My Mother Does Not Know Me

 A few years back I had the opportunity to meet up with several relatives in a state far away to celebrate the life of a dear aunt. Spending her last years in the cave of Alzheimer’s, she still managed to let the outside world see a bit of herself. When I had first learned of her illness, I had taken some time to write a poem to her daughter who was very grief struck by this change in her mothers health. She had been slipping away for some time and it was important to have her in a care facility. Here is the poem.

 

 A painting which resembles the young Agnes.

MY Mother Does not know me.

  Dedicated to Carol and her mother, Aunt Agnes for years of caring family love, and now the challenge of Alzheimers. (written for Mothers Day 2007)  

My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.

I often wonder where her mind is.

Did she wonder where my mind was when I was an infant too?

As I lay in my dear crib, could she imagine my adventure?

My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.

I often wonder where her mind is.

How did I sleep so blissfully with all the world around?

Did I cry for reasons or just to hear the sound?

My mother does not know me.

Time has passed and tempered me, I cry for only good reason.

I have had the pleasure of watching many a season.

In my own world I have dwelled but felt not so alone

For always in the background was my mother in her home.

My mother does not know me.

I wandered all the around the world and brought myself to love.

I had a child and family and thanked my God above.

When my father died I felt that I could bear no more.

But there was yet another chapter, another course before.

My mother does not know me.

When I was a child my favorite thing was when my mother cooked.

She put love in every bite and I just took and took.

It was a pleasure of my senses, the smells, the colors, the tastes.

Now I bring her sugar drops and watch her face.

My mother does not know me.

Just as I was alone in my crib, with perhaps angels all around me

So I find my mother now, an infant in new surroundings.

She looks and smiles and is polite, like a traveler in some new place.

But all the while I am thinking of a smiling infant face.

My mother does not know me.

Over time this too shall pass and I will alone understand.

The measure of my worth as human is the kindness from my hand.

It does not matter that the candy is hard and sugary and simple to buy.

It only matters that she smiles and it is to me, alone, that is not a lie.

My mother does not know me. She does not have to.

She is the infant whose pure joy in taste is mine.

She smiles from gas or real delight, locked in her mind the why.

I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time

I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine.

I will always remember that what I have done is true

Each time I have loved her in this way, I have loved her true.

-------

Her son Greg told me that in the last few days when he was visiting and feeding her, she pushed the food from her mouth to let him know she was not interested in it any more.

Aunt Agnes expressed her love through an abundance of food. She was a person who shared this as an act of love. Her table was heavy laden, her efforts all home made. Squeezing into the breezeway of her tiny home was a long table filled with relatives and food to greet my fiancé. He was overwhelmed with the display and it spoke to him, he loved this aunt and uncle best, pronouncing that was an indication to me of the importance of food as an expression of love. Yeah, I am a pretty good cook now, I never was before that.

In the funeral service my cousin Carol got up and read a lovely message. She said that her mother experienced dementia in a way that was unusual. She did not have out bursts of anger or hate. She could be found praying and thanking G-d. She was polite and called everyone, Ma’m, even her son. She refused to wear her dentures and each person was greeted by her toothless grin. She was once a gymnast, an athletic woman, I did not know her this way, but seeing her lay in state, I think she was somehow back to that, a small, thin woman.

She did not recognize anyone, but she still knew herself. She knew she was Agnes. Now what Agnes she knew, must have been a very young, carefree one. She was a gift always. In her final days she pointed out friends in the room with her when her son was visiting. She greeted them and introduced them, calling each by name. There was no one in the room but her son, and he did not recognize any of the names she was telling him, but they sat close to her and she seemed to look them in the eyes. On the last night they came again and she left with them, she said no good byes, there was no last hug. Out into the heavens she went, off on some young lark.

  

When Carol received the poem back in 2007 she wrote me a note:

Oh Sheila, what beautiful poetry! I especially love the second to the last stanza.

"I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time

I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine."

THANK YOU FOR MAKING MY MOTHER'S DAY SO VERY SPECIAL! YOU ARE SUCH A TALENTED GAL!

Love,

Carol and Aunt Agnes

Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55

Beans

There is a scene in the 1950 movie, Cheaper by the Dozen, where all the kids go to the beach for the summer and all they can afford to eat is beans.Jeanne Crain gets invited to a barbecue where they are having steaks, it seems the beach neighbors have less kids and are rich. I felt sorry for Jeanne, her family was eating cans of beans, think of the fun they could have had making them from scratch!

My mother born in the late 20’s, serving in WWII as a Wave, was no stranger to beans. There were seven children in her family and she was the third youngest. She grew up eating hot soup to cool off in the summers in Detroit. She ate so much bean soup that she became a connoisseur of bean soup. In fact she was a decent cook, could not make a decent chicken soup but could not mess up bean soup.

  

   Grandma Florence 

It was a Navy bean or sometimes a green split pea thing she made. She also made a great chili, with beans. In some circles that is unheard of, of course I grew up thinking the meat was the extra thing. Beans and peas really are botanically classified as fruit.

