Christmas Wrapping Paper

I'm sure many of you have parents or grandparents who re-use wrapping paper.
Both my parents grew up during the Great Depression (yes, they both are that old), and the word "save" to them was LAW. (Who am I kidding; it still is! <<grin>>)

So we could count on getting at least one present wrapped in paper re-used from the year before. And the year before that. Aaaaaaand the year before that. I seem to recall one particularly garish piece of wrapping paper that lasted at LEAST 4 years before it finally got too dilapidated to use again (accidentally, of course).

This year there won't be any presents from Mom. But the fact that I won't be receiving any presents from her doesn't make me as sad as the knowledge that I won't be laughing (or groaning) about re-cycled wrapping paper from her either.

Of Choirs and a Mother's Love

I just finished a 3-choir-concert weekend with one of the choirs I sing in, Cantus Novus.
Whew! Singing may look easy, but it's actually a LOTTA work - at least, singing correctly is.

I've been singing most, if not all of my life. Up until age 19 I sang alto until a friendly voice teacher and choral director in college clued me in to the fact that I was actually a soprano. Go figure!

And during this loooong singing "career," my mother has been to almost every concert and/or event I've been in. During my college years I wasn't even a soloist, but she would still make the trip to hear me sing in concerts, at least once a year.

And the college I went to was 4.5 hours away. Now THAT's motherly love.

This same mother was at one of this weekend's concerts, same as always. And she enjoyed it, same as always. But afterwards...she listened to me bragging while introducing her to someone at the reception, saying, "This is the my mom, who used to come all the way to Mansfield University in upstate PA to hear me sing, and I wasn't even a soloist then!"  Hearing this, she looked at me and said, "No, I did NOT!"

Yes, Mom, you did. And each trip you made caused me to adore you more, and thank God for you more.

As the song goes, I'm everything I am because you loved me.

Root Beer

Random memory while driving home the other day...

Mom said her family used to make their own root beer during her childhood (in the '30s and '40s). They  would store the bottles in the cellar -- a good place, as it was cool and dark-ish.

Every once in a while, though, especially if the house was quiet, there would be this POP!! as one of the seals on the root beer bottles failed and the cork tried to come through the ceiling.

The Bragging Neighbor

Years ago, when I was still in grade school, my sisters were both in the advanced/gifted program. I remember it being called "humanities."

There was this neighbor who loved to brag about her kids, and one day she was talking to Mom about how her kids had just started with humanities, and how she was so proud of them, and how much they loved it...blah blah blah...

Then she said something along the lines of, "Marion, you should have your girls try out for the humanities program. Maybe they'd be able to get into it too!"

(Get the implication? My kids are already in this program, so that means they're smarter than your kids, but maybe your kids can someday catch up/measure up?)

My mother very quietly says, "They've already been in humanities for a couple of years now."

(neenerNEENERneenerNEENER)

My Mother the Sage

I remember Mom telling me something very profound, long before it ever became a plaque. I think it was in response to me observing out loud how thankful I was that she wasn't like some kids' moms, who were always chasing them out/not letting them inside after school because they were "cleaning" (which to me meant that they were more interested in appearances than they were in their kids).

Mom said, "Marianne, at the end of my life, God is not going to judge me on whether people could eat off my floors. I will be judged more on things like whether I was available for my children."

Mom and her brother George, 09-05-1936

Color TV

I grew up without a color TV. We had 2 black-and-whites, and they weren't broken, so....no need to replace them. (I still remember seeing a favorite show on someone else's TV, and being shocked that the main character had blue eyes!)

All that changed during one of my summers home from college, when my college roommate was staying with me and my family for the summer. We had decided to buy a color TV to take back with us to college, so we bought one and triumphantly carted it home with us to proudly display.

Ironic, isn't it, that my father suddenly decided that he needed one after he saw ours.

So the next weekend we were on our way home, turning into our development's main street, and saw my father about to pull out on the same street. (We learned later that he was on his way to buy his own color TV.) Both car drivers did one of those classic "screech-to-a-stop-and-reverse" moves so we could say hello to each other.

My shy, quiet mother -- with no prompting -- leaned out of the car and said to her husband, "Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?"

"Jesus Wants Me to Have a Dog..."

I remember Mom saying that she had scarlet fever at approximately 6 or 7 years of age. Since she was born in 1928, this would have been 1935 or thereabouts. So not only was she sick, they were all in the middle of the Great Depression, and my grandfather was an electrical contractor (i.e., he most likely was not employed full-time). 

People used to die from scarlet fever...but of course she didn't know that at her age. (Thank You, God!) 

Mom remembered that she had wanted a dog for a while before she got sick, but wasn't allowed to have one. (In retrospect, it was probably because a dog was an un-needed expense.)

So she told her parents that she heard Jesus calling her - and that Jesus wanted her to have a dog, or He would take her away to live with Him.

I said, "MOTHERRRRR! You naughty girl!!!"

To which she replied, "Hey, it worked - I got the dog!"

My mother has dementia. She's had it for a few years, but it seems to be progressing faster lately.

This is what I posted on Facebook the other day:
There is an impostor living at my parents' house where I grew up. This person looks a little like (an older version of) my mother, but she isn't my mother.
My mother wouldn't have to ask one of her children in what year she was married-she would know that information.
My mother wouldn't say her birthday was in January when it's actually February 16th.
My mother is not frail and tottery. 

THAT WOMAN IS AN IMPOSTOR AND I WANT *MY* MOTHER BACK.

I feel like I've been spending so much of my time dealing with and trying to process this "new normal" that I've started forgetting what she used to be like. What she really is like, underneath this disease that's taken her hostage. Hence this blog.

Read it if you want to. Don't read it if you want to. Comment if you want to - if you can do so in a positive manner.

Marion Evelyn Moger Boyce, circa 1968, in the living room of 77 Autumn Rd in Churchville where I grew up