When Erwin started using his checkbook as a calendar, his son knew it was time for a change.
Erwin had paid the bills all of his life, carefully recording business expenses in a faded green ledger book.
But one day he had to pay a bill and refused to write the check. “Not today,” he said. “It messes things up.”
He pulled his checkbook out of his shirt pocket, where he stored it every morning when he dressed, and pointed to the page where he had already written in dates.
Jim studied the checkbook. “I don’t understand this.”
Erwin shook his head. “It’s clear as can be. Right here.” He pointed to an entry. “See the date? That’s what I’m doing.”
Jim had trusted his father’s financial judgment forever but this was something new. He glanced at his mother, who shrugged, and he turned back to his father.
“Well, we need to pay this bill today, Dad. What should we do?”
Erwin pushed the checkbook back into his pocket. “We can’t.”
Jim knew the teenager who had just mowed their grass waited outside for his payment. He considered options and pulled out his wallet to pay the young man.
But the bigger issue remained. “Dad, could I look at your ledger book?”
The look revealed pages of numbers carefully written in but scattered across columns like autumn leaves, with no pattern. How would his father get his taxes done? Pay his bills?
What was past-due?
And Jim knew it was time. “Dad, we need to talk about your checkbook.”
Erwin’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure, if you want.”
As Jim asked questions, Erwin became more and more vague to answer. Finally, he pushed the checkbook to Jim.
“You take it. I can’t do it anymore.”
Jim ran his own business, interacted with his own family including young grandchildren, and tried to find time for an occasional golf game.
Harvey’s eyes lit up when his wife walked through the front door of the nursing home and made her way to where he waited.
“Good morning, Honey,” she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead before settling into a chair beside him.
“I’ve got great news,” he said. Her eyebrows lifted. “I walked last night.”
“You did?” She glanced down at his wheelchair and his limp legs.
“I’ve been practicing,” he said. “I can show you.”
“Uh, well—“
Harvey leaned forward, gripping the armrests on his wheelchair. “I just need you to help me get up.”
She glanced around the lobby. “I don’t think I can help—“
“Oh, you under-estimate yourself. We can do this.” Harvey settled back in his wheelchair. “I practice every night.”
His wife sighed. ‘I think we should wait for a little help. I can’t do this alone.”
She knew that he hadn’t walked in over a year, not since he had fallen.
“All right. We can wait, I guess.”
Dreams, more vivid than the orange sunset, captivated Harvey’s days. Many of his nights included walks to friends’ houses, to the basement, and to the park.
She patted his arm and gave him a hug. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good. Did I tell you that Jerry visited me last night? I don’t know why he came but we had a good talk.”
Harvey’s wife smiled. Their oldest son lived 2000 miles away and only came on special occasions. She was pretty sure he hadn’t slipped in during the night for a visit.
“And did you enjoy talking with him?”
“Of course. He’s planning to move here soon so he can live with me.”
“That’s great. I’ll bet that made you feel good. He loves you a lot, doesn’t he?”
Harvey nodded. “I guess so.”
Every day, Harvey’s wife came to kiss his forehead and hear his dreams. She loved him a lot, too.
Sometimes you face your fears with determination and courage. Sometimes you face an angry mama cow the same way. Especially when the stick keeps breaking.
My mother was always game for helping with the livestock on the family farm. We had a small group of black Angus cows that needed to be moved to a new corral. Mom dried her hands on her dishtowel and jumped to the task.
Black Angus cows can be aggressive in their nurturing skills. This means that, when they had a new calf, they could be a bear to move into a new pen.
They’d rather knock you flat and then move into the new corral.
But Mom knew cattle and she scaled the fence with a stick in hand.
“You don’t back down,” she told us kids many times. “You face them and show them you’re in charge.”
So, in this case, she flailed her arms a few times, which generally got cattle moving in the right direction.
This particular cow chose the attack mode. She lowered her head and took a few menacing steps toward Mom.
Mom responded by bashing the stick on the cow’s head.
The cow stopped. The stick broke off at the end.
Then the cow lunged again. Mom slammed the stick onto her head and the cow stopped. The stick broke off at the end.
This continued with the cow charging, Mom banging with her stick, and the stock breaking until Mom was out of stick.
Fortunately, the cow had tired of stick bashing because she turned and trotted into the new pen.
“What did you do then?” I asked Mom later.
She laughed. “I’ve never gotten over that fence so fast.”
Freida’s fade into Alzheimer’s -unlike others, perhaps – seemed to take her to warm and cherished places.
Freida lost memory of her husband of 50-plus years and her 11 children. When she also lost memory of the stove burner left on high and glowing red-hot, her family moved her to the local nursing home.
“I want to go home,” became her mantra until her family gave in and made arrangements to allow her to live at home.
“I want to go home” was still her cry even as she sat on her own living room.
Home, I think, was a place deep in her memory.
Her favorite story, one she repeated countless times, involved an incident at her childhood church.
“It was Christmas Eve and the choir was sitting together with the Christmas tree right beside them. “
Her eyes were bright with the memory.
“All the candles on the tree were lit and suddenly the tree caught on fire.”
I calculated that this event happened somewhere around 1915.
Freida chuckled. “The usher ran to the door and grabbed the bucket of drinking water.”
“There was a bucket for drinking water?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said as though I had forgotten to pick up the milk from the store. “With the ladle hanging in the side.”
“Oh, sure” I agreed.Her memory was vivid.
“Well, that usher grabbed the bucket and ran to the front of the church. He threw the water toward the fire.” She chuckled again. “But he missed the tree and soaked the choir instead. Ladle and all!”
Freida shook her head and chuckled again. “Got the whole choir.”
I waited. She was smiling, her eyes bright with the moment.
“Uh, what happened to the fire?” I said.
She seemed to have forgotten me but she shifted her weight as she caught my eye. “Oh, the men carried the tree outside and threw it in a snowdrift.”
Although Freida’s family grieved as her memory faded, she accepted each day with an old story told with a laugh.
A heavy afternoon rain cancelled our planned hike in the Snowy Range of Wyoming, but gave me a chance to shoot some photos instead. I found this lone leaf on the front step of our cabin. The contrast of color and texture intrigued me.
