Jeddah Brats – Chap 1

Where did it all start? Here’s a sneak peek at a cut down version of Chapter 1 in my memoir, with the working title of “Jeddah Brats”

Chapter 1 – Travel to a Foreign Land

 The first time I remember hearing that we may be going to a foreign country is an easy memory to recall. Here I am trying to learn to eat with a fork stuck out of the end of an arm cast; when my parents bring up the subject of moving to another country. Let me back up here already, why did I have a cast on? It doesn’t have anything to do with the story, but it adds a little flavor to where my mind is set and a little later you’ll see how this relates to the story.

 My name is Rhonda, and at the time I was a very rambunctious eight year old tom boy going into the 3^rd grade. I have 2 older brothers that I often tagged along with and I also had a history that would continue to the present day of getting hurt in unsual ways.

 That particular summer, my brothers were playing on a team at a baseball game and while mom eagerly cheered the boys on, I played on the jungle gym. Back then, people who made play grounds hadn’t yet discovered that pea gravel and deep sand could prevent or lessen injuries. Remember I said I was accident prone? Up to that point in my life, my folks had only had to make maybe two trips with me to the clinic for emergencies; a broken collar bone at just under age two and a knocked out tooth that bloodied me up from another jungle gym in the first grade.

 Now – back to the ball game. It was a very hot June day and I was playing on this great jungle gym that just so happened to be set in a sea of asphalt. No sand – no gravel. As I got hot and sweaty, I got more daring and began to hand walk across these monkey bars. Before I knew what was up (not me), my hand slipped and I was falling straight down to the asphalt. I think I screamed, I don’t recall, but I do remember putting my hands out so I wouldn’t plant my face in that mean black surface. Mostly it worked, but I hurt real bad and had a nasty gash on my chin with plenty of blood. Kids screamed, parents came running, and mom found me, as usual, in the middle of the mess. Did I tell you mom was a nurse? Somehow, I ended up in the front seat of the car with my arm propped on a Sears catalogue and a bloody T-shirt held to my chin as we sped down North Oak Trafficway to Doctor Hall’s office. They took us in immediately and set to fixing me up. Here’s the important part that you probably thought I would never get to: I had cracked my jaw bone and had a nasty gash. Did I mention I hated shots? The doc said he was just going to ‘clean up’ my chin a little and soon it would feel and look better. The doctor said it wasn’t going to hurt as a nurse draped a cloth across my face so I couldn’t see anything. I asked them if it would hurt and the doc said no; then while my mom and the nurse held on to either side of me, the doctor STUCK A NEEDLE IN MY CHIN! I screamed and was up off that table in no time, but they did finally calm me down, I suppose, as my chin got numb. I left that day with two more shots, both in the butt – tetanus and something for infection, a cast on my right arm and 17 stitches in my face. After a restless and painful night, I had to return the next day for more x-rays and they were surprised to discover I had also broken my left arm and my collar bone. I now didn’t trust doctors and had a morbid fear of needles that would last into my thirties.

 So, let’s get back to the beginning of my story. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my family and trying to eat with a fork stuck out of my cast, when the folks all of a sudden tell us we are moving to another county. I had never even heard of Saudi Arabia at that point but my brothers were both real excited and exclaimed things like, “Will we live in the desert? Can we ride a camel? Is it true about Ali Baba and his thieves?” I was the book reader in the family, so I had read about the Arabian Nights, but my brothers actually KNEW, as older brothers often think they do, absolutely everything about Saudi Arabia.

 I don’t remember being upset that we were moving, but I could tell that my mom, who was then only 27 or 28 years old, was nervous about something in the deal. I don’t know who made the final decision to go, but soon, preparations were under way. Dad was to leave in just over a month and hopefully, we would soon follow around the time of Thanksgiving. Because of some religious holiday, which I now know was Ramadan, we didn’t actually make it until after Christmas, on December 29, 1966.

