Losing your eyesight and ultimately your independence, is a
terrible thing at any age. It forces you
to take a hard look at your circumstances and make some hard choices for your
future. And it’s especially hard when
you live alone with no family close by.
My sweet little Momma had made a new life for herself when
she left the hometown where she grew up, married, and raised me and my
brother. She had become accustomed to
having lots of people her age around her that loved her, had become active in
the church, volunteering at the nursing home, visiting her friends, shopping,
and her favorite, going out to eat with her friends. She had been diagnosed with macular
degeneration earlier in the year, but I don’t think any of us realized the
extent of the disease. When she didn’t
see a stop sign, crossed through the intersection and drove into someone’s
front yard, it was time. Change was imminent.
Teresa had driven Mom to Virginia for a visit so she knew we
had the perfect situation for her to live with us having her own bedroom, bath,
and the “run” of the house downstairs.
She also knew it meant she would have to give up her “ride.” Now, Momma wasn’t one to stay home if she
could drive. She’d get in her car, put
that Grenada in drive, and whiz downtown or wherever she wanted to go, for that
matter. She nabbed a couple of concrete
pillars at Covington Square when she could see good. She earned her nickname, “Fireball Roberts.” (Only old racing fans will appreciate that
one)
And so it was, that my brother, daughter, me and Sol, packed
every little piece of newspaper clipping, sermons on cassette tape, several
hymnals, old sheet music, trinkets, art supplies, and a recent gift of a
beautiful glass Moravian Star. Oh, and her shrouded in a plastic bag,
completely decorated Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments from the “home”
residents where she lived. We loaded up
a U-Haul van and off we went to her new home in Blackstone. The Moravian Star went missing during the
move. Mom pilfered through boxes for
years looking for it.
Momma was thrilled to be able to live with us. She decided that her job was going to be that
of chief cook and bottle washer. She
didn’t know I knew it, but she did this because she ate her main meal at
noon. We had always eaten ours at
night. So, if she cooked, she had some
assurance that she would be fed on time.
That worked out well for her and made her feel good that she could
contribute to the household. I loved
it. I could spend my mornings in the
yard, planting and replanting, going to club meetings, playing bridge, or whatever,
and Sollie could come home at lunch since he was just two miles away,
straight shot.
Now Mom was about the most resilient 80-year-old I have ever
seen. She could fall, roll over on her
all fours, and walk her way back up to a standing position really good. It’s amazing that in all her life, she only broke two bones. One day, as I’m hoeing
in the tansy (which I hated ‘because it had an awful smell), sweat dripping
from me like a faucet, and I look up to see Mom coming down the walkway towards
me. She yelled that dinner was ready, and promptly
toppled over on the walkway. I see her
when she stumbles, throw down my hoe, and start running through the tansy patch
towards her hoping to catch her, but instead stumbled on my own big feet and
did a number plowing through that black dirt.
The fall wasn’t pretty. I rooted
up the dirt with my face and snout looking like a hog in a pen. So, there we were, both of us sprawled out
in the yard, stunned. I yelled for her to stay
put until I could get up and then slowly crawled and scratched my way over to
her.
After we laughed a few minutes, we decided we better see if
we could get up. She was the first up and
she helped me. Now, we’re both looking all
over ourselves to see if we were ok, and decided that the only thing that hurt
was our little pinkie fingers. I called
Sollie who came in two minutes and took us to the local clinic where they x-rayed
our hands. Yep. We both broke the same finger on the same
hand. We sported our splints on our pinkies for
several weeks. My pinkie is still crooked
to this day! Hers was straight. We made the local newspaper
the next week, after young Billy came over and took our picture, sitting in the
porch swing holding up our left hands, for his Dad’s paper. Young
Billy is now the Mayor of the town, and Editor of the paper. His Dad and Mom were great friends of
ours. She and I did a great “fall”
together while practicing on the set of a Rotary Musical production a few years later. I ‘bout broke my leg trying to break the fall
for her! Ah, what precious memories…. But, more changes are on the horizon.
