FAILING

She is  failing.  Most days her temp is above normal.  Although she is taking some fluids, she has not eaten solid food in a week.  Without food, she will quickly weaken.  And as she gets weaker, she will be unable to sustain, and we soon will lose what is left of her. 

In reality, I lost Mom about 15 years ago.  She ever so gradually ceased to be the nurturing, advice giving, sustaining rock, who was my best friend.  The gradualness of her descent into mind-numbing nothingness was so slow it was hard to notice.  As the years went by she forgot to call, and she forgot to cook, she forgot to get up and walk, and she forgot to care.  It hurt and I was angry at her inattention. Initially I cried, and lashed out at her, sharing my hurt and frustration with my equally confused sister.  We didn't know then about the journey upon which we were embarking, and we didn't understand how long that journey would take.

Eventually we confronted the reality of our situation: Alzheimer's disease, with tentacles that reach out and try to suffocate every member of the family. Gradually her friends abandoned her when she no longer understood how to give friendship back.  Her husband remained steadfast and loving, but when he no longer was able to care for her or be a husband to her, he moved on with his own personal life, establishing new friendships and new relationships.  Yet he continued to spend time with her every single day until his own death. I never ever judged his decisions.

Her daughters simply coped for these past years, educating ourselves, tag-teaming visits, assuring her comfort and cleanliness and safety.  In spite of her dementia, she was once our Mother and our friend, and the two of us share many of her traits.

Initially I thought to compare our situation with that presented in the recent award winning film, "Still Alice." The article was in my head when things with Mom began to decline.  And as our situation worsens with her,  I wanted to convey how our family is coping with the disease, and that perhaps other families cope differently.  It didn't seem that "Still Alice" touched on the fact that every Alzheimer's family is different, and each has a unique and sad story to tell about their own experience. It is the entire family that bears the burden of Alzheimer's, not just the individual with the disease.

Are we now, 15 years after we began this painfully slow descent into our own story of confusion, frustration, and eventual acceptance, prepared to lose her for the second time?  Most of us are.  Only one of us is not.  Regardless of how we feel, our long, difficult journey might soon be coming to an end.   Amen.

Heroes of Iwo Jima

Someone mentioned to me the other day that February 19th through March 26 this year, marks the 70th anniversary of  WWII's ferocious US invasion of Iwo Jima which was then (c.1945), a mid Pacific fortress of the Japanese.

In February, 2004, I was fortunate enough to mark the occasion of that military action, by hosting a group of veterans of the Iwo Jima invasion in my home.  They were my Dad's WWII military buddies, and in 2004 they held what was most likely their final reunion in Portland.  

Though Dad never made it to the shores of Iwo Jima due to a freak accident shipboard in Honolulu Harbor, the rest of his shipmates did.  While Dad recovered in several military hospitals, his ship sailed on to support the invasion, ferrying soldiers back and forth to the island.  His buddies never forgot each other, and never forgot Dad.  Of all of them, they told me, he suffered the most serious wartime injury.

Dad passed in 2012.  And I am sorry to say, I don't know about the rest.  But I was so moved by their little reunion in 2004, that I wrote a story about it, and submitted it to the Oregonian newspaper. It was published that week in a column titled, "In My Opinion."  As a 70th anniversary memorial and tribute to my Dad and his buddies, I once again, share that story.

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"February 19, 2004.  A memorial is underway this night, for a young soldier, a local American hero, who gave his life in Iraq. He was 19.  At the same hour, on this same rainy night, a different commemoration is taking place.  The participants are all well over 80 years old.

 They are my Dad’s war buddies.  In their youth, some 69 years ago, they served together on  U.S. Coast Guard LST 792.   Now some walk with canes.  Some need magnifying lenses to help them see.  My Dad's hands shake.  They come to Portland from cities up and down the West Coast: Seattle, San Jose, and El Cajon. 

 They are at my house because one of them has brought a video to share with his buddies and Dad doesn’t own a VCR.  But we do, and we also have a “big screen” TV.  We worry until they all arrive safely on this dark, rainy night.  Then I pop in the video. 

To my surprise, what appears on our big TV is not a recording of family vacations and oodles of grandchildren, but, the History Channel’s epic production, “The Color of War - War in the Pacific”.   And World War II takes over the big screen.  They recognize everything! 

It finally dawns on me that this is not an ordinary reunion, but a special commemoration; much to my embarrassment I realize it is the 59^th Anniversary of the invasion of Iwo Jima, which began on February 19^th, 1945.  They had been there, they remembered and they wanted to be together this night.   