 Remember my fear of needles? It was going to come back and haunt me big time. My parents had been very conscientious about making sure we had all our vaccinations as little kids and we had already been through several childhood diseases such as mumps, measles, chicken pox – you name it! But the great American government in its infinite wisdom had declared that we needed to be inoculated for much more. For my birthday in 1966, I was given the first round of shots which was Yellow Fever. Happy Birthday to me! We would go once or twice a week, sometimes getting as many as two shots in each arm, through the middle of August. I screamed and cried through each session, and nearly fainted once when the nurse broke a needle off in my brother’s arm. We had our smallpox repeated, cholera, SPT, Tetanus, Typhus, Typhoid, Yellow Fever and many more. All of this was courtesy of the doctors who worked for TWA on Richards Road at the old downtown NKC airport. In later years, I was to get a job in that very same building, and each day I would shudder and rub my arms as I walked through those doors with the memories of sterile tile floors and SHOTS firmly entrenched in my mind.

 Also during that time, we had to get passports and visas for Lebanon and Saudi Arabia. It took many months, starting in July and ending just before Christmas of 1966 before we could get all the right permissions for our trip. Meanwhile, my stitches came out and the sling and left cast were removed and back to school we went after Labor Day. I learned to write left handed because the right arm wasn’t healing quickly. I started school in third grade that year with one cast on plus sore arms from all the shots. The next few weeks were a blur as we packed up all of our furniture and belongings to be sent in big crates ahead of us. Our house was bare by Thanksgiving and we waited eagerly to get our paperwork. After a tearful Christmas spent saying goodbye to a multitude of cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, we finally set out to travel half the way around the world. Mom, with three young children, left her family and home and together we traveled to France and then on to Beirut, Lebanon, where we had a tearful happy reunion with dad at the American hotel. The noises and smells were incredible – the mix of people and their dress were astonishing. Amazingly, the hotel seemed pretty modern and treated us well, and mom seemed to be relieved that this wasn’t going to be her worst nightmare anymore.

 Children being the way they are – we soon, or rather, my brothers did – found a way to entertain themselves. Our rooms were about 10 stories up with doors that led to a balcony. While I was still too small to see over the rail, my brothers had no problem climbing up and hanging over. Tired of just looking, they decided to have a spitting contest. It didn’t entertain them too long, so they added more to it. They would time a spit ball to see how long and where it would land below. Then, patiently waiting for the right target to walk by, they’d wait, goober up with a big phlegmy HHHAACKK noise, aim and spit! As soon as it hit someone, we’d fall back and laugh. Finally, one man caught us as a particularly nasty goober got him splat on the cheek. He was angry and shook his fist at us and yelled – then like frightened rabbits we ran back in our rooms, sure that the man would come find us. He never did and I never told on my brothers (I’m TELLING NOW- HA!), so our parents never knew what trouble we had caused. It wasn’t the last time either, and I’ve often wondered these latter years how these foreigners tolerated the Americans or their children anyway.

 On another trip to Lebanon, my brothers showed their neat trick to some kids we were traveling with and they soon graduated from spit balls to girsch coins and pennies. In France, they tormented waiters by puckering up and making kissy noises, then rolling their eyes and saying stupid things like “Ooo-la-la”. I never did figure that one out but it upset a lot of people for some reason.

 Back to the story. The next day we entered the final leg of our air travel. We left Lebanon and boarded a small TWA jet and flew directly to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.  When we debarked at the Jeddah airport, we were assaulted by shimmering waves of heat, noxious fumes and a multitude of men in gowns.

 Before we had left the states, mom and dad had carefully gone over a list of forbidden things while packing our luggage. Things like pork, booze, bibles with pictures, books with pictures and Christian ornaments were taboo. It wasn’t a major deal for our family, although I was upset to leave most of my books behind. We took no chances this first trip. My parents knew as we arrived in this new country that we would have to go through customs, where they would inspect the contents of our bags for forbidden items. My dad had been through this detailed search before and friends had told of their experiences, which were not good. We stood in line and watched with growing apprehension as we watched the agents tear through bags. They would even go so far as to take bags, turn them over and dump everything out. They would then paw through, heedless of the items falling on the filthy concrete floor and rolling under the tables.

