In loving memory of my amazing dad, Jerry Robert Boyles (1931-2008).
June 16, 2018
A summer thunderstorm knocked off the petals of most of the lovely peony blooms last night. Thankfully, a few tightly closed buds hold promise of beauty yet to unfurl in this summer’s peony finale. As the peonies fade in their glory and prepare for curtain call and their final bow, the daylilies in their own splendidly colorful petaled costumes stand in the wings ready to take center stage and continue the summer’s floral show.
We’re back from our Hawaiian adventure with Mia. What a grand adventure.
Now I am settling back into the comfort of life’s routine. Sleeping in my own bed with my favorite pillow. Spending Sunday with our church family. Doing laundry in my own washing machine and not having to put $7.00 worth of quarters into the machine for each load!
Today I slept in until my body woke me up….and was almost late for work. It brought me joy being in BeeHive’s kitchen baking up treats for our residents again (many thanks to Karen who filled in for me while I was away).
In the midst of my baking joy, my heart remembered that my journey with BeeHive began 5 years ago today. March 25, 2019 was the day I accepted the help of BeeHive in caring for my mother in her journey Home with Alzheimer’s.
Facebook confirmed that memory with two reminisce posts. Many of my friends and family were praying as I moved Momma out of my home and into her new bedroom at BeeHive. We arrived just in time for lunch. While mom and I ate lunch, Wayne and Beth moved mom’s things into her new room, setting it up much like her bedroom in my home. After lunch, I walked mom into her new space and she settled right in and was soon napping.
I sat in her room watching her sleep for a bit, then met with Gina to go over some move-in details. When we were finished, I was not quite sure what to do with myself. I wrote about that here…
Momma would live here for the last 14 months of her sojourn on earth. Here she would be loved and cared for with the level of care I could not provide. She had friends around her, good food, fun activities, someone to help her every hour of the day or night, and someone to help her to shower (something I couldn’t offer her at my house).
Placing her in assisted living memory care was a hard decision. And the right decision.
Crunching through the leaves on my walk this chilly fall morning, I realize it is the 27th of October – my dad’s birthday. This year I would not be making my customary trip to Milwaukee bearing my dad’s favorite gift of all. I find comfort in thinking that my dad is in heaven today and perhaps he is celebrating his birthday.
My birthday gift for dad wasn’t something wrapped in manly gift wrap and tied with a bow. Nor was it something with a gift receipt enclosed just in case it didn’t fit. For as long as I can remember, it was always the same gift – a home-baked pumpkin pie delivered in my beat-up Tupperware pie-taker along with a pint of real whipping cream.
My dad loved pumpkin pie and would broadly hint that I should bring it any time of the year when my mom wanted me to bring dessert. Mom doesn’t care much for pumpkin pie; so on those occasions when dad was hinting, I would sometimes bring two desserts. Something mom would like and a pumpkin pie on the side for dad.
When my daughter Elisabeth was in 4th grade, I taught her how to make pumpkin pie. Her grandpa would brag up and down about his granddaughter’s pie. I gladly passed the rolling pin baton to Beth and, from that point on, Beth was often the bearer of the pumpkin pie at Boyles family gatherings.
Did I tell you that my Dad LOVED pumpkin pie? I remember one occasion when dad unexpectedly stopped by my house one afternoon bearing a paper grocery sack. First he scolded me for not having the back door of my house locked, then he set the bag on my kitchen table. Peering into the bag I giggled when I saw the VERY broad hint…the ingredients for a pumpkin pie. Dad was pretty sneaky…he knew I was going to bring something other than pumpkin pie (at my mom’s request) for a family gathering. He wanted to make sure that I had all the ingredients that were necessary for the REAL dessert.
The week before my dad took up his heavenly residence, I baked my dad’s last pumpkin pie on this side of glory. He took three little bites and told me it was delicious. Mom said it was the last thing he really ate.
Today, as I walk, I remember Dad and I pray.