I didn’t know.  

How could I not know?

It turns out, the video is a huge success.  They know the newsreel locations. They correct the narrator when he is wrong.  They are sure the tall young sailor in one shot is “Ray” who is sitting there with us.  We rewind to be sure.  It is inconclusive.

We “pause” the VCR several times when LST 792, their beloved ship, appears briefly on the TV screen.

Watching and listening with them, I can see, smell and taste the battle.  I see the dead lying on the beach; I feel the fear. 

It was the fiercest battle of the Pacific war.  Over 900 US ships came to “Iwo” to push the Japanese out. They told me more than 6,000 soldiers died in the first days of ferocious battle.

Their personal recollections become the color commentary:  "a kamikaze pilot zeroing in on them with return artillery fire so thick a man could have walked on it; Joe Rosenthal comes aboard to rest and have a cup of coffee.  “Joe” was the war photographer who captured on film a moment for all time, as Marines planted the American flag at the top of Mt. Suribachi." (see photo above)

I am in awe.  59 years ago these octogenarians were 19-year-old boys, handsome, vibrant, and in the prime of their life, so much like the soldier whose family is remembering his brief life across town on this rainy night.

 It occurs to me that time merely changes the faces of the young soldiers and sailors who go to war, and technology makes contemporary warfare a vastly different thing. But, those who go to war now and those who went then are very special: they are youngsters who are heroes all.

And perhaps most importantly, I wonder who will be left to remember those who died on Iwo Jima after Dad and his buddies are gone?" 

(in memory 6,821 who died at Iwo Jima, in  the weeks after February, 19^th,1945)    

 

****I promise, I will remember.        

           

Get On With It: A Birthday Blog

Nothing marks the passage of time like having another birthday.  The reality is, I've put another year to rest.  When I think of how old I am, I simply refuse to believe it, and push it to the back of my mind.  If I don't feel older, I don't have to acknowledge that I am older.  Right???  As much as I want to ignore that my body is getting older, denial is not going to get me anywhere. 

Other than looking in the mirror, I recognize the passage of time by noting the aging of my own children, and of course, my grandchildren, who are no longer babies, but boys, quickly developing into adolescents.  I don't feel any older, but the proof is in, by just looking around. (How could they all grow up so quickly?)  And oh yes, the recognition comes also by listening to my body.  I must confess to the creaks, pops and groans that occur more frequently when I stand up, bend over, sit down, or just plain move my body. Sigh.

Another tell-tale sign of time passing is the simple fact that I am attending more and more funerals and celebrations of life. Last year alone it seemed I attended one at least every month, and sometimes more.  I'm no longer scanning the obits looking for my parent's friends who have passed on, but for my own friends, and friends of my husband. 

Even though I read that 60 is the new 40 when it comes to aging, for me being 60+ means it takes longer and costs more to dress and groom to meet my own (and perhaps society's?) expectations of what I should look like for a woman of my age.  Oh my. 

I am now looking at this getting older thing as a challenge, or more harshly stated, a declaration of war to keep healthy. I'm pretty sure that for me this fight will not include surgical intervention, liposuction or shooting-up with Botox. I'm not "in" to elective cutting or surgery. I'm talking about individual battles that may require mentally accepting reality, being physically as well as possible, keeping emotionally balanced, and staying alert and mentally challenged at all times. I think the battles will undoubtedly get tougher with every passing year.

In spite of all this, much of what will be my future is written in the genes. But I am hopeful that by continuing with a program of physical exercise, keeping my mind sharp through friendships, socialization, and reading, as well as my personal favorite, pitting myself against the pros on "Jeopardy," I will retain a modicum of dignity and grace as the years go by.

Of course I have no control over any of this!  I must simply "get on with it." So, happy birthday to me. When I blew out my candle this year, my only wish was for the true blessing of life: another year of good health! 

May you be blessed as well.

Tales from the Broken Bone Club

It is tough to be 10 years old, and even tougher when faced with your first broken bone.  My grandson broke his leg last week during a recreational ice skate with his dad.  The break is clean, with no complications and a normal recovery predicted. 

But when you are 10, there is all that "pain" to deal with. I am not talking about just the normal pain of a broken bone.  There is the pain of missing school. There is the pain of missing your friends.  There is the pain of missing birthday parties, play-dates and overnights.  Oh my.  And when you are 10, it is so difficult to imagine you will heal and be back to normal soon. 

