Over the years, I've accumulated a following of various catalogs. Clothes, especially, but there are other kinds as well.
But the catalog I got in the mail today is one of a kind in my long list of order offers. And I don't know how or why they got my name. I can't help wondering if someone put my name on their mailing list just to annoy me.
I mean, this is what this slick catalog is selling:
-- a 20 CD set of lectures entitled "The Hand of God in the History of the World."
-- a read-aloud series for children: "How God Sent a Dog, Stopped Pirates, ande Used a Thunderstorm to Change the World."
-- a book: "Passionate Housewives Desperate for God."
WTF!!! I guess their marketing guru never got a look at the sidebar of this blog.
Oh, and then there's "The Wise Woman's Guide to Blessing Her Husband's Vision."
Now I'm grinding my teeth!
In between all of this, pages of miltary, detective, construction, outdoor, and battle costumes and tools for boys. And what do the girls get? Equal pages of cutsy dresses and dolls, baking sets and aprons, tea sets and crochet gloves AND a book on "How to Be a Lady."
Groan. Nausea. Twitches.
And. AND. This, and I quote from the blurb on "Return of the Daughters":
For the first time in America's history, young ladies can expect to encounter a large gap between their years of basic training and the time when they marry...if they marry. Now Christian girls all throughout our country are seriously asking: What's a girl to do with her single years?
This documentary takes
... viewers into the homes of several young women who have dared to defy today's anti-family culture in pursuit of a biblical approach to daughterhood, using their in-between years to pioneer a new culture of strength and dignity -- and to rebuild Western Civilization, starting with the culture of the home.
I have to admit, the writing in this catalog is good, the presentation skilled. And that even makes it more scary. I am not linking to its website because I don't want to give it any additional visibility.
Finally, the back cover:
A Creation Celebration. ... each episode will build your appreciation for the brilliance of God's design and will teach you how to dispel evolutionary myths...
Evolutionary myths!!!
This is one catalog that I'm going to feel great pleasure in throwing into the recycle pile. That is, after I rip off the address label and stick it in the mail with an order to take my name off their !@#$% list.
That's the question she asked as she finally sat up in bed somewhere close to noon today. Usually she asks "Where am I?" Obviously, her dementia has gotten worse.
I tell her her name, in Polish, in English, her maiden name, her married name. By then she's onto her other worry -- "Can I go home now?"
It's night now. I was with her most of the day, since my brother had a dentist appointment. When I'm with her, I try to respond with care to every question, every mood, every demand. After all, her world must be truly terrifying. And I'm her anchor.
Except she's my anchor as well. I can't move beyond her peripheral vision, or she panics. She is downstairs now with my brother, banging her cane on the floor and calling for me. My contact at the Alzheimer's Association local chapter tells me that it's not unusual for dementia patients to latch on to the most trusted caregiver and constantly shadow them. That's what she's doing, and it's making me crazy.
I am holed up in my room, television blasting so that I don't have to hear her distress. I am eating cherries and chocolate chip cookies. My stomach is in knots.
Meds only seem to make her worse in other ways. She needs 24 hour care, and it's become too much for two people. But my brother wants her with him.
And I want to get away from this whole situation, even though she pleads with me: "Take me with you."
It's beautiful here on the mountain. But it's also a prison, especially for her.
"Where are the streets?" she asks. "Where are the families?" she wonders as she looks out the window at the lush trees and patches of blue sky.
It's hard to take her anywhere because she needs a toilet nearby. And her mood can go from placid to panic in a heartbeat.
She has lived too long. I hope that I am not still alive at 92. Or if I am, I still have my mind and my sense of humor.
Meanwhile, I'm sorting through all the stuff I brought with me to this place and downsizing. And packing.
If anyone in the western Massachusetts area is considering using Sturdy Home Improvement construction company, you should check with my daughter, first. Read about her experience here.