Lord, I really miss my dad today. I miss making his pumpkin pies and I cry like a baby whenever I make one for my family. As much as I miss him, I am so thankful that he is enjoying this day in heaven without the cancer robbing him of the enjoyment of life. Lord, I am eternally grateful that Dad placed his trust in You as his only hope of salvation. I would guess that the pumpkin pie celebrations we enjoyed here on earth are nothing compared to the angelic celebrations over those who place their trust in Christ, but if your heavenly bounty includes pumpkin pies, Lord, could you make sure that my Dad gets a big piece with whipping cream on top? And, please tell him that Cindie is celebrating his birthday in her heart.
Rewind of a Facebook Note written sometime in 2015
I made Momma cry today.
Somewhere near the intersection of my trying to be helpful and Momma’s trying to remember, she snapped at me, shooed me away with the wave of her hand, blurting, “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Let me just try to think about one thing at a time!”
With more hurt and frustration in my voice than I intended, I retorted, “Alright Momma, I’ll leave you alone!” Retreating to the solitude of my former bedroom, I felt the door slam behind me, hot tears stinging my eyes, ready to gush at a moment’s notice. I really wanted to throw myself on my bed, bury my face in my pillow, scream and bawl, then drift off to sleep, leaving the nightmare of Mom’s advancing memory loss behind.
Mom in her favorite chair–surrounded by great-grandkid love (circa 2012)
Instead, I stood there in the middle of the room and cried out to God. I was only in prayer for a minute or two, maybe even only a few seconds of time. But in that small measure of time, I felt God’s presence. He was speaking to me. Not in an audible voice, but in that place in the very core of your being where all of life’s decisions are made and emotions are felt. That place where you love. The heart.
God was reminding me He was there and that we would get through this together.
Gingerly opening my bedroom door and peeking down the hall, I spied my sweet Momma at the other end of the hall. She was right where I left her minutes ago, sitting in her favorite chair in the living room, quietly dabbing away her tears of confusion with great big wads of tissue.
Humbled in heart and quieted by the Spirit, I went to Momma, knelt in front of her, then wrapped her in my arms and said, “I’m so sorry, Momma.” My sweet mom put her arms around my neck in a motherly hug and laid her tearful, trying-to-remember weary head on my shoulder.
“Momma, Jesus will help us through this.”
“I know. I know,” acknowledged Momma with gentle, reassuring pats on my back.
My granddaughter Violet is serving the Lord as a counselor at Camp Fairwood this summer, as she did last year. The three years prior to that, she served on the kitchen staff. She loves it, as did I when I was on the staff as a teenager many moons ago. It blesses my heart knowing she is walking by faith and serving her Savior each summer. But, I do miss her.
Violet is the grandkid who was very prolific in writing sweet notes to me throughout her growing up years. I kept some of them in the places she hid them, just so I can enjoy stumbling upon them from time to time. They always bring a smile to my face and joy to my heart. I’ve saved all of the other notes in a big glass brandy snifter, including the little notes from the story I am reposting below.
Go ahead. Write a note to someone you love. I promise you’ll make their day.
I have been thinking about my dad a lot lately. Maybe it’s because it’s Father’s Day. Or perhaps because I came across some cans of pumpkin puree while I was cleaning out my pantry. I always think of my Dad when I bake pumpkin pies (his favorite).
Memories are stirred when I find an old photo here – a notebook or binder there. Even though he’s been enjoying his heavenly home for 15 years, I am still occasionally stumbling upon some of his things, like the cardigan sweater I see every time I open my closet.
Speaking of my closet — that closet seems to always be in desperate need of a major sorting, rearranging and dusting. Not long ago, I spent a little time doing just that. As I sorted, one of the memorabilia binders I created for my dad’s funeral service in 2008 caught my eye. Right next to that binder was another one which said, “FALK” on the spine. I decided to take a little break from my cleaning to explore the pages of the second notebook. I slid the 3-ring binder off of its shelf, then plopped on a guest room bed for a little page-turning reflection of a slice of dad’s life.