It seems learning to use crutches is more difficult than I thought.  It requires a bit of preplanning one's moves, body coordination, and a lot of grit, at least till you get the hang of it. Personal hygiene is a real challenge as are normal trips to the bathroom.  All in all, a broken leg is no fun at all......

Grannie (me) arrived on the scene two days ago, not loaded with gifts, but with stories!  I am calling them "Tales from The Broken Bone Club."  They include stories about his grandfather's football break, a nasty broken clavicle which was treated (in the old days) with a cast from waist to neck, his uncle's knack for breaking his left arm every other year during grade school, usually after falling off a bicycle, or taking a nasty dive from school yard play equipment, and, his great-grandfather's "Lucky Break." 

Of all my tales, great-grandfather's "Lucky Break" story is by far the most interesting and resonated most with this newest member of  "The Club."  It is family history and I told the story to my grandson, much as it was told to me. 

His great-grandfather, Poppa Harvey, was a sailor in WWII and spent several years on the East Coast of the US patrolling coastal areas for off-shore German activity.  Later he was transferred to the Pacific and was in training in Hawaii to land LST craft, unloading soldiers to overtake Pacific Islands from the Japanese. While at practice in Honolulu harbor, one of those extremely large and thick ropes tying the ship to the shore, snapped catching great-grandpa in the leg, throwing him into the air and shattering the bones in his left leg. 

Not a clean break like his great-grandson's, Poppa Harvey spent almost a year at a US Naval hospital in Honolulu enduring several surgeries while doctors did their best to save his leg. As the leg healed, he asked to be sent closer to home, which for him was Chicago.  Whoever was assigned to make that transfer was apparently unfamiliar with US geography and he was sent instead to Corvallis, Oregon to further recover....nowhere near Chicago.

While healing in Corvallis, a Chicago cousin of his called a family member living in Portland, Oregon, telling her about the injured sailor at Camp Adair in Corvallis.  He was promptly invited to her Portland home for a visit.  While visiting, he met her attractive daughter, who was home from college on vacation. And, as fate would have it, he fell in love!  The rest was history! Not only did he fall in love with his wife to-be, he fell in love with Oregon!  He remained in Oregon for the rest of his life, and forever walked with a bit of a limp.  Thanks to this "Lucky Break" his life was dramatically changed. 

My Mother's family always remembered their first meetings with him, wearing a huge cast on his leg, and walking with crutches!  He was our first member of the "Broken Bone Club." 

In sharing my tales of broken bones with my grandson, I hope to ease a bit of his pain, and I hope to let him know that bones break, people heal, and sometimes, like with his Poppa Harvey, their lives can be completely changed as a result! 

A speedy recovery to you dear Ian!

Here's hoping this is the end for the "Broken Bone Club"

My Views: Chihuly at the Denver Botanical Garden

Standing next to "The Sun Exploding" or "Medusa's Hair"

During a recent trip to Denver,  I emailed several friends a photo of me standing next to one of the extraordinary and massive glass sculpture installations created by internationally acclaimed glass artist, Dale Chihuly. His "Garden Exhibition" is currently at the Denver Botanical Gardens.  I was astounded when one friend emailed me back, "It's great, but what is it?"

I wanted to shout out across the thousands of miles separating us, "It's the sun exploding; it's Medusa's snake hair; it's an autumn chrysanthemum bursting into full bloom!  It's whatever your imagination can make of it!"  But I let it go.  I gleaned from that response, that no matter how smart people might be, being smart doesn't necessarily include an art vocabulary or a "permission slip" for using one's imagination and or humor when viewing fine art. 

Snakes in the Garden

I am not sure when the unique glass sculptural work of Chihuly crossed onto my radar screen.  To the best of my memory, it might have been an article about his astonishing new work in glass which I think, appeared in the University of Washington Alumni Magazine a long time ago, perhaps sometime in the early 1980's.  (Yes, Mr. Chihuly and I are both graduates of the University of Washington and we both spent some time in the art department there. (It appears he spent a lot more time in those studios than I did, developing a wonderfully creative mind and a unique set of artistic skills.)