 Finally, the time for my family’s turn came. I was first for some bizarre reason and we lined our cases up on the table. I had a cute little black patent leather ‘hat box’ style case with a handle strap and pink cats etched in felt on top. A large grubby man in a white thobe and white lace skull cap approached the table and unsnapped the two gold latches on my case. He lifted the lid – and screamed! Backpedaling away quickly as he turned a sort of pale shade, he turned and fled across the room and through a door. Quickly, two men came out of the door, followed by a now more timid agent who was whispering to them and pointing at us and saying something like “LA…LA” The two new men walked up, slowly opened the bag top and peeked inside. Then, they quickly slammed the top closed, stamped our passports and shooed us away with arms waving while saying, “ Yallah, yallah.” Confused, we grabbed our unsearched bags and breezed on out of the customs building.

 “Sis,” dad asked, “what’s in your bag?”

“Just a few toys – oh, and my troll family. Do you want to see my new one I got for Christmas?” I opened my case, and there, lying on top, were mommy and daddy troll, some kid trolls and a couple of baby trolls, each with its own brightly colored unique hair and that hideous gnarled up troll face. Some even had caveman style clothes on.

 My father laughed then and escorted us out to a taxi line. Later, we would all laugh at the incident as we recalled our quick transit through one of the toughest customs checks in the world. Those men were not used to seeing dolls of any kind, and the strange ugly faces of the trolls probably looked like some kind of demon to them. I know the first man will have had night mares from the encounter, but also a great story to tell his buddies. Most stories about customs are bad experiences, but now my dad had a new, funny story to share with his friends. For awhile, people joked about ‘trolling through customs.’ Forty years later, I still have a couple of trolls in my home as good luck guardians; one of which was my mom’s that I never knew she had until she died.

 Another impression from that first arrival was the horrible condition and facilities of the women’s rest room. Mom and I, very alone, and very obviously foreign, walked through a door into a room lined with chairs, then through another door into a smelly, dark, concrete room. I almost threw up. There were four curtains, sort of, and we pulled one open to find an open drain with a concrete ledge around it.

 “Mommy, where’s the potty?” I asked. I’m sure I probably whined a little too. She had no clue what to do either. I’m not sure how we figured it out, but it was our first exposure to open pit toilets with no ‘throne’ to grace our behinds. Awkwardly, we were able to place our feet on the ledges and hike up our clothes and take care of business. Fortunately for us both, I think we only had to do number one as there was nothing to wipe with. Later, we would become more familiar with this type of toilet facility, and it would not be the worst we had ever seen.

Elevator stories

It seems many people have ‘elevator stories’ to tell, whether they are funny, heart warming, scary or otherwise. Almost everyone, I believe, has some kind of ‘feeling’ about elevators. For me, when I think of them, I think of something that happened around 1974-75. Although I was only a teenager, my parents had taken me to Las Vegas with them for a short vacation. Mom and dad did not like to gamble much, I’ve never even heard of them losing more than maybe $25 in a day. They didn’t often drink, and when they did, it was not much. But they loved to go to the shows, the bright lights of the Strip and little side trips to places like Henderson, Hoover Dam and the twisty rocky canyons nearby. Not part of this story, but in 1963 we were IN the belly of Hoover Dam when news reached us that Kennedy had been shot.

