The Boy I Watched Being Born Is A Married Man

Taking Care of Each Other

My Uncle Joe Bryer is sixty-three, and I almost never see him. When he and his new wife, Judy came north from Kentucky to visit his surviving siblings in early September this year, I took my mother down the hill to her sisters’ house to visit him with the collection of them – Uncle Joe, Uncle Doug, their spouses, and Aunt Alice. I really had not intended to stay, rather to go and come back to retrieve my mother, but they are my aunts and uncles after all, and this was a unique opportunity to “tune in” to how my mother’s family works and to hear stories that may be lost soon enough. So I stayed and listened and asked questions out of mere curiosity, and oh my -- was I surprised. You might say my world was rocked. As a result of just one phrase from my Uncle Joes’ mouth, I am finding myself reevaluating how I live and thinking new thoughts about how I might want to live.

At the end of one conversation, Uncle Joe said about he and his wife, “We take care of each other.” I asked him if something was wrong – I was thinking of there might be physical ailment that one of them suffered from, or perhaps they both had physical ailments than needed attention. “No,” he said puzzled. “What do you mean by ‘we take care of each other,’ ” I asked, just as puzzled. A slight touch of frustration came across his face, and the only concrete thing that came to his mind was the body massages that he gives to Judy every day. I listened more and deduced that taking care of each other means to them being in touch with what each other is thinking and feeling, each others’ wants and wishes, and not only caring about them, but also adjusting to make life gentle and pleasant for each other. The picture I got was of two people connected and attentive to one another, moving through life gently, and waiting for each other – an emotional aspect that I hadn’t witnessed much.

This, from a Bryer. Stories that I have heard from my mother all my life and my own observations of life in the Bryer clan are all about hard work, struggle, striving and surviving. A lot of it has been around survival, but not all. Aunt Alice, at 82+ goes at a pace that make most of us pant. She volunteers at the library, the welcome center, the used book store, walks with the neighbor and her dog, teaches kids at church, works for Mrs. Impey, and on and on. It’s hard to find her home; it’s hard to get an appointment to see her for more than ten minutes at a time. My own mother worked hard all her life. Other than a few picnics on a rock by the river, I have precious-few memories of my mother relaxing and enjoying life, or of being “taken care of.” She did a lot of taking care of other people, physically at least – everybody it seemed – but odd how it did not come back to her as a give-n-take. And I can’t remember anything between my parents that resembled the “taking care of each other” that Joe and Judy Bryer are becoming accustomed to, and that seems to be agreeing with them very well.

Patterns of behavior get imprinted into us as we grow up I believe, and it takes exposure to other ways of being and doing to undo what we have learned. I learned how to work, which is good, and I enjoy all kinds of work regardless of what category they fall in. The only kind of work that I can think of that I don’t enjoy is cleaning. But I like hanging around when we have to take the washing machine apart, and I like helping my cousin sort out our old knob and tube wiring, and I like roofing and cutting firewood, cooking and sewing. People tell me that I am independent, cheap-to-keep, and even needless and wantless. This is not all true. I don’t think of myself as independent at all. I am working mostly in my home, supporting my husband and his mission in life, taking care of my memory-challenged 80 year old mother, completely dependent financially. Emotionally I am interdependent with my husband, needing his love and needing to give him mine, and inwardly I revel in the relationships I have that are warm and deep, feeling more like a marshmallow inside rather than a strong, reliable tool. I have a need for love, touch, and attention. And there are some things that I want. What are people seeing? Is it that I change the oil on our vehicles when necessary or replace the head on our string trimmer? I like doing all that stuff. And why I am so shocked to hear a man in my family openly declare that he and his wife take care of each other?

I talk with my sister about all this. “Do you feel taken care of?” I open with. “This is not the day to ask,” she responds. The answer was “no,” and I knew it before I asked her. I questioned her to begin a discussion with her that will help me figure out why we are the way we are. She has been canning tomatoes for her son and for me, and digging potatoes now, even though she prefers to wait. Her timing on the potatoes is to accommodate her husband. She works and does and goes, often until she’s ready to drop. It’s been like this for years, and today she is tired. I can hear it in her voice. I am tired too. Why do we do this? Why do we extend ourselves beyond what is good for us, and why do we ask for so little help or support.