It soon became obvious that this binder contained items Mom had saved from dad’s years of working at Falk Corporation in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. There were some cool black and white photos of the giant gears he worked on in his career as a mechanical engineer.
There was also an envelope tucked in the back pocket of the binder. I opened the envelope and found a number of newspaper clippings related to an explosion that occurred at the plant in December of 2006, after dad had retired. Sadly, three people were killed and forty-seven others injured. Cars were reportedly flipped through the air and debris scattered over several blocks. An investigation of the cause of the disaster uncovered leaks in a pipe running below the plant building, which supplied propane to the heating system.
Of particular interest to me was one slightly damaged photo which showed him as a young man dressed as I remembered him, right down to the well-appointed pocket protector.
This photo brought back a childhood memory. Most little kids don’t really have a handle on what their dad does for a living. I certainly didn’t. I proved that point one day in kindergarten.
We were seated on the linoleum floor in a circle around our teacher, Mrs. Kramer, who had just read us a story about the jobs that people do. She then asked us to share what our daddies did for their job. I listened as my classmates each took their turn sharing about their dad with great pride: there were firefighters, a doctor, a teacher or two, and there was even a dad who helped build houses. All sorts of cool jobs. My turn came and I was still clueless, so I said the coolest thing I could think of at the moment. “My daddy works in a candy store,” resulting in all sorts of “oohs and ahhs” from my friends. I beamed with pride.
Yours truly in kindergarten (with requisite school picture day bad haircut).
Well, my parents learned of my daddy’s newly fabricated job description when Mrs. Kramer brought it up at parent-teacher conference. It gave them quite a laugh. I didn’t get in trouble for that, but my parents made sure I went to work with my dad a time or two so I could see what he did. Turns out that mechanical engineering is not quite as cool as working in an imaginary candy shop.
But, those giant gears were pretty incredible.
The company also had a little newsletter called, “The Falk Reflector.” Mom had saved a few copies over the years. I noticed mom had marked a few pages, so I turned to the pages she thought were worth noting. Mom marked a paragraph sharing this funny bit of anecdotal shop-talk concerning my dad.
This gave me quite a belly laugh. If you knew how fastidious my dad was in cleaning out vehicles, you’d be laughing too!
Facebook occasionally reminds me of things I wrote in my pre-blogging days. It’s hard to believe that six years have passed since I wrote “Caring for the Caregiver,” a post born out of my personal experience in being the primary family caregiver for my sweet mother.
It is my prayer that this photo-filled memory of mine will inspire many to look for ways to love on caregivers “with actions and in truth.”
Join me for a photo-inspired trip down memory lane.
A whole flood of memories washed over me when I paused to look at this scanned photo today. While so many of my generation “cropped” their photos to put them into elaborate scrapbooks, I’m glad I wasn’t artsy-crafty enough to enjoy that sort of activity and this photo survived totally intact. I’m reminded of so many special things from this era of my life as I look at all of the elements in this slightly fuzzy old photo. Join me as I play a little game of ‘I Spy With My Little Eye’ with this photo.
Story Time with Daddy – circa 1980
My ‘I Spy’ Memories
This photo was taken in our very first home on 49th Street in Milwaukee.
It was a tiny 2-bedroom, 1-bath bungalow-style house boasting about 600 square feet of living space. I’ve seen a more recent Zillow listing for this house stating it has 1,487 square feet. Unless they put on an addition, they must have counted the basement and the tiny rear entryway.
Wayne still had a Garfunkel-ish mop of curly hair. He would tell you that the hair on top of his head has migrated to his chin over the years.
I remember how much our kids loved it when their daddy would read a book to them because he made all the necessary silly voices for each character.
That classic sofa was a hand-me-down from my best friend’s mom. Betty Banner’s gift of her used sofa was a fancy-schmancy step up for us in the world of living room furniture, replacing a freebie imitation leather futon which threatened to slide you off onto the floor whenever you tried to sit on it.