Here’s the elevator story. My folks, my aunt & uncle and myself had been to a late dinner show in the Sahara. My aunt & mom had maybe had a couple too many drinks (more than one made my mom silly) and decided they needed to go back to the room. As a reluctant teenager, I followed them, but not closely. For once, this holding back paid off. As the gals weaved their way, slightly off kilter, to the elevator, two men headed for the same bank of elevators behind them, not realizing that I was following or part of the group. One of the men starts mocking and apeing the way my mom was walking, but in a much more exaggerated manner. I have to admit, it was funny to see. Then, mom & auntie reached the elevator, pushed the button and the doors parted; to reveal solid mirrored walls. They look up, stepping in, and see these two guys mimic-ing their movements. The two guys stop their antics and STEP INTO THE ELEVATOR with the ladies, not realizing (or maybe not caring?) that they had been caught. I rush to get in as the doors start to close, and much to my surprise, find that it is Jerry Lewis that had been doing all the kidding around. Nobody dared look at each other, it was actually funny considering the entire elevator was mirrored, so no matter how you averted your eyes from the other people, you could see the others in the mirrors. JL has the decency to blush. Not a word was said that entire ride, and it was many floors. As we got out of the elevator, at a much lower floor than the comedians, it was all we could do to wait for the doors to close before we burst into laughter. I remember mom, clutching her stomach and laughing so hard, with the words, “Oh, oh, I gotta pee, stop laughing you two, I can’t take it.”

I know, you had to be there – but this was one of the fond memories I have of my mom, enjoying our deep, can’t look at each other or we’ll bust out again, laughter moments.

Christmas Cooking

Potato Soup

 

One Christmas tradition we always had at our house was to enjoy, the Night before Christmas, a large heaping bowl of potato soup. We always had a huge family dinner on Christmas day that rivaled Thanksgiving and had been baking for days, moreso than even before because we added fudge, divinity, peanut brittle and tons of cookies. For years I never understood how my mother made such a wonderful soup. It seemed easy, but I just could not match the flavor or quality of mom’s soup. Several years ago during one of my annual trips to see the family at Christmas time (an 800 mile drive one way), I was pleased that my mom was going to be making the annual Christmas eve soup. I discovered I had been making just a very simple error and since then I’ve definitely gotten the hang of it – What a dummy I was! While we were cooking the soup that Christmas Eve, mom and I enjoyed some quiet time and I brought up the subject of the one time we were in the Middle East and had a somewhat ‘different’ potato soup that year. Mom was always determined that wherever we happened to be, we would try to maintain a semblance of our stateside lifestyle. And that included comfort foods such as potato soup on Christmas Eve – even if it was 120 degrees outside with the wind blowing sand under the door faster than we could sweep it out! This particular year, mom had sent dad to the market (souk) for the groceries and had mentioned she needed more potatoes. I have to remind you at this point that A) Dad grew up on a farm and spent many years in the garden hoeing his share of potatoes and B) food shopping was often a hit or miss deal in the Middle East – more like a treasure hunt. Well – dad brought home potatoes – but they were sweet potatoes! Whatever were we going to do? Mom was great at something I called her ‘make do’ mode – so we were going to make, yep – Sweet Potato Soup! We had always made SP bread, SP pie, just SP’s with marshmallows, SP casserole – so we could do this! It turned out great of course, but never became a staple at our house. But the story, of how dad went out to get some Red potatoes and came home with the sweets, stayed around for years. I decided to learn to make it all over again, using trial and error and some left over sweet potatoes from our Thanksgiving dinner – now I make it whenever I like, and YES – I like! I hope you will like this as well.

 

Sweet Potato Soup

 

Peel three large sweet potatoes, cut into small chunks and boil until mushy with a teaspoon of salt (about 20 minutes). Drain, reserving 2 cups of the cooking water. Mash or puree the potatoes. [Hint: I like chunks in my soup, so I reserve 1/4 of them and cut into little slices to add at the last] [Hint #2 – you can cook the potatoes days in advance or use leftovers!]