One of my prime examples would be helping my husband, last fall and this fall, take thirteen students into the wilderness for three days. We haul boats and gear and water and food, and cooking utensils a quarter of a mile in, set up tents, cook over an open fire and propane stoves, paddle, swim, and repeat the hauling of gear and boats back up and out, then drive four hours home to unload and unpack wet tents and put away coolers, water jugs and leftover food, and wash dishes that only got minimal attention in the woods. Halfway into the drive home, David and I in separate vehicles each carrying a load of boats on our roofs, I am exhausted to tears. More than my body is weary. Although we have been working together for four days, we have not had one single conversation about ourselves, and have not shared a hug or kiss. We have “been there” for the 13 kids and the two adults, but not for each other and I am depleted emotionally as well as physically.

This is not so unusual for me either; my sister and I are cut out of the same fabric. It is the family fabric, but this year I tell my husband that we will have to reevaluate for next year. I’m ready to change something I realize; I want to take better care of myself and my relationships, and I want to be better taken care of. I realize it has to start right here with me in my own thoughts. I notice that in order to get what you need or want, a person has to learn to ask for it and expect that it will come. God does open his hand and satisfy our desires, but mostly He wants us to ask Him for them. I have a hard time asking for things from God and from people.

On the positive side, I can honestly say that I love life. There are so many interesting things to do and to learn about, and I like doing and learning. I don’t want to miss out on anything. I wouldn’t trade away all the stuff I have learned how to do. I can also honestly say that I am learning to love people, and that means I will extend myself for them, because I like to see them happy, or to know that I have made their lives easier or better. I can also honestly say that I like the feeling of working my body, of feeling it work, feeling it moderately tired, and feeling how good the contrast is when I get rested from exertion. And quite honestly, there is a lot of work to do to maintain a “simple” lifestyle, a lifestyle where we eat food we’ve grown, and I’m willing to work to be healthy and to not have a lot of needs that have to be satisfied by shopping at stores. I enjoy seeing results; I like to look at a box of potatoes I’ve just dug or pile of firewood, or jars of freshly canned applesauce on the counter. But I also like to and need to rest, read, write, think and pray. Unfortunately I often feel guilty when I do these things for “too long”, and I will often sacrifice them for the more physical kinds of work. Why? It’s not simply a matter of balance, though that does play into it. I have trouble admitting that something is too much for me or asking for help.

I have to follow the thread of my life back to try and understand what are the underpinnings for my working too hard or too much. Our family values good, hard, honest work and there’s nothing wrong with that, nor would I want to change it. Somewhere along the line something got added, something like: the more you work the better you are, more important you are, or more valued you are. Value got attached to doing versus being, and has grown to such an extent that my brother Len will not stop to go to the hospital after he has taken a tumble in the middle of a 100 mile bike ride and his shoulder is hurting. He will “tough it out” until the end and then find out that he has ridden on a broken collar bone. And it has passed to the next generation as well. Both my sister and I have daughters that will run, ride, or climb through pain, ignoring their body’s normal warning signals.

I don’t know what drives these others, but for me, my identity has become hooked to some kind of accomplishment be it ever so small in the grand scheme of life, and I long to have that erased, to be loved and valued for who I am regardless of how much work I do or don’t do. In reality I am! And it is wonderful, but this message hasn’t yet reached every cell of my mind. It’s almost like I can’t really believe it, or don’t really believe it. I think if I could marinate in this kind of love for a few years it would make a difference to me; it would pervade and permeate even the toughest places to reach. These are subconscious things that are being pulled into the consciousness, and they don’t really want to be exposed. There are habits too, that need to be altered. So I have to be concrete and intentional for a while at least to help myself get the message, and be patient with myself when I fall back into my habits of overwork, of working for the wrong reasons, or of ignoring emotional, relational and spiritual needs.

