Witty & Wise Ties, Trivia & Lies
My nephew, Travis, and I grew up more like siblings. One minute I’m holding tiny toddler Travis’ naked butt up against the windshield of his mom’s bouncy Rambler, so he can moon all of Delta’s Main Street traffic—and the next minute, he’s Bishop Travis. And the minute after that, he’s called to be the Stake President. Clearly, I raised him right. 😉
Tie o’ the Day screams to show y’all the Delta house we had for 17 years. Mom and her Pepsi are with us in this collage snapshot. Suzanne’s holding Skitter. I’m being the tie/bow tie missionary I truly am. And Bernie Sanders stopped by to chat.
Suzanne and I called our Delta house Southfork (as in the tv show DALLAS), and we called it the Desert Beach House. I think of it most fondly as my grandparents’ former house. When I owned it, I thought of it as my own private tumbleweed ranch. I had a serious green thumb for growing all shapes, sizes, and styles of tumbleweeds. The best part about this house is that it was just an easement away from my parents’ home, which came in especially handy after Dad passed away. When we were in Delta, we could keep a protective eye on Mom, without cramping her gallivanting style. Rowan and I spent the bulk of his childhood summers in this house, while Suzanne stayed in Ogden and slaved at the office. She grabbed chunks of time to spend in Delta whenever she could get away from work. Rowan got the benefit of growing up by my parents and surrounded by my grandnieces and grandnephews. Our summer porch was always full of Mom, and kids, and bubbles, and root beer floats. Oh, and the porch was home to buckets of sidewalk chalk for creating miles of kid art to behold. I am proud to say that no self-respecting kid ever walked off our porch clean. 🏖
I am miffed this afternoon, but in worse words than “miffed.” Suzanne and I had made plans to go visit Mom in her room at Millard Care and Rehab Thursday, and then I got an email from MCR saying that in-person, in-the-flesh visits are once again not allowed. Apparently, the COVID-19 positive rate for Millard County has risen over the CDC guidelines, and there will again be no in-the-flesh visits until the positive rate is below 10% for two Monday’s in a row. I won’t be hugging Mom again for at least two dang weeks from today. Don’t get me wrong: I’m pleased MCR puts its residents first, keeping them as safe as possible. Mom often mentions how safe she feels living there, and her feeling of security is priceless to us. We know they will take care of her. But I don’t have to like it that I can’t be in the same room as my mother—even if it is for her own safety. Just let me be grumpy about it for the rest of the day.😡
I went with a floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day this afternoon, and I donned my “HATE HAS NO HOME HERE” Face Mask o’ the Day for my trip to the store. I was inspired to wear this mask because I keep thinking of my visit with Mom last week. Mom is bigly into kindness and compassion. Mom thinks people should be nice. At large family dinners, Mom took charge and said a few words before the prayer. She always found a way to incorporate the message that we should always be nice to each other and to others. Even with family, being nice is sometimes a difficult way to behave, but it’s still the right thing to do.
As Mom and I were sitting on her bed last week, she brought up kindness yet again. As we were chatting about various kindnesses that had been performed on behalf of our selves, I remembered my new word tattoos—”empathy” and “kindness”—which happened to be covered by my long-sleeved shirt. As I rolled up my shirtsleeves, I said “Mom, I know you don’t like tattoos, but you have to see my new ones. I think you’ll sort of appreciate them.” She said, “I don’t mind your tattoos. You can have whatever you want on you, and people can mind their own business if they don’t like it.” After I rolled up my shirtsleeves, Mom read each of the two words out loud. She was pleased. She even touched the words with her fingertips and told me whoever tattooed me had done a very good job.
Let me be clear: Mom is not a fan of tattoos on anyone, but she is too nice to say so. She’s not about to take a chance of making someone feel ashamed of themselves and their tattoos, just because tats are not her thing. She’s certainly not about to judge someone about something as surface-y as their skin getting inked. In fact, Mom pointed at my “empathy” and “kindness” tats and expressed a familiar sentiment. She said, “We’ll be judged on those words.” I can’t disagree with that.
And on we talked about the niceties of being nice.
So yesterday morning, before Skitter and I got in the car to make our pilgrimage to Millard Care And Rehab to visit Mom, Suzanne told me she liked my shirt but she said it kinda hurt her eyes, too. I considered changing into a less busy shirt, because I didn’t want my attire to cause injury to Mom’s old, old eyes. Ultimately, I didn’t change it, and one of the first things Mom said to me when she saw me was, “I like your shirt.” I told her what Suzanne had said about it earlier, and Mom said, “Well, if it bothers my eyes to look at your shirt, I’ll just quit looking at it.” Mom is a very sensible gal.
As Skitter and I made our way through the halls of MCR to get to Mom’s room, the staff was quick to welcome us back to the facility. And I was quick to give them our family’s thanks for their quality care of Mom during the pandemic. They kept her safe and engaged, and we never doubted they would. Indeed, when I walked into Mom’s room, she was alert and chatty. When I first hugged her, she seemed smaller and more fragile than when I hugged her last. It was like hugging a bird—but I’m sure that was mostly because it had been so long between hugs.