Actually, as much as the weeds around here need whacking, they're not getting it. They are pretty much out of control. Weeds: plants considered undesirable, unattractive, or troublesome, especially one growing where it is not wanted,
It's not just the weeds around here that are out of my control. I am still living under the tyranny of my mother's growing dementia and dependence combined with my brother's demoralizing rules and realities.
Not much freedom for me here, on this Independence Day.
Maybe I should go out and buy my own little weed whacker, vent my frustrations on that army of undesirables that are intruding over every path from the door to the world. Whack! Whack! Take that, you creepy things.
I did murder a whole bunch of Japanese Beetles today as they attempted an orgy on my tomato plant. Whack! Whack!
One can only hold in anger and frustration for so long. Yes, I think I need to go out and whack those weeds, clear a path, clear my head. I know that those weed whackers are pretty loud, loud enough to muffle the yelling I need to get out of my system.
Someday I will be able to celebrate a real personal Independence Day. Until then, I need to go out and get a weed whacker.
On Independence Day back in 2002 I blogged that there should be a "Interdependence Day," and a commenter sent me to this page, where there is a Global Declaration of Interdependence, as follows:.
Preamble:
In acknowledgment of the many existing documents and efforts that promote peace, sustainability, global interconnectedness, reverence for life and unity, We, The World hereby offers the following Declaration of Interdependence as our guiding set of principles for moving forward into this new millennium. It is inspired by the Earth Charter, the essential values of which have been culled from the many peoples of the Earth.
Declaration/Pledge
We, the people of planet Earth,
In recognition of the interconnectedness of all life
And the importance of the balance of nature,
Hereby acknowledge our interdependence
And affirm our dedication
To life-serving environmental stewardship,
The fulfillment of universal human needs worldwide,
Economic and social well-being,
And a culture of peace and nonviolence,
To insure a sustainable and harmonious world
For present and future generations.
And tonight, as I watched part of New York City's fireworks, I couldn't help wondering how all of that money spent on fireworks all over this country could have instead been used for much more important and humanitarian purposes.
But rulers know how to pacify the people using bread and circuses, how to make them forget what the late George Carlin so eloquently reminded us about.
The poem below by Billy Collins (one of Jim Culleny's daily poetry emails) makes me sad and angry and wistful and hungry.
I'm not hungry for sweets. I surely eat enough of those.
Rather it's a soul-deep hunger for the solitude to watch circles become salt, to reach for and conjure the words that make magic of metaphor.
And so I am angry that with each passing year I have had to move farther and farther from that place where destiny can be designed. And I am sad because those years can never be recovered. And I am wistful, finally, because that is what comes of and with age and the utter exhaustion of being someone else's keeper.
Design
Billy Collins
I pour a coating of salt on the table
and make a circle in it with my finger.
This is the cycle of life
I say to no one.
This is the wheel of fortune,
the arctic circle.
This is the ring of Kerry
and the white rose of Tralee
I say to the ghosts of my family,
the dead fathers,
the aunt who drowned,
my unborn brothers and sisters,
my unborn children.
This is the sun with its glittering spokes
and the bitter moon.
This is the absolute circle of geometry
I say to the crack in the wall,
to the birds who cross the window.
This is the wheel I just invented
to roll through the rest of my life
I say
touching my finger to my tongue.
Is that the way it was done before nursing homes and hospices, before miracle drugs and transplants, when old folks died slowly at home, their sons and daughters and grandchildren and cousins all taking turns taking care? The frail old ones, dying only from the final stresses of age and gravity, moved slowly and silently, sleeping through most of those last months, last weeks, last days. Relatives came and went, stayed and shared, while the old ones slept and dreamed and waited, and that was the way it was finally done.
But there are only two of us here to keep watch, to take care. Each day she is more tired, asks to sleep more and more often. Awake, she sits sad and silent, eating slowly in front of the television that she can barely hear anyway. I sometimes still hold her and dance with her late at night, when she's afraid and won't sleep. Sometimes I sleep with her to make her feel safe. Sometimes, no matter what we do, she's up and down all night, wants to eat, wants to go home. "Please, please," she mutters, unable to tell me what exactly would please her.