I am praying about all this, knowing I need some help, knowing I need some part of my inside world reconfigured. I know God does the major part, but I’d like to do my part too. If I could remember Jesus’ words, “Mary has chosen the best things (listening, learning, and worshiping over working) and they won’t be taken from her” and Plato’s adage, “The unexamined life isn’t worth living” it would help me a lot. I believe these things, and want to live them much better. I’d like to take myself to a quiet place three times a day to sit quietly and pray for ten minutes each time. That’s only a half hour in total, but it could help me to collect myself, listen, learn from the previous section of the day, and get guidance for the next part. I could ask myself, “Why are you doing this?” in an attempt to separate the work that is self-esteem driven. I can learn to ask for what I need and want.

My sadness and frustration is that I don’t do well hearing and responding to the indirect emotional needs of those around me, or at knowing and sharing my own emotional needs. There is so much more to love and to share in life that I am missing. I am charmed when I see couples being gentle and attentive to one another. My theory is the better I become at taking care of my whole being, the better I will be at taking care of the whole being of others. This will mean being in touch with what others are thinking and feeling, their wants and wishes, and not only caring for the entire being of us all, but also being able to adjust to make life gentle and pleasant for one another. The picture I want to have in my mind and want to live out is people connected and caring, moving through life at peace. My goal is come to a place where I can say about the people I love, “We take care of each other.”

Potato Digging

It is September, and light twinkles through the trees, coming in at a lower angle every day. The maple leaves are beginning to turn orange and red on selected branches, and in a sweeping glance at hillsides, one sees a tinge of yellow and orange. The green is fading. Serious gardeners have reaped most of the benefits of the spring seeding and summer weeding, and are starting to pull out all the fading and wizzled vines in an effort to bring some order back to the gone-crazy-August garden. My kitchen and pasture gardens are reduced to broccoli, carrots, beets, turnip, swiss chard, pole beans, parsely, kale, collard, zucchini, nasturtiums, and a few tomatoes. Cucumbers are still multiplying by the bucketful, pole beans are hanging in there, but the beets and swiss chard are fighting a nightly battle of survival as neighborhood deer drop by for a visit. My sister and I ask each other on the phone, “How are you?” sensing something in the other one’s tone of voice. When one of us admits that we’re a little tired, the other one readily agrees. There’s been a lot of canning and freezing to keep up with, even though it is less then at the height of our family life.

I have another garden that both exhausts me and elates me, and it is about a mile away. Our neighbor, Brud owns a big farm, at the elbow of Swett Road, off Crow Hill Road. His belted galloways, goats, sheep and chickens roam free -- at least they seem free to look at them grazing in the brilliant green grass that seems to touch the sky. We have developed a help-each-other-out-wherever-we-can relationship that started just after he moved in with his golden retriever who would not stay home, and as a result introduced Brud to all his neighbors. Over the past two years Brud spent many evenings around our table, sharing a meal, sharing ideas, sharing the long lonely nights together because a real estate agreement went bad and he was left holding two properties concurrently, his wife and boys holding down one, and he, the other.

Deep winter is a great time to dream about gardens, and some time along the way we hatched a plan of sharing a garden at his place. It was a very loose agreement whereby he would prepare the ground, and provide a good share of the seed, and we would tend the crop, harvest the crop, and divide the crop in half between us. The crop? Potatoes! Plans hatched in winter are often part dream, but this one worked itself into reality bit by bit. Brud stopped by one day to announce that the ground was plowed. Weeks went by, then he stopped by again to announce that he had the seed – but I was to remember that he wanted to add soil amendments to each row – he would show me how. We agreed on a day when we could both be there, and as God smiled on me that day, his hired boy and my best potato-planting daughter were available. We made time digging the trenches and sprinkling the minerals, cutting the seed and then covering. Eventually Brud and his boy went off to cut some hay and Emily and I continued. We continued until she had to go, then I continued until every bit of seed was planted, which makes perfect sense to me, but the next morning I was quite sore and Brud called almost shouting into the phone, “You are a potato-planting FOOL!” “Am I?” I asked innocently. Ten rows, fifty feet in length.

David helped me hill them – twice, and I spent wonderful hours in amongst the rows, picking potato beetles and popping them into soapy water in a jar, the quiet of the afternoons broken by crows calling and cows bawling. When my mother came to live with us late in June, she would walk down into that garden behind the barn and help me pick the soft pink bugs as long as her back could stand the bending over, then wait for me in her chair on the side of the garden.