 

Gather your ingredients:

1 Tablespoon Arrowroot (flour works as well)

1 stick of sweet cream butter

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 cup cream (heavy whipping cream is best, Half–n-half works OK)

½ cup brown sugar

½ Tablespoon grated fresh ginger (or ½ tsp. powdered)

½ teaspoon nutmeg

¼ ground cloves

1 Tablespoon cooking sherry (optional)

 

In a large pan, sauté the Arrowroot and butter until you get a light brown roux. Add 2 cups of the reserved water from the potatoes, the sugar and spices. Bring this to a light boil, and then add the precooked, premashed potatoes. Simmer for about 15 minutes, then stir in the cream & sherry; then continue cooking for 5 minutes more. If you prefer a very creamy soup with no lumps, you may want to puree once more. If soup is too thin, simmering for a longer time will reduce moisture and thicken it up – or you can cheat and add a little cornstarch or arrowroot. If you like the chunks, stir them in when the soup is complete and heat thoroughly. This soup is great served hot or chilled (like I had it once on a cruise ship in a prior life) and makes 4 large servings. You can garnish with a dollop of whip cream or even float a few marshmallows on top.

Get out and Vote!

Many people this year are speaking up about the Presidential election whereas before, politics may have been a taboo subject. I may as well put in my two cents worth.

The first writing piece I ever had published was an editorial comment that was published in the Kansas City Star newspaper in 1978 or shortly thereafter. Actually, it may have been 1979 after the election. I was full of myself back then and had voted for the first time in a Presidential election. I was in college and paying much attention to the world around me. I was incensed at the number of people around me who were complaining about the person(s) who had won the election. There were lots of comments about how the government was going down hill and the current ruling political power was ruining the country, how bad the President was, etc. This sparked a little interest in me, and just as part of a conversation once or twice, I would ask the question – did you even vote? It wasn’t ‘did you vote for so and so’ – it was a plain – did you even vote? More times than not, the answer was No, with lots of excuses attached. This led me to some research, because now I was curious about how many had voted. The internet was a distant glimmer on the horizon, so I had to research through phone calls, newspapers, books and more to come up with the answers I was desparate to find. I was shocked. The numbers were staggering when I did the math. I can’t remember the numbers, but first I started with the number of eligible voters. Got it. Then I added up the number of registered voters. Much smaller number than the eligible ones. OK, next I looked for the number of registered numbers that had ACTUALLY voted. Whoa! This was staggering. I didn’t even have to take it any farther – such as how many voted for this and that person. Just the percentages alone rocked my world. Out of all the eligible persons to vote, only a very tiny percentage (I believe it was under 20%) had actually voted and placed this political party into the ruling houses.

Then, feeling rightfully justified, I wrote a letter to the editor, quoting of course, the numbers I had researched so they would see I wasn’t just flying off the handle with rhetoric. I was full of vim and vigor (I think we called it piss and vinegar back then) and stated to the editor that he had been selecting letters to print about people complaining against the government and the current powers to be. My challenge to those other letter writers was this,”Don’t even think that you have the right to complain if you didn’t get out there and vote.” I truly felt that if you had voted, and the party you wanted didn’t win and the party in the ruling majority was goofing everything up – then, yes, you had the right to complain. Otherwise, shut up and learn your lesson.

Talk about flak! Yes, they printed my whole name, I never dreamed they would print the letter nor did I even think twice about them using my name. I was just pleased as punch that my letter took up most of the editorial page. Then the fallout of my little bomb started coming in. Insults, irate come backs to the editor and more. People actually READ that stuff and would shun or congradulate me. One of my college professors had the gall to tell me I was ignorant and shouldn’t try to speak up about things I didn’t understand. Then I asked him if he voted and he would not reply. I got lots of ‘That’s neither here nor there’ and ‘Whether I vote or not has no bearing on this conversation’. To me, that means he didn’t vote. A-hole.