Someone cracked my rear passenger side bumper, and I have to go and get an estimate so that I can get it fixed. But then what. My brother would have to get my mother in his car and come with me to drop off (and then pick up) my car from the body shop. It is hard to believe that we know no one around here who can help with that chore so that we wouldn't have to put my mother through that. I don't even think that there are taxis in this little town. At least I've never seen any. I think I'd better start checking that out.
This is not the way it's supposed to be done -- without friends, without extended family, without a support system. But this is the way my brother insists, and I am too tired to argue any more.
I'd better check the phone book for taxi services.
And I'm still purging and packing and planning. While I cook, and feed, and clean, and sit, and hold, and hope.
ADDENDUM:
Whaddya know. There IS a taxi service right in town! Family or friends would be better, but I'll settle for a taxi when it comes to getting my car fixed.
When she flutters her hands in front of her nose, I know that she needs a Kleenex (well, we use Puffs because they're softer on her nose). When she taps her teeth, I know that she wants her flosser. When she reaches out with her right hand and opens and closes her fist, I know that she wants her cane.
She doesn't always use her self-devised sign language, but she's tending to do it more often -- especially when she's tired. And she seems to be tired more and more. The signs are often there. The words are often not.
On a sunny day last week, when I got into my car to go to the drug store, I flipped down the visor mirror to check for any stray chin hairs that my Tweeze might have missed. No chin hair -- but what's that??? Long white hairs in my eyebrows??? Now there's a sign. Definitely a sign.
I'm not sleeping well, my reflux is acting up, and that contact dermatitis I get on my elbow every once in a while is itching like crazy. I can't ignore the signs.
Signs that I need a break. I need a couple of days away from here. And so I'm going to my daughter's from Sunday to Tuesday. It's my birthday present to myself.
In two years I'll be 70. It just doesn't seem real to me.
Maybe it will seem real when my natural hair color finally grows in. Then I will see the most obvious of all signs -- the gray signs of being where I am in life.
Each year, on my birthday, I take a photo of myself. Each year, the signs are more obvious -- the drooping jaw, the sagging chin. There won't be much of the gray hair visible when I take this year's photo. But next year, there will be no denying that sign of this life fading to pale.
If I were able to live my life at the age I am today in the way I would prefer, I wouldn't be obsessing so much on my age and what I am losing with each day that passes.
But here I am, watching for signs and missing those times when the only sign I looked for was the one that said "dancing until 2 a.m."
Last night's PBS program on Frontline, called "The Hand of God," needs to be watched by all of those who hold so fast and so mindlessly to the corporate hypocrisies of the Catholic Church, as well as by the rest of us who are "recovering Catholics" (a phrase the reflects the evil addiction that today's Catholic hierarchy goes to great lenghts to feed).
"I was inspired by my brother's strength of spirit in surviving his abuse," says Joe Cultrera. "His story was unlike any I had seen in the media. I thought a detailed film about his and my family's experience would prove healing and freeing for others."
Paul Cultrera and his siblings were raised in an Italian-Catholic family in Salem, Mass., and attended Catholic school from kindergarten through high school. From an early age they were immersed in the beliefs and teachings of the Catholic Church.
"There was the Catholic Church, and everything else was hell," Paul recalls. "Everyone beyond the bounds of the Catholic Church was doomed. Everything was presented to you in terms of sin."
Joe Cultrera, the person who made the documentary, is a friend of a friend of my brother's. That's irrelevent except for the fact that it's the initial reason why I took the hour and a half to watch it, even though its scheduling intruded on my favorite program, "Boston Legal" -- which I had to tape and then stay up late to watch.
The documentary uses great compassion and understanding in portraying the deep emotional roots that ethnic communities tend to have in their neighborhood churches -- many of which, although solvent and functioning, are being closed by the higher powers of that "one true church."
The film is a brutal indictment -- not of faith or the faithful -- but of the powerbrokers who run what has become a corrupt, hyprocritical , and destructively self-perpetuating system that poses as a Christian religion.