When she retired and moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico, she continued with the bean thing, one of her regular charitable acts was to donate huge bags of dried beans to the food pantry there. Did I mention my mother’s last name wasBien?

When my children were small, I took them out to see her. She took us to the local grocery store and my five year old son was enjoying looking at the beans. He told her that he loved black beans….I thought she was going to cry. She bought him a can and when we did not end up using it for a meal, she mailed it in a box to him, just in case he could not get a can of black beans where we lived.

Anyway, my cupboard is full of dried beans, canned beans and indeed, a virtual variety of beans. I regularly cook up bean things. I recently made some great white lima beans with diced chili’s and tomatoes. I just made a batch of homemade chili this week to die for with pinto beans in it. I then cooked up some black-eyed peas with turkey broth, onions and a big dash of lemon juice for dinner one night.

I don’t know if I am in love with the idea of the process, picking through the dried beans, rinsing them, soaking them for hours and watching them eat up the water, or finally simmering them into submission. In a pinch opening a can is just as fulfilling.

Turns out this food that some used when money was tight, is a pretty yummy gourmet option after all; part of the Mediterranean Diet, they take the place of meat rather easily and are healthy for you to eat.

Thanks, MOM.

Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55

 

Two Bowls of Rice

 

Things of beauty

meant to hold

more than

image

 

Things of beauty

meant to be

a thing

of substance

 

How is your beauty

filled or empty

air or rice or

both

 

Given when full

 beautiful when

empty

hunger avoided

grace defined

 

Like us

things of beauty

each meant to be

of substance

 

Giving

Receiving 

Thankfulness 

 

 

 

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

To Serve

 

 

 

Picture from a pamphlet booklet called

Great Photographs of WORLD WAR II

Selected by the Editors of The Reader's Digest 1964

 

 TO SERVE

 

Dedicated to every service man and woman who leaves a child at home. In loving memory of my parents who both served in WWII.

 

 

War is a treacherous thing

There is so much at stake

while the enemy marches on

my baby girl first wakes

silent in the slumber

she tosses not at night

early in the morning

she wakes easy at first light

while I am away from her

I am confident in knowing

every single day out here

is one more she'll be growing

in the midst of all this

dark

this gloom

this horror

she will play with her little bear

in her crib

while it is

snowing

I will march with my buddies

over hills and forests

beaches, mountains

jungles, desert sands

to reach the battle at

hand

her little lips will kiss goodnight my

lovely wife's sweet cheek

and in my dreams I dream of them

while the enemy is beneath my feet

I will walk and run and jump

I will hang my weapon

at my side

my silent stalking in the night

to hear her rattle tinkle

light

I will march on and feel this pain

because I know

it is not in vain

for there she sleeps in warmth and comfort

for which I have bought and paid

for each and every day of peace

someone once has paid

 

I know I will be going home, I have known it for awhile

I will be greeted so fast and sweet,

by my growing, loving child

 

 

 

For every father separated from his little girl

I cut the journey right in half, and separate the  hell

I bless you on your journey home

I wish you all that's well.

 

 Copyright 2010 by SheilaTGTG55

 

 

 

 

This is a re-post of my Veteran's Day Blog on 11/11/10 

Bakery & Bistro, Deli Delicacies YUM!

Deli Delicacies

Bakery & Bistro in Lakeland Florida

When we first came to Lakeland to bring our daughter to college her freshman year, we visited this deli/bakery. I never forgot it. On our visit last week to Lakeland, we returned to this wonderful place. I had never stopped thinking about it.  

 

This year the sample cakes that line the small dining area were different. I especially like the details on this one. I thought it would be unique for a bridal shower. 

 

Here are some nice designs in  more traditional shapes. 

 

This cake really attracted my attention! I love pearls and enjoy looking at them whenever I can. If I was going to have a special cake, especially in Florida, I would love to have this! 

 

The cake in the center here, looks very much like one that a cousin had at her wedding this summer. She had a movie kind of theme. 

 

Yellow is a favorite color of mine, and this cake seemed especially beautiful and cheery.

 When you walk into this place, you are struck by the warmth of it. The wonderful smells of sugary goodness, the kind smiles you are greeted with and also the virtual smorgasbord of eye candy! The deli salads, the sandwiches, the hot foods, the cakes, the pies, the cannolis...

You see why I wanted to come back. Now that I have been there again, I might be able to stop thinking about it!

Ode to Sweet Things

The smile on your face

betrays your delight,

you smell the fresh

baked goods,

the baker was up all night!

It is morning and time for a break,

a hot cup of coffee and

a sugar filled treat.

No one can tell you,

that even this is not

as sweet as you really are,

nor certainly as "hot"...

Special thanks to my dear husband for taking me back there for a lovely, mini cannoli!

 http://www.lakelandweb.net/deli2007/daily_menu.html

Copyright 2012 by SheilaTGTG55 

 The wedding cake is a tradition that began in the Roman Empire. At the time, it was a loaf of bread that the groom broke over the bride's head as a symbol of his dominance in the marriage and over her.^{[dubious – discuss]} The color of the cake is typically white to symbolize purity. The action of the bride and groom cutting the cake is meant to symbolize their first joint task in married life. The gesture of feeding cake to one another is a symbol of the commitment the bride and groom are making.