Oh, and it gets better. (Or worse). My father, a Union man, perhaps even a Steward at the time, got called to task. They (Union management) actually called him in for a meeting and asked if this person who wrote this article was related to him. When he saw the name, (he hadn’t seen the editorial) and they had him read the article, he boldly told them, yes, that was his daughter. They instructed him to have a ‘talk’ with me and ‘reign her in’ so that something like this doesn’t come about again or there would be serious repercussions with his job. This was a Union that told people what stores they had to boycott if they were good union employees and wanted to keep their jobs. My mom was always in fear of being seen shopping in a grocery store that was currently being picketed or quietly boycotted. God – this was the 70’s – what were we thinking to let them bully us like that? And me, did I do what my father asked and keep my mouth shut? Well, yes and no. I had already written the letter, and I wasn’t going to make any kind of retraction. But I didn’t write anymore about that subject in a public forum. I had already said my piece and I stood by it in conversation. It did quickly fade away too, and the newspaper dropped that line of conversation. But whenever someone brought up the conversation of complaining about the current government, I still used the question, “Did you even vote?” If you did, then I will be glad to listen to your arguments and sympathize with you. Otherwise, just shut up and next time, get out and vote so that your voice will count and you have a leg to stand on.

So, here we are with a really nasty election coming up and I hear more people speaking up and talking about the virtues or failings of one candidate over the next. Instead of choosing the lesser of two evils, as it has seemed in the past few years, we are now faced with some life changing issues and a chance to exercise our ‘Power of the People’. Whatever your color may be, Red, White or Blue – if you want to complain about the rulers of our nation, then first use your RIGHT to vote; then you have the right to speak your piece.

My dad, my hero

For the first time in over two months, I got to speak to my dad on the phone yesterday. It was bitter sweet, but very monumental. The last time I spoke with him, he was in a mental hospital and very much out of it as he had been overdosed with tranquilizers and had stopped breathing. He survived, but like I said, last time I talked with him, he was out of it. I told my brothers back in early June that I would be out of town for a couple weeks in July, but they could always call my house or cell phone and leave a message. Since I got back from that trip nearly two weeks ago, I have been calling and emailing my brothers to find out where and how my dad was doing. No replies. Finally, FINALLY, by some fluke, I got an email from one of my cousins asking why I hadn’t told them that my dad was up near them – they saw him in this rehab center and went to visit. Then they emailed me about the visit, telling me all about the place – but not the NAME of it. I found out the next morning when I wrote and told them I didn’t know where dad was and they responded, so I promptly called the Rehab center and spoke to my dad’s nurse.

The care he is getting now seems to be great compared to the last couple of months and dad has made some real progress. The doctors got his medication fixed and even though he was an oversedated, wheel chair bound, violent person when he entered the home, he has turned into an ideal patient and the nurses love him. He walks now again, takes regular meals in the dining room and isn’t confined to his bed or room. He can and does receive visitors and remembers people and has made new friends. With a little time and help, he could, for a short time, even go back to living in the real world as long as he has 24 hour care and is never left alone.

And the most beautiful thing – when I talked to the nurse, she asked if I was the person my dad has been calling for and mistaking others for the past month. He had been missing me and calling for me! Then, after I confirmed my name, the nurse saw dad coming down the hall and brought him to the phone. We spent about 20 minutes, very coherant, on the phone discussing where he was now and his new friends and the home and the nurses. He was all there and for the time being, knew who I was and what is going on with him. Bless the staff in the wing called “The Village” – they have given back some of my dad’s dignity and hope. I know it can’t last, but for now, he’s more at peace within himself than he has been in months – not lost in a drug induced haze and shadowed by demons of dementia. He still, for his own good I hope, is like an animal locked in a cage, but they allow him his pacing and let him control the TV and make choices. And he can see his friends and family whenever they like to visit, not a choice he had earlier in the year.