In August the potatoes in our cellar began to run out. The potato patch called out to me. I couldn’t keep my hands out of the hills much longer, there was an itch to see what was underground, an inner excitement building. When I had one meal of potatoes left, I felt justified to do it. I could not tell anyone I was going. This was my time by myself, and besides I would like to avoid my husbands I-can’t-believe-you-can’t-control-yourself look. I dug one hill, four red potatoes. It is the end hill, what will be in the next one, I wondered. I dug into it, five red potatoes. Maybe there is more in the next one….

I really have a hard time stopping myself from digging. I have to admit it. David laughs at me and reminds me that in 1844 folks left their potatoes in the field till after October 22nd , thinking Jesus was coming, and those potatoes fared better than the ones dug in September. I know this is true, and I know that there is no big hurry. But, even when I go up to that garden to innocently check on the broccoli that we planted between the rows, I stand and look at the rows of potatoes left to dig, and it is hard to walk away.

Last week I dug four rows of potatoes. My mother was my witness at the end of the rows. It was hard work, there is dirt underneath my fingernails still, and my back on Friday night was complaining, but I sat on mounds of dirt and opened little windows into the potato houses and pulled out families of seven, ten, and eleven. There were big, fat, golden Yukons, odd shaped King Harry’s in pale skin, and scarlet reds rolling out of the soil. Dirt goes down my boots but who cares. My pants are filthy but so what. On I go, like a mole, digging hill after hill. I love to have my hands there in the earth, searching and finding the hidden treasure, humble though it is. I am sometimes surprised.

In four rows of potato digging, I have come across three mouse nests inside the hills. It is a place of leaves in a loose ball, that provides space and softness to furry bodies. Two of these mouse nests have been occupied and I have squeaked as the mother mouse has jumped quickly and nimbly between my hands and scurried off. Squealing babies are not near as fast and one batch could not yet see. I hate myself for ruining a home and orphaning those young, and come warily back the next morning to see the fate of them. Their little fawn colored backs are still squirming around, now in a hollow. How have they made it through the night? Has the mother been back to feed them? Will she make another nest and carry them to it? I can only hope. It would ease my conscience.

On Friday I walk down to the potato patch to look things over. I am not there to dig potatoes, I am too tired. I am there to pick some corn for supper. Only seven ears, I tell myself, seven will be enough. I look at the wilted potato tops. They have done so well this year, grown so tall, and so far have produced so well, and their time of growth is over. So soon it seems. Where has the summer gone? I count six and a half more rows to go, and four varieties: Yukons, Green Mountains, Superiors, and Russets. I want to see each potato as it emerges into the light. Not now, I tell myself. You have to go home, your mother is waiting for you.

I stand alone for a few minutes and it seems so good to be here. The wind ruffles the corn stalks and tassles, the baby mice are gone. How can there be so much joy and hard work all in one place? It is the story of my life and I wonder, when my hill is dug by the Master, what my lifes' summer will have yielded? What will roll into His hands? I hope He will be as pleased as I am right now. We too have such a short growing season after all. I pick nine ears of corn, turn my back on the potato patch, and remind myself that they will still be here when I can come back to them.

Blue Eyes, Blue Sky, Blueberries

September 7th is late in the season to pick blueberries, and for my mother who is 80, it is a long way down the hill to get to the blueberry bushes, and an even longer way up the hill to get back to the house where she can rest. They don't add up fast on these days when we are just harvesting one at a time, for the joy of being outside under the blue sky, with blue jays scolding their disapproval from nearby trees, and chickadees calling out perpetual encouragement.

It is all joy for me to have my mother with me, wispy white hair blowing in the wind, and slightly discouraged at how little she has in her bucket. Though I know she is tired from the sighs, she does not really want to leave, and yet she must. We take slow steps together and I cherish each one, and each blueberry too.

