally checking it off my to-do list. 

8:20 am: Get her settled back in her chair, reposition pillow, blanket and headphones. Flop back on my couch and pick up my ipad to continue reading. 

8:30 am: Mom says "Okay." I again hop up and ask what she needs. She says the bathroom. I remind her she just went ten minutes ago. She says, well then, she's okay. Okay, then. 

8:35 am: I settle in to write this blog as I am again called Serving Girl by my husband on his way out to "walk" our ancient pug. Our pug that is so old and blind that "going out" means getting on her harness and leash and going outside to the porch with Earle and simply standing, barking a bit, and then coming back inside. I call him "Serving Boy." 

....

9:00 am: Mom says "Okay," sits up, removes blanket, grabs walker, and prepares to stand. I hop up and stand-by in case assistance is needed and we conga-line back to the bathroom as Mom needs her "morning moment." Thankfully, she arrives in time despite our slow approach. 

9:10 am: I assist and we head back to the den and repeat the process: Mom sits, adjusts recliner. I put the blanket back on her, the pillow behind her, and put on her headphones. She's ready to enjoy the morning news. 

9:15: I collapse on the couch to finish this blog and hopefully finish reading my essay before time for ZOOM church. 

Okay, then!

IYKYK!

Mom, aged 97.5, minutes before I publish this blog. 

Time is Elastic

Think of memories as beautiful jewels strung on a sturdy piece of elastic. Each memory is full of color and light and evocative of a distinct time in your life, filled with people as they were. The hairdos may be different, certainly the styles will be different, and most noteably the wrinkles on a loved one's face will be different. 

But the elastic that ties together these glimpses of a past event is fickle. Sometimes the elastic is taut and the memory is within reach, details fully present. Other times the elastic is overstretched and saggy, and the memory is vague and frustratingly just out of reach. 

Memories come unbidden to my 97 year old mother as they will, but when they are beckened, they notoriously hide behind a veil of fog. When Mom and I get nostalgic, I might say "Mom, do you remember when..." and she will respond with "I can't quite remember, can you remind me?" It's a call and response performed between generations for as long as there have been elders and their children. 

This morning, after a remarkedly good night's sleep, Mom awoke delighted with three distinct memories. 

AUNT VIVIAN 

Aunt Vivian was my paternal grandmother's sister-in-law  lived with her in herwith whom she lived in her snug little home in Boykins, VA for many years. As a young child, I remember Aunt Vivian being smartly dressed with a typlical 60s wash and set and eyeglasses, formal and ladylike. I delighted in spending time  at her home with "Mom" in my very early years. My grandmother introduced me to sewing (I wish I had paid more attention), thrift shopping (I paid attention), and Star Trek  (I most definitely paid attention.) But she always made sure I behaved around Aunt Vivian. 

As formal as she might seem, Aunt Vivian was always considered  part of our extended family, included in all our Draper get-togethers. But whenever a meal or a Christmas party was being planned Aunt Vivian always, always made sure to tell us "I can't eat nuts." We were not unsympathetic, but it was repeated time and time again. To my memory there was never a jello mold with walnuts or pecan pie. Nuts were verboten, and we were diligent in our avoidance of them. We had heard in detail about Aunt Vivian's diverticulitis. 

My sister, Elaine, nine years older than myself, my mom and I weaponized this oft repearted phrase for years. If Mom was cooking or the topic of baking came up, one of us would innocently drop the bombshell into conversation, "Well, you know, Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts." Oh, we knew alright. We'd been told 50,000 thousand times. And the fact we knew so well would invariably set off cascades of giggles. Each useage funnier than the last. Making fudge? "Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts." Picking up a slim packet of Tom's peanuts at the Drugstore? "Did you know Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts?"  Eating a slice of my mom's Date Nut Cake? "Poor Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts."

So this morning, my mother looked at me with a wicked gleam and stated gleefully, "Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts!" 

NELL AND THE GIRL SCOUT CAMPOUT

When I was in the 4th grade, Momma became our Girl Scout leader  along with her friend Bert Ramsey. She had a heart for it and the town girls flocked to join. We did all kinds of fun things from "laying trails" at the town cemetary, riding bikes from Ramsey's Crossroads (3ish miles!) or camping. Mom and Dad would borrow pup tents from the local Boy Scouts and we'd camp in the yard of Frances Magee on the edge of Jordan Lake. We'd work toward badges, swim, cook out complete with s'mores, and settle in for a night in our tents. And like any campout, Girl Scouts or Cub Scouts with my own kids, it rained. So there was damp, there was rain pattering on the tent, there was wind, and there was dark. broken only by the thin beam of our flashlights. 

On our first campout, one of our younger campers was Nell, who was two years younger than myself. She was the younger sister of my girlfriend, Jill, and was a bit of a minx. Always full of fun and mischief, she threw herself into everything we did whether making pinwheel pimento sandwhiches or sit-upons (IYKYK). On her first night camping, bereft without her best friend Danya, homesick and possibly slightly spooked, she made her way to Mom and Dad's tent and as Mom remembers, spent the night with them. 

So Mom's second memory this morning was "I remember when we went camping at Gaston Lake and little Nell crept into the tent with Jack and I!" 

Mom and her Girl Scouts. And me with the striped pants which  I have thankfully blocked from my memories. Nell is front right.

TEACHING SUNDAY SCHOOL AND PRUDEN'S OFFICE SUPPLY

One of Mom's more enduring memories is her time teaching Sunday School at Seaboard United Methodist Church. She taught for 50 years, originally for the high school/young adult class and later for the whole church. Mom prepared diligently for each lesson, researching the day's scripture and bringing in contemporary stories to add additional meaning. I saw her many times in our living room with her red pencil, making notes and underlining passages in preparation for Sunday.

Part of her process was going to Pruden's Office Supply in Roanoke Rapids, NC to purchase each year's Tarbell's Teacher's Guide to the Internation Sunday School Lesson. I loved to tag along to Prudent's. I can remember the scent of crisp new paper and the shelves of books. In fact, I very specifically remember when I was 3 or 4 years old and having a tantrum because my Mom wouldn't buy me the cutest litttle Joan Walsh Anglund book. Apparently I was so out of sorts that the shopkeeper wanted to give it to me, but of courst Mom said a very definitive "no." 

Despite the trauma of being denied a book I desperately needed, (the reason for my book hoarding today?) we continued to enjoy going to buy the lesson book year after year. The promise of new year of teaching and learning brought her great joy. She often remarked that she learned more than her students did. 

So this morning, at 97 and a half years old, Mom was given the gift of the memory of what she considers one of her proudest accomplishments, and what I consider her biggest gift to others: fifty years of service, Sunday after Sunday, to the members of our church. The lessons she taught, and most noteably,  her witness in just being herself, touched so many lives. A memory, a jewel, to revisit and appreciate again and again. 

From the book, Our Church Then and Now (1958) in the ECU Digital Collection

                                                        Mom and my sister marked.