The sewing machine was a birthday gift from my husband two months after we were married. [Note: I tell the story about this sewing machine here.]
I used that sewing machine to make the heart-shaped pillows on my sofa (definitely an 80’s thing), farm-themed curtains for the kids’ bedroom, and clothing for myself. You wouldn’t know it by looking at this photo, but I also made shirts for Wayne and Matt…and cute little dresses for Beth, who apparently wasn’t into wearing clothes on this particular day.
Money was tight, but Wayne and I splurged and bought the maple writing desk so I would have someplace other than the kitchen table where I could set up my sewing machine. I think that desk has since taken on a new life in our daughter’s house.
That coffee table is actually a toy box we bought at an unfinished furniture store. Wayne and I finished it together and now, more than 40 years later, it sits in front of a sunny window in our home with lots of houseplants on top. Sadly, I have only a vague recollection of what is in it.
That purse on the coffee table was a favorite. It rarely had money in it, but my greatest earthly treasures were sitting right there on that sofa.
The afghan on the sofa back was crocheted for me by my Grandma Peet. I remember her asking me what the colors were in my new home. I told her “earthtones,” because that was the trendy thing in the 70’s.
The ball-fringe curtains on the windows were purchased by my grandma too. I remember feeling like a wealthy woman because I had curtains from Country Curtains on my windows.
Wayne and I painted that table lamp together. It was one of two plaster casting-type lamps that we painted for our abode. The lamp tables were Wayne’s stereo speakers. I remember we spent more for the lampshades than we did for the lamps.
That avocado green carpeting was straight out of the 60’s and it butted up to the burnt orange vinyl tile flooring in the itty-bitty kitchen. Yeh, we were that cool.
That rocking chair was gifted to me by my husband after the birth of Matt. There was a heat vent on the floor right in front of that rocker. I would put my feet on that vent and the warm air would whoosh under my bathrobe as I rocked my fussy baby to sleep on cold nights. Memories of rocking both of my babies in that chair have kept me from parting with it as I now seek to “downsize”.
Thanks for joining me for my little reminisce down Memory Lane. I’m thankful for this nostalgic moment captured on film 40+ years ago.
Okay friends, you are going to need to cut me some slack on this mothering moment that I’m going to share. I had only been 20 years old for about 14 days when my first baby arrived in the world and probably not even 22 when this story took place.
I was pregnant with baby #2 and exhausted. Usually a good sleeper, lately Matt seemed to sense the moment my weary head hit my pillow. Well, on the night this story took place, I was settling in for sleep for what seemed to be the umpteenth time when my not quite two-year-old little Matt cried out for me from his crib with his loud toddler voice,
“Mommy!”
I shudder to think of what I did now because it is so contrary to good sense, but I was a gullible young mom who apparently believed this ad.
On that night I grew tired of getting my very pregnant self in and out of our waterbed (anyone remember those?). I desperately wanted to get my little guy to lie back down and go to sleep, so I gave him a bottle hoping he would fall asleep and let me get some sleep. I wanted to save the little bit of milk we had in the fridge for breakfast in the morning, so watered down some Tang breakfast drink and put it in his bottle.
Not two minutes had passed after I dragged my weary self back to bed when I heard the familiar squeak of Matt’s crib. We had a tiny house and I didn’t want him waking his sleeping daddy who had to get up early to go to work, so I got up and went to his room. He was standing in his crib again, arm extended out to me with an empty baby bottle in hand.
“More, Mommy, more.”
I couldn’t believe he had drained that bottle so quickly. I made him another bottle of the stuff then checked to make sure his diaper was dry. He took the bottle and snuggled in for what I had hoped would be the last time until morning’s light. Bleery-eyed with weariness, I then crawled back in my own bed hoping not to make too many waves.
Unbelievably, before I could pull the covers up under my chin, Matt was again yelling,
“More, Mommy, more!”