My Daughter and Rock Walls


On August 17th, my daughter Rachel took a fall and hit her head on a rock. There was more to it than that actually. She was rock climbing near Fort Collins, Colorado with some rock-climbing buddies, apparently leading the route up the rock, when her attempt to place a piece in the rock failed, and she fell the six feet she had reached to and the additional six feet below her last placement. Her head struck the rock wall at the end of the fall, but she did not suffer amnesia, and finished the route despite a raging headache. She was not wearing a helmet. The week before she had taken a twenty foot fall, banging her back against the rock wall as swung back and forth. She was wearing a helmet that time.

The voice message on my cell phone said, “Mom, I don’t want to scare you but….”
Her voice was thick and low and pain- filled. My stomach tightens and I am filled with fear of what the next sentence will bring. My mind races and I realize that she is well enough to call, and I listen poised and tense, yet already knowing that she will be alright. Someday, I half expect, I will be caring for her, or grieving for her. Someday, she will fall over the edge that she lives on and there may not be a thin rope to catch her.

I really do love the concept of climbing up rock walls. Like a little child putting his hands all over his father’s face – fingers exploring his mouth, searching the crevices of his ears and the holes in his nose, feeling the contours of his face in a joyful intimacy – is a person on a rock face. So small compared with the looming height; so fragile compared to the solid mass.

Having a relationship with the natural world means experiencing its’ beauty, strength and grandeur; being out there and in it, like swimming in the rain. One becomes part of the water around them and one with the water that falls from the sky. Typically humans retreat to warm dry places when it rains, but there is a joyous connection that happens when we join nature on nature’s terms and sacrifice our comforts. Many people sweat and endure sore muscles to climb a mountain peak, not only for the view from the top, but for the challenge and experience of joining the mountain in its’ day, seeing it’s hidden parts, walking on its’ shoulders. Rock climbers take the challenge and thrill one step further to places that seem forbidden places, the same loves driving them perhaps.

“David and I are responsible, “ I think to myself with a rye smile. We set this kid on this path, and just never dreamed that she would run so far and fast on it. We started her hiking and backpacking and wilderness camping at a young age; we planted in her that wild love of natural things, that natural love of wild things. I would not change all that. We watched her fly from rope swings into lake water or river water with great glee when she was still young. However this element of danger is increasingly present and I wonder about what drives it and how it will end. I really don’t know.

In my most instructive book, God likens Himself to a rock, I suppose because rocks are solid and immoveable, and yet I find several places where God is moved by humans. I read, “Fall upon the rock and be broken,” and I hear Jesus’ words as an invitation to let our hard hearts to broken apart on His chest. He is safe to bleed on; He can bear it all because He is strong and solid as well as compassionate. This picture that I have of my daughter dangling on the end of a rope, smashing herself against a Colorado rock, I have to combine with my picture of Jesus being the Rock there in Colorado that she is smashing herself against. I have to picture Him holding her, broken and hurting. It is not only my imagination, it is my prayer. It’s the only way I can get through these fears that she will destroy herself.

Finding Mom

Finding Mom

It’s been a month since Mom came to live with us here on Crow Hill. It’s been a good month, and I have no regrets. We have been companions, doing household chores and garden work together. She makes sure that my kitchen is cleaned up after every meal. We’ve enjoyed early summer strawberry picking, high summer time at the lake, late summer raspberrying. She’s shopped with me, and enjoyed rides through the town she was born in, she’s pointed out her high school and other important landmarks. We’ve visited the cemetery where her husband, brother, and parents are buried, and the Pumpkin Hill school house where she attended elementary school. She is willing, and cheerful and helpful. But her memory - or lack thereof - is the reason why she is here, and an obstacle that keeps getting in the way, getting in the way of finding my Mom.

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When you cannot remember what happened in your past, it is an awkward time when old friends, come for a visit and want to play ‘remember when.’ What is one to do? What is one to say? “Really?” or how about, “”I didn’t know that, “ or “I don’t remember.” Mostly one learns to listen patiently. Even relatives might run out of things to say if the past is what forms the structure of the relationship and everybody wants you to remember who they are and be able to say their names but names don’t always make themselves accessible, unless they are used every day. When your mind has to work hard to try to understand and follow what is happening, conversations are a lot of work. Words fly by too fast, and you can’t keep up. It doesn’t take people long to figure out that you have no idea what they are talking about, give up, and wander away. You are not clever, nor interesting and have little to offer a conversation. You are just there and often you are alone with yourself.