Now I can rest more easily knowing that there is adequate care for my father and they know how to get in touch with me when he is distressed and wants to see his daughter. Two months – I lost him for TWO MONTHS! Now I can talk to him again once a week as in the past and send mail and visit when I am able to make the 800 mile trip and send his friends to visit. What the Heck is wrong with my brothers that they would cut him off like that? Hope, love and friendship can go a long way to healing a heart and settling a confused mind on an easier path.

Rain, please

As a child, I remember the old chant we used to call out, especially if it was ruining our summer fun: “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day”. Well, we’re living in those other days now and I sure wish we could get a little rain. Say, a half inch a day for the next month. I’d even be happy for a quarter inch. Unfortunately, at this time of year, when the rain does come, it usually is the after affect from some hurricane sliding into the coast somewhere to wreak havoc or is accompanied by damaging hail, winds and tornados.

My nature friendly yard, of course, is a haven for – you got it – nature! Since I water the plants in my vegetable and herb gardens (but not the grass), there are all sorts of birds attempting to take a cool sip of, say tomato juice, grapes and more. Just this afternoon I saw six birds lined up on the fence, each taking turns to swoop in and see which plant they could savage. There were two cardinals, two dove, a sparrow and a starling. Surprisingly, no mockingbirds which are our biggest garden predators.

At night, it’s rather like a farmer’s market with constant visits from deer, rabbit, coons and a feral cat or two hoping to snag a fish from the pond. Last night we even had a fox drift by, always a fun run for the old dogs to bark at.

Surprise, surprise. I spoke to my father on the phone today. He moves around so much from hospital to nursing home that I am never too sure where he is or how he is doing. My sister-in-law was visiting him in the hospital today (an overdose of tranquilizer by nursing home staff) and he wanted to talk to his ‘daughter’, so she put him on the phone with me. It took him a couple of minutes, but he finally figured out who he was talking to. His hearing is not too great and with the scramble eggs in his mind, he wasn’t really sure what the phone was for, but an old dim bulb clicked in and he realized the little voice in his ear was me. It was like a breath of cool air washed over me when I finally got to speak with him for a couple minutes. But then he was gone. I take the few precious moments I can grasp and savor them.

Mom & Dad

I just wanted to share a picture of my mom and dad, just months before mom passed away and before dad had his heart attack and slipped into dementia.

If you are wondering who that strange face in the middle belongs to – that would be me!

Update on dad

I had to include this portion of email about dad from my brother. It sums up everything he is having to deal with right now. I did not correct or omit anything except names.

second nursing home sent him back to XXXXXXxx for re evaluation of meds fighting with residence and making sexual advances unwanted to the female residents. They dont know when he can return to the home or when he,ll settle down. he seems to be getting worst every week. i have a contract on his condo 143000  but no takerss on truck yet with gas the way its getting trucks are hard to get rid of.working on application for va home in XXXXX still have to get dr. statments and notary then its waiting game.noth here but rain and storms crappy holiday week end. we did get every thing out man was it alot of stuff even leaving most of the furnature and appliances.losts of mixed boxes itll take months to go through.still sorting out his paper work. elec goes off 27th home phone is off and insurance on boat, truck, and condo ends 30th. IRS send letter he owed additional 1173.00 I had to pay and his dr. bills are terrible medicare only pays 33% when he is at XXXXXXX. his meds are running about 1500 a month untill I can get him a prescription plan that enrollment aint till nov. va dont blister pack so he cant get his meds through va.  we have about 2000 worth of meds here he cant use because they are not blister pack or have been opened. He kept losing his meds and we kept having to get new ones when he was still loose. found most of the when we moved every thing now we have a stock here he cant use exept if we take him out for a day or so to holiday or event but seems unlikely unless he settles down. any way I could go on forever but that gives you the general idea. Ill let ya know if he finally gets settled in for visits.  the only thing that aint stored is brother R has grandfather clock and I have some of his tools. storage is full!!!!!!!!!  Planning garage sale but moms chest,shells and such wont go but to family. Ill know more whats what when I start going through stuff and garage sale the nicknacks. any way by for now  

Dear Mom

Dear mom,

 

I felt I had to write you a letter today, it’s been so long since we talked. There are so many things I have wanted to tell you, and just haven’t been able to say them to you.