A Boatload of Balls

From that initial article, I followed this fellow alumni's career and watched his reputation grow exponentially.  I recall watching television programs about his glass blowing and the team approach he uses in creating his large scale pieces.  I bought a book about him, and purchased a folio of photographs, "Chihuly Over Venice, Nuutajarvi, Finland." My local art museum, the Portland Art Museum, mounted an incredible Chihuly show some years ago, complete with examples of blown glass from Murano, Italy, where the Venetian artisan glass blowers were his inspiration. The installations at PAM were vasos, figures, and pieces that hung from the ceiling, or sprung from the floor like stalagmites growing out of the subterranean depths. Several years ago I visited his Museum/Studio in Tacoma. Although I cannot pinpoint exactly when I was "hooked" on Chihuly, it most surely began in the U of W Alumni Magazine, where it occurred to me that this fellow alum was undoubtedly going somewhere big! From early on, his work "spoke to me".

Red Spears

When my husband told me he was planning a visit to Denver this fall, I immediately signed up to accompany him, knowing there was a major Chihuly installation at the Denver Botanical Gardens that I would love to see.  We flew in on a Tuesday and on Wednesday morning there I was at the Garden gate!  I returned several times more in the following week, and was able to take in the majestic glass pieces at different times of the day watching light come through the glass from different angles completely altering colors, shadows, and reflections as  it poured through translucent glass vessels.

What strikes me about Chihuly's concept is that he takes a  fragile medium, and with the help of the master glassblowers on his teams, creates masterpieces both extensive in size and scope, surpassing any previously perceived limits of what glass is and what it could become.  I have seen his work installed in buildings, in galleries, and in homes, hanging off of bridges and trees, and in photographs and films, even a TV special on his Millenium Exhibition in Jerusalem. 

Purple Spears in the Lily Pond

Cold Blue Explosion

In Denver, cleverly, his gigantic pieces of glass mimic the environment in which they are placed, and/or add an architectural element to the surrounding space.  Acid-neon tinted glass juxtaposed against water, plants, flowers and trees jars the mind and, in the sunlight, creates a visual feast.  The glass globs, blobs, belugas, floats, spears, twisted horns, ferns and frogs feet, are taken from the shapes of nature, but their shocking size, and seemingly unnatural colors, create a magical space, real yet unreal, a place to contemplate how art can mimic, imitate and inform us, and perhaps tell us something new about our world.

Cactus in a Spear Garden

The show at the Denver Botanical Garden runs through the end of November.  I understand as fall approaches and the sun sets earlier, the glass will be lit up in the evenings, creating even more interesting and awe inspiring effects for the viewers.  Sorry though I am to miss the light show, I'm so grateful that I was able to see these works both in the bright morning and afternoon light, and again, later in the day as the sun waned.

From the looks of it, Mr. Chihuly has another successful show.  It seemed that hundreds to thousands of people were pouring into the gardens. Lucky for us, we were able to use a member's pass-key and enter through the back gate. I hope all those gawkers are taking away a new and enhanced awareness of how fine art can work with and through nature allowing us to experience magic!

Yellow Tree/Yellow Fountain

As I conclude, I wonder at the fragility of the medium, and how work on such a major scale might be  preserved for future generations for enjoyment and edification and as a reflection of our culture.  Or, perhaps it is purposefully created with the knowledge that it will not last forever, much like the sand mandalas of Tibetan monks, which are painstakingly painted with sand, only to be blown away later as a lesson on the temporary nature of all life and all things.  I simply don't know.

Boatload of Blue and Purple

Holiday Ornament Reflections

For more information:

www.denverbotanicalgardens
chihuly.denver.org/about-chihuly/

Union Roots Run Deep

Labor Day, September 1, 2014, and I just dropped off my adult son at the Oregon Labor Press and Labor Union sponsored annual Labor Day Picnic at Oaks Park.  I imagine he will join many thousands there to celebrate the historical role of organized labor in Oregon and how it has improved the lives and working conditions of workers here and throughout the US.

My son's interest in the labor movement most likely comes as a result of his political leanings, but perhaps also might be attributed to some "weird" genetic link from our family history.  On my side of his family, his great grandfather actually organized and helped to found a labor union. 

My grandfather and my son's great-grandpa, Joe Lewis (born in Russia, now Latvia, in 1887), was an immigrant to Portland, where he arrived with his family as a boy in 1901.

According to a dog-eared, yellowing newspaper article I have from the Oregon Labor Press, dated, October, 1955, my grandfather, my son's great grandfather, Joe Lewis, helped to organize and found the Meat Cutters Local 143 and became the union's first president.  His name appears on the charter issued by the International Union in 1912!