When you cannot remember, time is misty. You don’t know where it goes, and it all begins to run together. Every day is just a new day to be lived just as it is. Of course you just took a shower and put on fresh clothes, even though it was three days ago. You cannot remember that it rained this morning. That was a long time ago now, or the weather didn’t reach your conscience mind. And yet, you have your watch, and you know when it is time for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and bedtime. It is a relief to be able to read your watch and know what time of day it is.

When you cannot remember, how to get to places becomes a big problem. And figuring out how far away places are from each other is impossible. You have to trust someone to take you out. You hope you can trust them. And how to get back home….and where is home? No place is home but home, and you know you are not living in your home. Everyone tries to tell you that this is home, but it is not. “When will you every get back home?” you wonder. They tell you that you cannot go back home again. You want to got back home very much. It is familiar and your things are there.

Why does it always feel like you are forgetting something or missing something? What is it that is lost? Should you take your pocket book with you? Why is it not here? Have you left it somewhere? Isn’t there something you should take upstairs? Is everything in order before you go to bed? Or is there something you forgot to do. You’ll brush your teeth again, just in case that was what you forgot. You’ll take this magazine up to bed with you, maybe that’s what you wanted to remember. You’re sure you had more socks in you drawer. Why does she have to take them away every night? Is she bringing them back?

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I am trying to understand what it is like for my Mom on the inside. One night we sat on her bed for a few minutes before turning in. I was quiet and unhurried. “I’ve been thinking about Albert,” she said, “Where is he?” “ I put my hand on her leg and looked into her eyes. “Albert died seven years ago in September,” I said softly and then paused. “Do you want to see the program from the memorial service? “ I went to my file and brought out the folder. She poured over the program for a long time while I read to myself the words my brother had spoken about my father. Finally she asked, “ Do you have an extra one of these? Can I have this one?” I nodded and watched her think where to put something so important. She could not think where, and I pulled the drawer of her nightstand out as a suggestion. She found a pack of pictures and slid the program in with them.

The next day was Sabbath and we were together, just us, so I decided to take her to the cemetery where my father’s ashes were and show her the stone. It was there with her sister’s next to it, and her parents’ next in line. She walked around each stone looking at both front and back, reading aloud each of her children’s names on the back of her stone, reading her parents’ names on their stone and commenting that she didn’t know her sister had her stone already. She did it again, making the same comments as she had before. Five times she walked around the three stones in a line, each time seeing them for the first time. Eventually she was ready to leave. We walked up the hill to her brother Leon’s stone and I showed her the dates on the stone, pointing out that he had died in November. It was all news to her. This is not like my mother, for whom the Danville cemetery and the family markers set there, were “touch stones” for her life, a place from which she would “rise to meet the Lord in the air,“ a place to go to remember family. Now she can not remember at all.

Another Sabbath after church and dinner, we picked up Mom’s sister Alice, and traveled three quarters of an hour to her nephew Dennis’ camp on Lake Eligo. We sat on the porch swing and talked and watched the lake, then looked at pictures of the family reunion on David’s computer. It was an afternoon where she missed her usual nap, and as we were sharing a light supper together, she asked where the boys were. “You know, our relatives.” There was silence. No boys had been there. I imagined that she was thinking of people in the reunion pictures, and tried to explain it to her. She remained unconvinced I could tell, and I realized too late that the day had been too much for her and people and places and time were all cooking in a big stew in her mind. It was past time to go home and get some rest.

Where is my mother? I am trying to find her. Where is the woman who would search the trees in the yard for the bird that was singing that song, and go find the vernal flowers away down on the island through patches of poison ivy, and sew my 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th grade dresses for me even at the expense of her own sleep? Where is the woman who would play her accordion and sing with conviction, and make temperance talks up front in church, and berry for hours on end, and hold babies with such complete satisfaction? Where is the woman who bustled around doing laundry and peeling potatoes or making rolls, pies or cookies for a big meal? And where is the woman who swam in the Cold River enjoying the chilly water?