One of the earliest forms of the wedding cake is the French Croquembouche. The legend of this cake says that a pastry chef, visiting medieval England, witnessed their tradition of piling sweet rolls between the bride and groom which they would attempt to kiss over without knocking them all down. The pastry chef then went back to France and piled sweet rolls up into a tower to make the first Croquembouche.^{[2] From Wikipedia}

Secrets of an Antique Desk

About 25 years ago an unassuming piece of family history migrated into my husband's possession. Probably more by default than by gift. When we married,  we lived in a home that we purchased but had been my husband's  Uncle Harold's. In the basement was a kind of drop top desk with a bevel glass door to a side bookcase. It was in oak, a warm light oak that my husband favored. It had some of it's hardware removed, and seemed to be in the stages of being re-finished by the time we came to have it. He respected it greatly as one would any piece of handicraft of a now deceased relative. His uncle had owned it, but his great grandfather, Ernst, a cabinet maker had made it. He was a cabinet maker in Chicago and built items for the Potter Palmer mansion among other homes. He was a very fine craftsman and this desk was built by him. 

 

Ernst & Augusta shortly after arriving in America from Mecklenburg Schwerin Germany 1884 

His Uncle Harold was the one who started trying to refinish it. We eventually bought some chemicals and thought of finishing it, but never did. Somehow the piece was beautiful as it was. At first the desk seemed to be empty. After some years my husband discovered a secret drawer. It might not have been a real secret drawer, just something that had stuck perhaps. It was filled with family pictures, some notes and negatives. Some of it seems interesting and important. We were thrilled to see it. Uncle Harold had been corresponding with some relatives and been sharing genealogy information. I never met Harold when he was alive.  

 

Ernst later in life. The cabinet maker. 

The negatives that were found by us 25 years ago finally got to reveal their story last night. Through the wonder of computer programs and patience, some the negatives were able to be scanned and we were able to create pictures out of them. They revealed some interesting things about the family. The stories from my husband's long deceased father were able to provide a narrative with some of the pictures. 

 Some of the most interesting show a remarkable connection to our lives today. Here are a few of those pictures which represent some of what our family does even today. We do automotive repair and some antique automotive restoration work.

This was Aunt Minnie's husband's new car. 

 

This was his first car. 

The first car was stolen, wrecked and later recovered. 

 

These are damage pictures. 

 

Note the fine garage, lighting, ceiling detail, the car in the back.

We put the damaged car around 1904 - 05. The "new" car was probably in the 1920's. If you can identify any of the cars, send me a message. We thought the earliest was an American LaFrance Company car type. We are not sure, but that seems to be part of the story. We could not read the wheel hub marking clearly, we could make out "American" and possibly "Company". 

Enjoy the secrets of the antique desk. There will more coming....

Copyright 2010 by SheilaTGTG55 Words & Pictures

  

Her

Posing For The Life Class

From Pen Sketch by Ella Modrakowska,  Philadephia, Pa. 

 Ella's work was purchased and used as print demonstrations by the Inland Printer company in and around 1902. She is listed in the Artist's Bluebook, Ask Art but there is no information other than birth and death and last location of New York. She is associated as the author of a  Hungarian book printed in Munich in the 1920's on Kitty Starling, London Darling, which appears to be a book containing print poster examples of this dancer by numerous artists.

 Her

Her body tones

and fired in servant phase

she is standing

on her

own grave

her  life

no more meaningful

her sin

her wage

the poor woman

whose life was

limited

a domestic

breaking free

silken skin

and red knees

scrubbing her

life

no man's wife

her arms strong

her life

gone wrong

born wrong

born a woman

born wrong

born without power

without voice

a poor woman

a man's

were she rich

it would be the same

her cage then

perhaps silk lined

she stood naked

either way

with no voice

with no say

who will take us back, then who

she covers her eyes

with her hand on her hip

her voice now silenced, her rage yet keen

will we tumble back down into

the ravine

or will we stand

and conquer again

her strength rebuilt, her courage redoubt

a fortress she has built

we will defend

we will cleanse fear and

we will fight!

 It makes no sense what is happening politically today, in our nation. Misogynists will not rule this land. We need our anger, we need our fire to stand firm on issues of women's reproductive rights, otherwise, we have no life. Controlling our reproduction has allowed us to participate more equally in the work force, to lose that, we are looking at just the beginning of our losses. Who does this serve? What is the purpose? This is a free nation, we strive for equality on all levels. We women are not chattel of any man or any CHURCH.

Copyright 2012 by SheilaTGTG55 

I have written about my antique desk and the picture treasure trove within before, including this print of an ink drawing. You can read all about the discovery here:

 http://open.salon.com/blog/sheilatgtg55/2011/02/10/antique_desk_yields