I made the trek of five or six steps to his room again and turned on the little Humpty-Dumpty lamp on the dresser. I couldn’t believe my eyes – his bottle was empty again! Checked his diaper again too – it just had to be wet, but it wasn’t.
Bordering on sheer exhaustion (and also a wee bit suspicious), against my better judgement, I fixed him another bottle. I turned off the light and then headed out of his door, this time waiting around the corner to spy on him and see what on earth was going on. Sure enough, I had every reason to be suspicious. My clever and mischievous little guy sat up in his crib, unscrewed the top of the bottle, then stood up and proceeded to pour that orange drink down the wall, then picked up the nipple end of the bottle and screwed it back onto the empty bottle.
I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I did know that if he could figure out how to do all of that, he was much too old to still be drinking from a bottle. I took the bottle out of his hand before he could say, “More, Mommy, more” and told him to say “bye-bye” to his bottle.
Matt never saw the bottle again.
Pastor Matt and his wife Kelly
Interesting note: Now, 40-some years later, Matt is an elder and discipleship pastor at Wildwood Church in East Moline, Illinois. On a recent Sunday, Wayne and I were able to worship with Matt’s faith family at Wildwood and were blessed to listen as our son preached from Luke 22 using this story from his childhood as a sermon illustration. I’m not proud of this mothering moment of mine, but it did make a pretty nice sermon illustration. It warmed this momma’s heart (and his dad’s too) hearing Matt sharing God’s Word as he preached. I invite you, dear readers, to give that sermon a listen right here.
Another post in my “Rewind” series. This post originally appeared on October 23, 2016 as a Facebook note in my pre-blogging days. As I journeyed alongside mom with her diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, I learned through her experience many things about the affect this disease had on her world. As my mother’s caregiver, I have leaned heavily on the experiences of those who have traveled this road ahead of me. In sharing my experience, it is my hope and prayer that someone else will be helped and encouraged.
Even though Momma lives in a little one-bedroom apartment, many days she has a hard time remembering where her bedroom is located. A few minutes ago, I overheard her talking to herself saying, “Now, where is my bed?” Groaning with each step taken toward bed, I could hear my sweet mother then exclaim as she entered her room, “Oh, there you are! I can never remember where you are.”
I’ve been staying overnight at Mom’s house since September 11th. That was the night when mom had a severe separation from reality, scary hallucinations, and I had the realization that it was no longer safe or wise to leave her in her apartment alone. Sadly, she was so afraid to stay in her room. Every time I would get comfy and start drifting off to sleep on her couch, she’d come in the living room, flip on the light, then stand in front of the couch asking me if I was awake. I would get up, gently guide her back to the bedroom, do the room search (looking for the intruders she was so sure were there) and I would try to reassure her that everything was okay.
I noticed that even during naps taken during daylight, mom wouldn’t sleep under her quilt. I would often find it pushed to the corner of the bed or on the floor. On the third night of no sleep, Mom told me that there were “faces swimming” on her bedspread. She was clearly disturbed by its presence. So, I replaced the bedspread with an extra blanket and mom finally settled down enough to sleep for a few hours.
The next day, a very kind friend from church came to sit with mom so I could take my brother to a medical appointment. When I returned later that day, I related the story about the bedspread to her. She took one look at it and said, “Of course there are faces! Look here! See the eyes?” In all the years that the paisley bedspread had been covering my parents’ bed, I had never noticed that.
As I thought about my sweet friend’s observation, I recalled reading in several articles related to caring for individuals with Alzheimer’s that busy fabrics give some patients great anxiety and that it is helpful to use solid colors in clothing and decor choices. Even busy wallpaper patterns can take on frightening proportions that terrify the confused mind. With that information in mind, that very day, I stopped at my local Target and purchased a plain, simple white bedspread for her.
No more swimming faces – and every so often, I catch a heartwarming glimpse of mom gently fingering her new bedspread, running her hands across the soft fabric as she drifts off to a much more peaceful sleep.
Barefoot Lily Lady 