The window in Mom’s room gives her a clear view of people going into, or out of, the care center. She can also see the ambulance pull up to the ER at the hospital across the way. She especially enjoys watching the medical helicopter come and go. Mom and I sat on Mom’s bed talking and watching the world doing its thing outside her window. Mom was captivated by the construction guys working on the hospital roof. We laughed as they took turns coming down the ladder to use the port-a-potty in the parking lot. For a moment, it felt like she and I were sitting on The Porch again—Mom holding court and scattering her spunkiness and opinions everywhere within ear-reach.
As an added bonus for Mom yesterday, her friends, Dot and Roberta, drove past her window, as if on cue, and I managed to flag them down. They were gracious enough to stop and come over to Mom’s window so she could see them up-close. The three of them yelled greetings to each other through the window glass. (Oh, and Mom made me lift Skitter up to the window, so she could introduce The Skit to her good friends.) Dot and Roberta were cackling when they left, and so were we. Mom beamed at her almost-back-to-normal day as a resident of MCR. She can’t wait to go on MCR drives again, and she mentioned wanting to get back to playing BINGO with the other residents, too. I reminded her she will probably have to be patient a little longer, and she reminded me how much neither of us Helen’s likes to be patient.
My fave-rave moment of yesterday was a classic, comedic Mom moment. I nursed my bottle of Diet Coke and Mom had Pepsi in her cup as she and I chatted. Yup, we were drinkin’ together again. At some point, Skitter—who sat right up against Mom’s leg throughout the entirety of our visit—started sniffing at Mom’s cup. Quick-witted as ever, Mom feigned horror and said, “Skitter! You don’t want to drink that! That’ll get you drunk!” It caught me by surprise, and I admit I snort-laughed at Mom and the idea that she would spike anyone’s drink—let alone her own. I asked her what the Hell-en she spiked her Pepsi with, and where did she hide it, because I wanted some too. We kidded back and forth about that for a while, and at some point I said she should tell me where her booze was so we could get Skitter drunk, and put it on YouTube and get rich. I told her she was being stingy, and that I didn’t know how she was raised, but that my mother sure as Hell-en raised me to always share my liquor with the people I love.
What a bigly splendid day it was, in Mom’s little room! I can’t wait for our next visit.
Skitter wore a St. Paddy Tie o’ the Day for our in-person, in-the-same-room visit with Mom yesterday. Mom and Skitter were glued to each other the whole time, and I was just a third-wheel. Luckily, I did manage to grab a few hugs from my very own mother. In this afternoon’s post, I will regale you with the complete tales of yesterday’s adventures with Mom. She was in fine form, so stay tuned. Ain’t Mom just the cutest old lady?
How do I know I need a trim? Because only two weeks after I got them shaved, my head hairs are already long enough to hold my shamrock hair clips. Green Bow Tie o’ the Day is kinda grass-like in its fabric design. It does remind me of hilly fields in Ireland. And I’ll tell you a secret: The last item on my Bucket List is to die on one of the Aran Islands in western Ireland. If I have to die—and we all do—that’s the place I wanna be when I do it. Well, today that’s where I want to die, anyway. The place designated in the last item on my Bucket List changes often.
Folks, I am so stoked to be able to visit Mom in her room at Millard Care and Rehab tomorrow. I have not been able to concentrate on much else, since I got the news this morning that visitors are again allowed to hang with the residents. Things are not back to normal-normal. For example, visitors are allowed to visit their person only in their person’s room. That’s fine by me. All I need is a hug from my mother, and she probably needs one from me after a year. I know for a fact that she needs a hug from Skitter. Skitter will jump up on Mom’s bed, curling up against Mom’s leg to nap just like she belongs there. Mom will then coo at Skitter, and pet her the entire time we’re visiting. Helen Sr. will be so overjoyed to see Skitter that I’ll be lucky to steal a few hugs from the grand old broad.
Seriously, although I turned 57 last week, this afternoon I feel more like just the 7. The thought of seeing Mom in person—and being able to touch her—has got me feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. I won’t sleep a wink tonight.
I was culling through my St. Patrick’s Day props this morning when I took a break to check my email. Glory be! I got an email informing me that Millard Care And Rehab is finally allowing visitors again. I CAN NOW HUG THE STUFFIN’ OUT OF MOM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR!!! You can bet I’m planning a road trip for Skitter and me to Deltabama ASAP. I’m so excited that only a bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day like this one is bigly enough to illustrate my mood. ‘Scuse me while I go cry for joy and fill a box with treats to take to Mom.
Since I already posted a photo of Mom and the very tall green hat for a bit o’ pre-St. Patrick’s Day levity this morning, I’ll go ahead and finish the day by posting a snapshot of Mom and her equally amusing Tie o’ the Day. (And another Hat o’ the Day.) This is from St. Paddy’s Day 2018, when she was staying here with us in Centerville. I’ve posted both pix before, but nobody gets tired of them. BTW Mom has the bluest eyes.
Here’s a photo of Mom wearing a St. Paddy’s Hat o’ the Day, in March of 2016, while dropping by to visit me at my Delta house. You can see where I get it. And by “it,” I mean high fashion style, coupled with an I’m-here-to-entertain-you attitude. I love Mom.