When his family first arrived in Portland, Joe Lewis and his younger brothers began working by selling newspapers on the streets of downtown.  But "Poppa Joe" (as we affectionately called him) apparently moved on and went to work as a delivery boy at Friedman's butcher shop at S.W. First and Columbia.  I remember hearing "Poppa" tell stories of driving a delivery horse and buggy up S.W. Vista Avenue to homes in the West Hills, where he took meat to Mr. Friedman's customers.

"Poppa" must have been a very strong young man, as he distinguished himself early on in the meat industry by winning many of the veal skinning contests at the annual butchers' picnic! (perhaps a precursor of today's Labor Day affair?)  I was a little girl, and could not imagine my warm and fuzzy "Poppa" actually cutting the skin off an animal. However, as a butcher, he surely cut a lot more!  The article in the Labor Press praises Joe as "a versatile worker and an accomplished craftsman in all phases of the industry, including cutting, curing, and sausage making."

In 1924 Joe Lewis went into the butcher business for himself.  Later, he took in his three brothers, Bill, Harry, and Max, as partners.  In 1934 they established a market in the Portland Public Market (which later became the Oregon Journal Building on S.W. Front Avenue)  In about 1941, Joe and his brothers established Lewis Brothers Alder Market on S.W. First and Washington.  

Apparently he mentored many young people along the way and trained numerous apprentices who went on to careers in the meat industry.  I have had people stop me when they found out I was his granddaughter to tell me what a fine person he was, and how many times he had taken kids on the verge of trouble, and taken them into his "shop" and trained them for a career.  He was a special man, Joe Lewis, an early pioneer in his industry, a meat cutter, union member, and later business owner and industry leader.

We are so proud of you, "Poppa Joe", and we are thinking about your special life and accomplishments on this Labor Day.

***in addition to my recollections, most information is taken from the article "Joe Lewis, Industry Leader and Union's Friend, Retires", by Tony Wolleck, Oregon Labor Press, October, 1955.

The Class Reunion

August and September seem to be the prime months for class reunions.

In my city, these are usually the hottest months of the year, and our class reunion organizers inevitably have picked the hottest day of the year in a non-airconditioned venue to hold our infrequent get-togethers. However, this year was different.  The reunion took place in a family backyard on a rather pleasantly warm evening.  Everyone generously contributed food and drink which fueled an evening of much hilarity and talk. I would guess 50 or 60 classmates elected to attend out of a graduating class of over 700 "baby boomers" attending what was then the largest school in the state by student population.

It was a gregarious group gathered at this reunion.  I've noticed over the years at these get-togethers, that most everyone has overcome high school shyness, inhibitions, "hang-ups" and cliques.  At our age it seems the most  important thing has become the celebration of our shared experiences while in high school, and marking the unforgiving passage of time.

My husband has often suggested to me that the only people who attend high school reunions are those who perceive themselves as being successful.  I don't know if his assessment is correct, but our class certainly has more than its fair share of success stories, including noted doctors, lawyers galore, a judge, artists, writers, educators and administrators, businessmen and women, and even a professional athlete of some note. But there are plenty of us who live plain-old ordinary lives, who perhaps because of a common history, feel confident enough at these reunions to share amongst each other the ups and downs of marriages and divorces, raising children and bragging about grandchildren, the ever-increasing struggles with our own health issues, and now, for many of us, caring for ill and aging parents.   

People comfortably chattered about ordinary lives, of classmates who could not attend, and shared so so many memories.  We recalled who did what crazy thing and if they got away with it. We remembered who sat at what lunch table in the cafeteria and who rode the bus and who car-pooled.  We talked about the faculty and administrators who taught us and shaped us.  And each time we get together, we sadly note the passing of a few more classmates and sadly add their names to that ever-growing list.

This year I noticed a few topics of conversation seemed new.  For instance, there was so much more discussion of health concerns and how we are dealing with them, and one topic I noticed being discussed for the first time: how we are choosing to spend our time and fill our days now that many of us have retired. 

For me seeing high school classmates is good.  It "grounds" me. My classmates serve to remind me of where I came from and how that effects where I am now.  My classmates were there with me in some of my  very formative years, and it is somewhat comforting to know that so many are still there for me. I like to think of our high school years and memories as both formative and positive. 

And sometimes my thoughts turn to high school students of today, who it seems too often, can face life or death challenges in the hallways of their schools. And I wonder if they will perceive themselves as successful and what they will reminisce about at those hot August/September class reunions of the future?

Love to my classmates,
Looking forward to seeing you at our 49th and 50th!