I watch her carefully and I try to keep her safe and loved all the time, hoping to see glimpses of the mother I knew. I am learning patience.

Mom no longer enjoys cold water, or being wet. Being warm and dry is a high priority. So we steam up the bathroom before Mom has her shower. We wash as quickly as possible and use a blow dryer to hasten the drying and quicken the warmth. A bathrobe is always necessary, and then we go to the couch and sing together. She picks the songs, and it is always the old ones I remember from my childhood. Singing helps her forget that her hair is still damp and brings her back to me. Swimming is out of the question though.

We walk together every day the same piece of flat gravel road that passes through a working farm. There are dogs and goats and sheep and chickens and cows, and she usually counts how many of each she can see. She does not recognize the new equipment used for haying, but she loves to see when hay is down and comments every day on the beauty of the fields are that have been cut and are greening again. The roadside flowers get her attention and she comments on the colors, some days remembering the names, some days not. I smile. She is still here. Many days she says she feels lame, and occasionally I have to run for the car and pick her up - she just cannot go on.

On days when I pick peas or beans from the garden, there is work to do, podding or ending, and Mom will do it all. Slowly and methodically she sees to each one, and she does not quit until it is done. It is the same with cutting mounds of strawberries up. She works slowly and thoroughly and finishes the job. On days when I pick potato bugs off the ten rows of potatoes we share with our neighbor, she will help, crying out in disgust, “Look at these,” until her back drives her to her chair which we have carried up and put in the shade. She does not like to be driven to her chair by her weak body, and always asks me, “Are you sure?” when I say she should sit down now, but once sitting she contents herself with patting the dogs or watching the cows until I am finished. She never complains.

Against my better judgment, I took Mom to pick raspberries with me up in the unmown field on a side hill. David had found a hornet’s nest underground and marked it, so I guided Mom to the lower section of berries, far away from the hornet nest. I went to the top of the patch to work toward her. After a bit, I looked up and she was closing in on the region of danger. I cautioned her to move away and kept on picking. I looked up again, and she was in the danger zone. I went to her and took her arm urgently, explaining again about the possibility of getting stung. “Don’t pull me,” she said, “There are still good berries in there.” When it was time to go, she lamented that she had not been able to fill her bucket, but she did not get stung and made it to the car without spilling her berries which she made sure to point out to me. I mentally noted that I can find Mom when we go berrying, focused and persistent.

I can find her too when we go to a concert on the court green - she moves her hands softly in time with the music and I know she is pleased. She loves to be told that this quilt was the quilt that she helped me sew when I was twelve and that all those fabric pieces are from scraps of dresses she sewed for me when I was a little girl.

Yesterday was a banner day. On our walk she came out with a phrase that I had not heard her use in years. “Heavenly days!” she exclaimed. I smiled. Later I saw her looking at the old secretary in the entry way. “This is old,” she said, “I remember it from my childhood.” She was right. It is the only piece I have of sentimental value, and she recognized it. Today however, she can’t remember whose home this is she is living in, is tired all the time, and finding the simple task of cutting up peppers too much to figure out. I take her shoes off and help her to rest on the couch while I write. I am never upset with her; how hard it must be for her and yet there is no anger, there is not grief on her part, only a tranquil acceptance of her lot. She smiles when I tell her I love her, she hugs me and tells me thank you for all I do for her. I tell her thank you for all her help. “What help?” she says incredulously “I didn’t do anything today.” Then I get to tell her that she helped me end the beans and pod the peas and set the table and wiped the dishes three times; that she restocked my flour bins and measured ingredients for granola. She always looks surprised and pleased. That is my mother and I love her. I find her every night when I tuck her in bed. Every day there is some glimpse of the mother I knew, though it is dim and distant, and can see her and hear her if I pay attention.

No Regrets

Hiking Adventure

Mountains raise my blood pressure – in a good way. The night before I often can’t sleep on account of excitement, and this one lived up to all expectations. We started talking about Katahdin before the family reunion -- no, back in 1999 when hiked up the Abol trail and looked longingly down the Knife Edge trail, then turned to descend down the trail we had come up on. “Some day I want to hike that trail,” I muttered. July 15, 2008 that hope was realized – a kind of celebration of my father’s birthday – he would have been 84 the day before.