 

I’ve tried so hard to live up to your expectations and be the person I think you would like me to become. Your examples over the years – patience, wisdom, understanding, frugalness, caring for others, working hard and playing hard as well – have provided me a foundation for living my life.

 

I know I more than once exclaimed in that dramatic way of teen daughters that I would never be like my mom. What was I thinking? I don’t have to do the same things or even like the same things to be a good person like you were.

 

I promised you I would take care of things when you were gone, especially helping dad. And now, now I think I’m failing you and I feel so bad. When you left us, not only did I lose my mother, but I lost my best friend. Your friend Betty called me today, she wants to know why I am letting my oldest brother take over dad’s care and spending all dad’s money and forcing the nursing staff to allow no visitors. Dad’s in a prison in his own mind, mom, and part of it is my fault since I finally turned care of him over to the boys.

 

Yes, I know you woke me up when you visited me in a dream. I wanted to talk to you longer and you wouldn’t stay – you told me to wake up because my house was on fire. I wish you could have stayed and spoke longer, there is so much I want to share.

 

The flowers you sent to Todd – yes, mom, everyone knew they came from you. I’m curious how you did that – how did you put snap dragons in that empty pot on his patio?

 

And dad knows you were there in the hospital with him when he had his heart attack – he’s not the only one who saw you. You kind of scared a few people because they think your visits are creepy. But I believed the nurse when she described you to me, and I believe dad when he says you were there.

 

I didn’t cry at your funeral mom, just like you asked. I was strong for dad and the boys and all your friends. I know I promised you a lot of things and I told you not to fight so hard anymore – that it was OK for you to stop feeling the pain and leave us. But mom, I just can’t take it anymore. I have to cry. I just can’t do all the things you wanted me to do. All I can do now, is be the me you raised me up to be.

 

Love to you and all the other angels in heaven, Your daughter

Hump Day

Today has been a frustrating day with the computer simply because my DSL isn’t working properly. It may have something to do with the high winds we have had today, or just the simple matter that I saw the phone truck outside yesterday and they have done something to my line. I had to use an old computer with an old dial up system to get on line and it is SOOOOO slow and driving me crazy. 

I got a wonderful call this evening from a family friend, what many call our Jeddah (Saudi Arabia) family. They are going to start visiting my dad in his nursing home now that they know where he is. My brother doesn’t give out information and he is in charge of my dad’s care now. But I knew the name of the nursing home and the city, sent out an email to a couple of my dad’s pals from the 60’s & 70’s – and ta-da! The old grapevine had people calling me the same day. Our adopted family from the middle east is very large – we were part of the first 500 families allowed to live there while our fathers worked there. We became very close and still to this day they have annual reunions. Anyway, it was sad, but sweet to hear the latest news and I felt bad to have to tell people what has become of my father with his increasing dementia.  It’s a little painful to write about and some of my thoughts and actions I wouldn’t want to put out there for the general public (or family) to read. Is that sad, or what? Right now, dad is in an OK nursing home with good inspection results; they have an Alheimer unit and from what I hear, he does OK in the day time and they keep him active. But every night he packs his bags and thinks he will leave the next day. I am not sure if he is ever going home again. Since his home is up for sale, he doesn’t really have anywhere to go. Don’t get me wrong, he is welcome to live with me, but when he was in full charge of his mental facilities, he never wanted to move to Texas, and now it is probably too late. My brother does have full power of attorney, and for better or worse, he will see to my dad’s care unless something comes up and I have to step in and take him to court to get the power transferred back to me. As long as dad is getting good care, I don’t care where he lives or who has control of the money.  Anyway, it’s nice to know we still have friends (family like) that care so deeply for us and keep us in their prayers.