Poetry Jam Mirrors...

Dad stood in the mirror
With Alzheimer's in his head
He smiled, tipped his hat
"See that old man," he said.

Dad stood in the mirror
I stood with him hiding tears
Trying to share his world
As I had throughout the years.

Dad stood in the mirror
Where time moves too fast
Oh, Dad, how I loved you
From the beginning to the last.

For Poetry Jam

More Home Pictures

Are you saying geeze, Louise enough already! We are tired of looking at your old farm house. Can't you decorate with something more up to date? Do you ever buy anything new? Why would anyone hang that? How weird is she?

I can answer most of those. I am just so proud of my early Christmas present from Beverly! I want to show it off. I decorate with what I like and when it has a story, it makes it even nicer. I enjoy a bargain. Why pay a hundred for a lamp, if you could find one, when you can buy one that someone doesn't want anymore? I do buy things new...occasionally, like my washer and dryer. And, yes, I am weird, strange, different, unique and all those other good words.

This in the entry hall. My halters and ropes are decoration and close to grab as I go out the door. The table I made out of an old sewing machine bottom I found in the barn and the top to a gas stove that was falling apart. The mirror is old and second hand, of course. Where the halters are hanging are the coat hooks Dad put up. This is white pine board but the finish has aged through the years. This wood was also grown, cut, and finished by Mom and Dad. The bag is my hunt rocks and things bag and the bird was just one I loved at a junk store.


The other side of the hall is a five dollar mirror (yard sale), Dad's road sign fastened with a chain. The sign helped Dad a lot after he got Alzheimer's. It helped him know he was not lost. He never did forget his name.

Now here is my weird corner, I have some more weird than others. This painting is by a wonderful artist, Alix Baptiste. I met him in Savannah, Georgia when I was visiting my friend Belinda. We were at Savannah Marketplace. Alix had many styles of paintings. I like the primitive art of this one and all the bright colors. I did buy this new. The feather mask is attached to wreath with a magnetic necklace. Told you, weird!

We have made a small circle back to the sitting area. I do not like this gas stove, imitating heat when there is a real fireplace behind it, bricked up. Oh, well, things are changing slowly. I do love the fireplace. Each rock was hand picked by Mom and Dad. The center stone which the light comes through is an old grinding rock. In this fireplace rock work you can find fossils, petrified wood, odd shapes and wonders. My poor pitiful tv table is Granny Pruett's. On the mantle, left to right: Mom's kerosene lamp, a flower candle, a pineapple candle, Spike the dog, Mom and Dad's eight day clock, with civil war buckle and horse knife in front. Toward the end are Uncle Otis's hand whittled rocking chair, a small statue, a chocolate candle and another one of my paintings.

My home is humble, my memories are great. Thanks for letting me share them with you.

Memory Lane

My sister, Beverly and I have been walking down memory lane today.
Beverly inspired me and gave me a Christmas present early....she helped clean the kitchen and dining room. How sweet can she be? I can see the top of the dining room table and can walk without my socks pulling off, all my dishes are clean AND put away! The rats have been kicked out and the spiders are packing up since their food is gone. I saw one staring at me with this hateful look as he carried his suitcase out the door. I said sorry guys you gotta go, this is my Christmas present and you're not part of it. One spider was crying...from all eight of his little eyes!

I thought we cleaned this table! Where did this serving of Santas come from? I had everything off that table! This is a small peek at my dining room. I forgot a before picture but you really did not need to see that!

Another angle of the Serving of Santas. That is not dirt on the table. Dad's job after he got Alzheimer's, was cleaning the table and he did...constantly. This is another beautiful table he and Mom made from trees At The Farm. Dad would rub the knots in the wood with his finger nails for hours. This is the result. The dining table is thick enough I could sand it but it's Daddy's table and I want it to stay the same.
I'm just a silly sentimental spider missing fool!

Painting With Grandpa

Set scene: My father with Alzheimer's, my afternoon to sit with him, summer day, shade of the pecan tree, beautiful weather, I decided we would paint.

Hands that had never painted
Contrasted with the white empty canvas.
A dish of colors in one, a brush in the other
Eighty-five- year-old hands
Danced with sunshine and shadow.

Colors trailed across the canvas
Speaking volumes
Hands taking their work to heart
Like the man had always done.

With smiling Irish eyes, he said
"...never been a painter."
Answering yes,
To "Are you having fun?"
He painted more.

We were lost in a world of colors,
We traveled into the canvas
Neither asking where the other had been.
We left our dreams to dry
Going inside to eat ice cream.


I still have the painting Dad did that afternoon in a place of honor. The poem is attached.

Secrets

Some babies did not make it, I discovered 48 years after my birth.

My parents married at the end of the second War To End All Wars. My father was there from the beginning to end and was hungry for family life. My mother was in love with the uniform.

At eighteen, Mom was dreaming of a family. At twenty-eight, Dad was eager to comply.

The family came...three girls in eight years. I always wondered about our age difference but never asked.

We are grown now. Mom is gone and we have since lost Dad to Alzheimer's.

Alzheimer's is not pretty but it has a way of breaking secret oaths.

There were others. My sisters and I had siblings that we knew nothing about.

As Dad cried reliving the past, my sisters and I understood. We named the grief we had glimpsed in our parents' eyes.

Our siblings, bundled in hand made quilts, were each laid quietly to rest where we never plowed. They were never named and never mentioned.

It was the way of the times.

Today I bring flowers and say "Hello, I am your little sister."