At the LaClair family reunion on the 13th of July, we found out my cousin John and his companion, Cindy had hiked it days before, and we found out my second cousin, Teresa Bradburn and her husband Kevin Wright were planning on hiking it. We all talked Katahdin, what to wear, which directions to take on what trails, how long it would take, etc., etc. David did some research on the internet and noted the comments posted. But it all came down to us four who were hiking it together on the 15th. Teresa has had four knee surgeries. David protects a weak knee also. It would be their call, but I weighed in with, “take the most aggressive hike up, and the knife edge down.” In the end it was decided to take Chimney Pond to Cathedral up and Knife Edge to Helon Taylor down, roughly 10 miles round trip, not really very long, but rigorous.

Pictures will attest that when we finally got to the Cathedral Trail we went up, boulder to boulder, hand over hand. It was fun; the steeper, the better, and we had the trail mostly to ourselves. Clouds played along the top edges of the ridges, and so we didn’t hurry. We hoped our 6:30 AM start would not be too early -- that we would have some open views when we reached the summit. About 11:30 we checked the time. Folks in offices were not yet on their lunch breaks, and we were at the top of the world (in Maine). My silent prayer for safety was half realized. Time to sit and look off and consider the strength and majesty of this giant tumble of rocks and the fragility of us little people crawling around on its’ shoulders. It would be here for years uncompromising to the seasons passing; some of us would not.

The great aspect of this hike was that there was to be no let down in the descent. There was still the knife edge trail – ragged, rugged, and narrow, dropping off on both sides precipitously, and then the ridge down. We went slowly – there was no other way to go. The Canadian women ahead of us were keeping all four on the rocks, and there was no passing lane. It was good- all good, and when we reached Panola, the last peak on the knife edge, there was deep satisfaction. The rest of the way was “a walk in the park” in comparison. I relaxed. Never do that. Two and a half miles from the parking lot, I slipped on some loose gravel and broke my fall with my left wrist. When I picked my hand up, my wrist was is an odd position, and pain was rushing into it as it swelled before my eyes. “Oh, no,” was all I could say. I sat for a few minutes, sinking deep within myself, and waiting for some “solution” to emerge from among the four of us. I could hear Kevin’s clear voice, “….That needs an x-ray…I broke both my wrists at the same time…ibuprophen and ice.” I had ibuprophen in my pack and Kevin got it out for me. I heard David’s voice talking about a splint, then settling on a sling. I knew time was ticking away, and I needed to get up and move off. There was no solution but to walk down the mountain. Kevin took my pack, Teresa took his, David made the sling, offered to go in front and to lend a pole, but I needed my full concentration and to see the ground.

It’s interesting to watch the thoughts go through your head in a situation like that. All was quiet behind me. The hike’s euphoria had dissipated quickly. We were each in our own thoughts. My went like this, “ Maybe it is not so bad…but if it is broken, the pain could get pretty bad….Father, will you help to keep the pain manageable and help me to not do any further damage?...Hmmm, I asked for your protection, what happened? I know you have permitted this…. help me to bear this well….no swimming….this is the height of summer…one more step….easy now, just go easy…I hope this doesn’t ruin the hike for Teresa and Kevin…what if this had of happened on the knife edge…I need to get my arm in cold water, how far is that brook…” And then there was just grim silence and step after step. I wonder what the others were thinking. Teresa was dealing with her own pain I’m sure, and I became her sister in the last mile of the hike.

The pain did not become unmanageable until the dead of night, well after the emergency nurse practitioner at Millinocket Regional Hospital had looked at the x-ray, announced a fracture in both the ulner and radius, and splinted me up. It was not really unmanageable, just too much for regular doses of Advil to keep up with.

When something like this happens, there can be all kinds of second guessing. No so for me. I have no regrets. I read in my little books that our afflictions do not “spring out of the ground” and if received in faith, good learning is possible. I’m going for that. This next few weeks will be another kind of challenge, but not so different really from the trail on the knife edge.